day that I die.”
“Until the day that I die,” I said. “You, and only you, my darlin’.”
“You bled for this heart, Cash Kelly,” she said. “It’s yours until the day you die.”
“Grand,” I said. “Now put the arrow meant for me away for good, archer. Because we’re finally even.”
Afterword
Do you remember this question: How do you see me now?
Villain or hero?
More animal than man?
A modern-day Robin Hood?
Perception.
It causes two people to see the same situation in two different ways, even though they’re looking at the same thing.
If you read Scott Stone’s story, which he doesn’t have, you’d undoubtedly see me differently, but at least in this story, I fucking tell it like it is.
I don’t give a fuck what people think of me. Never have. Never will. Those who scream the loudest have the most to hide. Remember that.
Me.
I hide nothing.
I hid nothing.
I am who I am.
Niccolò Machiavelli said, “Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Everyone sees what you appear to be; few really know what you are.”
Even if you see me for something I’m not, my wife never will. She feels me. And if you have one person who feels you, compared to a million who see you—consider yourself one of the lucky ones.
I do, because a woman did something no one else ever could. She proved me wrong. She let me steal her heart.
Yeah. She fucking let me.
She made me think I was stealing it without her permission. What Father Flanagan told me about a woman’s heart was true. But he forgot to mention one thing—her mind was designed to outsmart any man’s.
Remember that. It’s coming from one of the smartest men I know—myself.
My wife gave me the key long before I “stole” it. I just didn’t realize it until the truth was something I couldn’t ignore anymore. When I said some hearts had to be stolen, what I meant was, some hearts had to be worked for.
Before I ever laid eyes on her, she had claimed mine. I was always a cheap date, though, and she knew that just as well as the devil did.
As the old saying goes, that is fucking that.
Preview of Mercenary
Gangsters of New York, Book 3
Cash
A knock came at my office door. I looked up and saw Harrison standing in the doorway.
“Got a man here to see you, brother,” he said, nodding toward the waiting room. “Goes by the name of Corrado.”
“Last name,” I said.
“Scorpio.”
Corrado Scorpio. I’d heard of a Corrado Palermo before. He was Mari’s father, and if rumor was true, Mac had killed him. I didn’t know any other man by the name of Corrado, though, and that last name sounded fucking bogus.
“He said he’ll wait, if you’re busy,” Harrison said.
“Never too busy to find out what side I’m going to end up on this time,” I said.
Harrison grinned at me and disappeared. A minute later, the man who called himself Corrado Scorpio entered my office. I believed Corrado was his first name, but I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that his last name was Scorpio.
He had vengeance written all over his face, a purpose, and whatever the fuck he was doing here, I was about to find out. I hadn’t had an issue since Lee Grady, the Scarpones, and Raff. I wasn’t looking for one, either. After my wife’s near touch with death, mine too, I refused to be the devil’s cheap date any longer.
I stood and we shook hands. I nodded to the seat across from me. He took it.
“I’m going to be brief,” he said. “Word on the street is that you know a man that goes by Mac Macchiavello.”
“Know him,” I said, studying him a bit harder. “Or can get close to him.”
“I don’t need you to get close to him,” he said, sitting up some, fixing his suit, before he relaxed in his seat again. “I’m here to confirm that you know him.”
“That he exists.”
He waved a hand, as if to say, tomato, tomahto. He pulled out a picture of a woman and slid it across the desk toward me.
Late sixties, maybe a bit younger, but well taken care of. I recognized her from the news. The Scarpones had slaughtered her in her house, supposedly, before the same fate came to claim them.
“My condolences.” I slid the picture back. “But I can’t help.”
“Can’t.” He grinned. “Or won’t.”
I waved my hand, like he’d done. Tomato, tomahto. He was trouble, and I could smell it on him, like brimstone and fire.
He shrugged. “I’ll find him, regardless.” He took the picture back, slipping it into the pocket inside of his suit, and then he stood.
I stood and offered him my hand, since I wouldn’t be doing anything else for him. I worked with select families, and whoever he belonged to didn’t belong to me.
He went to leave but stopped at the door. “You didn’t ask why I wanted to find him.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because when I do, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
Mercenary: November 13, 2020
About the Author
Bella Di Corte has been writing romance for seven years, even longer if you count the stories in her head that were never written down, but she didn’t realize how much she enjoyed writing alphas until recently. Tough guys who walk the line between irredeemable and savable, and the strong women who force them to feel, inspire her to keep putting words to the page.
Apart from writing, Bella loves to spend time with her husband, daughter, and family. She also loves to read, listen to music, cook meals that were passed down to her, and take photographs. She mostly takes pictures of her family (when they let her) and her three dogs.
Bella grew up in New Orleans, a place she considers a creative playground.
Also by Bella Di Corte
Gangsters of New York:
Machiavellian, Book 1
Marauder, Book 2
Mercenary, Book 3
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