Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) - Kara Hart Page 0,44
around.
“Look. This whole thing here,” I gestured all around me, “it’s not what I'm after. Power and all that bullshit can only take you into a ring of fire. Before you know it, you’ll find yourself burned to a crisp,” I said, unlocking the car.
“What the hell are you talking about? Lucas, you’re my brother and I love you, but you’re not making any sense. Just come back in here and have a good time.” He grabbed at my arm, but I swatted it away. If he wanted a fight, I’d give him a fight.
“Maybe I don’t want to make sense anymore, Ricky. Maybe this isn’t the life I wanted for myself.”
“What’s the alternative? Move to Monroe and settle down with some whore?” He laughed and grabbed my head. “You’re one of us. You’ll always be one of us. But if you decide you don’t want to be a part of the family anymore, you better watch your fucking back. Because there’s a bullet with your name on it and you sure as hell won’t see it coming.”
I shoved him to the ground and jerked my arm back. I was close to shattering his jaw like a bottle of bourbon against concrete. Ricky might have had all the connections in Detroit to protect him for a lifetime, but I’d been killing criminals around the world for ages. Some of those guys were a million times worse than Ricky.
“Watch yourself, Lucas!” he screamed, dusting himself off. “You bastard. You and that whore! Watch yourselves.”
“You know what? Fuck this.” I bent down and grabbed his collar. I jerked his neck forward, so he could hear every word I was about to say. “You’ve always been a burden on the family. But most of all, you’ve been a huge pain in my ass.” I slammed my fist into his nose. He stammered back, but he didn’t fall.
He’s more of a man than I thought he was. I looked down at my bruised fist. Another day, another dollar, right? He dove his body into mine and I hit the concrete at full speed. My back slammed against the ground and we slide backward. I was hurt and feeling like I couldn’t take a breath. Every time I breathed in deep, my kidneys felt like they were bruised up. Of course, he didn’t let up on me. His knuckles hit my gut and I nearly blacked out from the pain.
Somehow, I rolled him over. It’s like the adrenaline kicked in. It was him or me and I wasn’t about to lose my life. I punched him twice in the nose and once square in the jaw, and he was gone for the time being.
“They better have my Cadillac fixed tomorrow or I swear someone’s gonna pay.”
* * *
I drove back, once again leaving my asshole of a brother to fend for himself. I didn’t even head to the house. Instead, I just sat in a parking lot, sleeping the pain off. Moments like these helped me reconcile who I was and kept me as grounded as I could be.
By the time day broke, I went to find my car. I was hung-over, bruised, and barely hanging on a few hours of sleep. Who knew that women and family problems were more difficult than fighting off a group of known criminals. I sure as hell didn’t and I scolded myself for not staying away. Still, the heart wants what the heart wants.
I shielded my eyes against the sun. A loud pop and crack whizzed by my ear. “What the fuck?” I jumped, falling to the ground with my pistol in my hand, ready to blast whoever was near. I quickly realized the error in my response when three pubescent kids ran away from me screaming for their parents. They dropped a box labeled “Fireworks.” Shit. 4th of July. Forgot that was today.
I shamefully put away my gun and straightened my collar awkwardly. It was time to get my damn Cadillac back. I pushed open the door to the old mechanic’s shop and found him sitting at a desk. “My car,” I said.
“Yeah? What about it?” He took off his reading glasses and clicked out of something with his mouse.
“Is it ready? I need it. It’s been about a week, right?” I said. I had the sudden urge to smoke, realizing I hadn’t had one in a few days. I felt around my pockets and felt nothing. Must’ve smoked ‘em all. I thought to myself.