Theirs to Protect - Julia Sykes Page 0,7
threat rattled through my mind with enough force to make my skull ache. The solitude of the twenty-minute bus ride from Cambridge to our neighborhood in the South End gave my brain too much time to simmer in what I’d done. I tried to focus on my family, but even staring at the texts that’d made me smile only minutes ago had begun to lose its power over my psyche. The image of Ashlyn’s pout blurred before my eyes, and all I could see was the man’s pale face, twisted with fear and hatred.
We. He hadn’t been acting alone. There were others who wanted us dead, too.
A copper tang painted my tongue as I gnashed my teeth hard enough to cut my cheek. I hadn’t gotten any answers out of the bastard. I’d lost control. I couldn’t hunt down the fuckers who threatened us, because I had no idea who they were.
Playing the gruesome scene through my mind once again, I noted that Ashlyn’s stalker had a Boston accent. His features hinted at Italian heritage like mine, but he’d been raised here, not in New York. He probably wasn’t associated with my former criminal family.
But why would anyone in Boston give a fuck about Joseph and me? We were exiles, shunned and shamed. We had no value, and even though Joseph was still on good terms with his father, that wasn’t general knowledge. Dominic Russo’s enduring affection for his only son wouldn’t do us or him any favors. He’d only just taken control of the mafia after Victor Lombardi’s recent death of natural causes. The last thing he needed while consolidating his power was rumors that he was still in contact with his pervert son.
Homosexuality was taboo in our world: a disgusting sign of weakness and a betrayal of the vicious masculinity that supposedly made us so tough and lethal. When Joseph’s cousin had discovered us in bed with Ashlyn, he hadn’t bothered to learn the nuances of our relationship. As far as everyone else was concerned, Joseph and I were poison to our organization, a perceived weakness that would make our allies into targets for bloodthirsty rivals.
Joseph and I had never judged anyone for their sexuality—we’d be fucking hypocrites to look down on anyone’s lifestyle choices. Our personal beliefs made us outliers in the mafia, as we had been in so many ways. Exile had been a blessing, freeing us from a life neither of us wanted, especially Joseph. He belonged in our new world, this normal, nonviolent life we’d created for ourselves in Boston.
Maybe I’ll take a turn with your pretty slut once we’ve buried you and Russo.
I gritted my teeth and embraced the rage that’d been ignited by the man’s disgusting threat. It hardened my resolve, fiery purpose burning through my dread at the prospect of what I had to do next.
There was only one person I could contact to get more information about the people hunting us; the one person I hated more than anyone else in the world.
I stepped off the bus at the stop closest to our house and dialed my father’s number. I’d erased his contact details months ago, as though that would somehow purge him from my mind, my blood. But the information was still readily available, his number memorized from hundreds of cold, resentful calls during the worst years of my life.
Leo De Luca picked up on the third ring. “Who the fuck is this?”
My muscles tensed as the familiar, cruel voice lashed me like a whip. Unlike him, I had a new number with a Boston area code. Although, I doubted he would’ve recognized my old one if it came up on caller ID. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d have bothered to save the contact info. He’d thrown me out of New York with a curse on my name and enough money to make sure I’d never have any reason to return. I took the cash settlement as my due, payment for the thirty years of my life that I’d wasted serving him.
“Do you know anyone who might be targeting us in Boston?” I asked the question without announcing my identity. He’d end the call as soon as he heard my name. Blindsiding him was my only shot at shocking a response out of him.
“You’re still alive.” The statement dripped with contempt. “I don’t know anything about what’s happening in Boston. I don’t know anything about you. My son is dead. He died four months ago. Whatever happens