With Good Behavior (23 page)

Baffled by his actions, Sophie stared. “What are you looking for?”

Feeling dry sheets beneath him, Grant exhaled, but then noticed her bewildered expression. Oh, God! She was seeing him cry like a little baby! And he could have wet the bed, with her in it next to him. He thought he had peed his pants—a fucking thirty-year-old man wetting the bed! Mortified, he quickly turned away from her. He prepared to flee, run and hide somewhere, when he felt her delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Grant?” Her voice was gentle, so caring. “What’s wrong?”

He angrily shook his head, keeping his back to her. He could never tell her or surely she would leave him. She could never know.

“Why did you keep saying ‘I’m sorry’?”

Fear gripped his heart. How much had he said aloud? He lay back down, keeping his back to her.

Thinking she could help him, Sophie doggedly pursued her line of questioning. “Who were you apologizing to? Who were you telling ‘I’m sorry’?”

You,
 he thought. 
I’m sorry you ever met me outside the parole office. I’m sorry I ever dragged your beautiful spirit into my wretched, worthless life. I’m sorry you’ve become such an essential part of my world, when obviously I should let you go.

Without realizing what he was doing, Grant rolled onto his stomach, folded his arms underneath his chest, and clenched his hands tightly over his face. He once again repeated “I’m sorry,” the words muffled by his hands. He felt humiliated that he could not stop crying.

Utterly confused, Sophie peered at his prone naked body—his smooth, muscular back and buttocks exposed defenselessly, revealing the jagged scar, and his entire body trembling as if he were awaiting punishment, a physical beating.

Gasping, she suddenly snapped the puzzle pieces together in her mind: his nightmare at Kirsten’s when he’d pleaded with an unknown tormentor, promising to “be good”; his words about not getting along with his father, contrasted with the adoration he felt for the uncle who saved him; his warning that she stay away from the “bad people” in his life. Was he an abuse survivor? Had his father abused him?

Immediately she reached for him, gently rubbing her hand over his cropped black hair as she scooted closer to his body. Softly stroking his hair, she murmured soothing words. “You’re okay, Grant. It was just a dream. You’re safe here with me. It’s all right to cry, honey. It’s all right to feel scared.”

The tension in his shoulders slowly released with each calming word and soft stroke of her hand. His breathing steadied and his sobs gradually subsided. Tentatively she lifted her naked body off the sheets and straddled his back. She stroked the well-defined muscles of his back with her fingertips, feeling his skin respond to her warm touch. She kneaded his taut shoulder blades with the heels of her hands, delivering a relaxing massage. He allowed her to pull each arm from under his chest, resting them by his side.

After a few minutes of her hands working magic, he let out a shuddering sigh, and Sophie lay next to him once again. He finally rolled over to face her.

She gently wiped the wet trail on his cheeks, then planted soft kisses as he closed his eyes. Eventually she returned her head to the pillow and gazed lovingly toward him. He fondly caressed her face.

Grant’s words were shaky. “Thank you for making me feel better. How did you know what to do?”

“I’m not sure, but I sensed you were really hurting.” Sophie nervously cleared her throat, then added, “Grant, I think I know how you got that scar.”

His breathing hitched, and he could not look her in the eye. “And you’re still here?”

Her eyes flashed sorrow. Like most abuse survivors, he apparently blamed himself. He thought his inherent badness caused the abuse and believed nobody would love him once they learned of it.

“Of course I’m still here. I could never leave my McSailor.”

Slowly raising his gaze to meet hers, their eyes locked with a deep connection and shared understanding. He clasped her hand in his and softly stroked it.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll stand by you as long as you tell me the truth. But if you lie to me again, Grant, I’ll have to leave. I went to prison because a man lied to me, and I won’t let it happen again.”

He nodded. “I understand. But, Sophie, sometimes the truth is painful. I don’t want to make you feel that pain.”

“We’ll get through it together, okay?” She blushed slightly. “I think we make a good team.” She grinned, adding, “Bonnie and Clyde.”

For the first time in hours, he smiled, and it was a lovely sight to behold. He lifted her hand to his full lips and affectionately kissed it.

“I think we need more sleep before our crime spree begins, Clyde. It 
is
 the middle of the night, you know.”

Nodding, he drew her body to his, and she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, feeling safe and loved in his strong arms. They drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When Grant awoke the next morning, sun streaming in the curtain-free windows, he was alarmed to find the space next to him empty. Hopping up, he glanced around the small apartment before spying a note on the kitchen counter. She had scrawled in her flowing handwriting on the back of a flyer advertising the pizza place next door.

McSailor,

I had to go home so Kirsten doesn’t worry. But we have another day off work

(yee-hah!), and I definitely want to spend it with YOU!

Here are my coordinates:

900 North Lake Shore Drive, Unit 10

(312) 555-4043

See if you can navigate your way (sober this time) over to my ship.

XOXO, Bonnie

A bright grin filled his face. Then he realized he was standing buck-naked in the middle of his living room, so he dashed back to the bedroom to get dressed.

He had to get to his Bonnie. He just had to bring her back.

C
homping his gum, Logan looked down at his big hands and sighed. It was sticky hot in the car, and he was bored out of his mind. Where the hell was his brother? He’d been staking out their mother’s gravesite for days now.

Given that Chicago had a population of nine million, Logan had no idea how to locate Grant. Perhaps he should have shown more interest in his brother, should have gotten to know him better—his likes, his dislikes, his hobbies. Maybe then he would have a fucking clue about where to find him. But he didn’t know the adult version of Grant at all, so his only lead was this cemetery, where he’d hunted him down twice before.

It was unlike Grant to go so long without visiting her grave. He treated his visits to the desolate headstone like a damn duty or something. Logan hated being here, hated sensing her disapproval, even from six feet under.

Perhaps Grant had chosen another city to call home once released from prison. Nah, Logan just 
knew
 he was in Chicago somewhere. Just then, the glare of the sun on an approaching windshield momentarily blinded him. When the car pulled up next to his, he thought maybe he’d lucked out after all. The driver had short black hair, just like Grant, but when Logan squinted his eyes, he detected not the lean grace of his brother but the ferocious energy of someone else entirely, and his excitement morphed into a sick dread.

It was his cousin Carlo.

The shiny, sand-colored Lexus glistened in the summer sun. Carlo shut off the ignition and glanced in the rearview mirror, appreciatively admiring his immaculate appearance while briskly running two fingers through his hair. Then he turned his gaze to Logan. His steely black eyes rested on him disdainfully, and Carlo’s smug acknowledgement made Logan’s stomach clench with resentment.

A black cowboy boot emerged from the vehicle, followed by a solid leg clad in black pants. Carlo set both boots firmly on the concrete of the small parking area facing the grassy graveyard and stood, three inches shy of six feet.

His jet-black, spiky hair was paired with thick eyebrows. His white button-down shirt was open at the chest, but tucked neatly into expensive slacks with nary a wrinkle. Despite the humidity, Carlo appeared calm, cool, and professional. But Logan knew appearances could be deceiving. Beneath Carlo’s frosty exterior was a fiery rage that could ignite instantly. He retaliated for any perceived slight with fierce ruthlessness and torturous cruelty.

As Logan also exited his car, he thought back to the storied death of Vince, one of Angelo’s men. Vince had been stupid enough to criticize Carlo’s mismanagement of the Blackfoot heist after botched plans resulted in the arrest of several wise guys. Two days later, Vince had been found in his apartment, stabbed to death, with charred, black feet. The rumor was Vince’s feet had been singed while he was still alive, though nobody knew for sure, and the murderer had never been found. No one had openly questioned Carlo since.

The cousins approached each other guardedly. Carlo should have deferred to Logan, Don Enzo’s firstborn. Instead, Carlo acted like 
he
 was in charge, which made Logan’s blood boil. Logan had little ground to stand on right now, though, and he had nobody to blame but himself. Losing hundreds of thousands of family dollars and being on the run from the law had placed him in quite a vulnerable position—one he despised.

A sneer formed on Carlo’s face. “Still grieving 
la madre
, Lo? When are you going to let her go?”

Logan felt his throat constrict, and his knuckles whitened as he curled his fists tightly, though he said nothing.

Carlo shook his head. “It was 
so
 easy to find you, 
cugino
. You’re getting careless. You don’t think the cops will track you down here too?”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “What do you want, Carlo?” Hearing himself ask the same question Grant had asked 
him
 at their mother’s grave, Logan felt ashamed. Did Grant view him the way he viewed Carlo? An evil, no-good, slithering snake, so damaged he was beyond redemption?

Carlo narrowed his black eyes. “You know what I want. You know what the family wants—what the family 
needs
. Two hundred Gs.”

Logan averted his eyes, and Carlo moved in closer, his forehead somehow dry while Logan’s beaded with sweat.

“We all know where the first hundred thou went, don’t we, Lo?” Carlo seethed. “You enlisted your little brother—the saint—and he can’t even steal back your own money.” Carlo laughed snidely. “But what about the second hundred thousand? Where did that go, cuz?” He sidled even closer to the larger man. “You holding out on us, golden child? You take that money for yourself?”

“I don’t have the money!”

“Then you get it,” Carlo snarled. “You and I got history—we’re family. And out of respect for that, I’ll give you some time to refill the coffers. But it better happen fast, cuz. If you don’t produce for the family, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Leave Grant out of this,” Logan warned.

Carlo laughed again, a maddening laugh. “That’s cute, 
cugino
. You’re suddenly all protective of your brother—the same one you sent to prison for a three-year stretch.” He stared menacingly into Logan’s deep-blue eyes. “Which I hear ain’t quite a full three years now, is it?” The wheels turned in his head and Carlo smiled. “That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it? Searching for a saint. To what—warn him about me? Let him know I’m looking for him?”

Logan’s heart thumped though he showed nothing. He was much better at keeping his cards close to his chest than Grant. He was a much better liar.

“But 
you
 don’t know where he is, either. Turns out Karita’s baby boy is more resourceful than either of us predicted, 
sí
?”

Swallowing hard, Logan remained silent. He remembered Carlo at eight years old. He’d been a spoiled boy, the only son of Angelo and Anna Maria Barberi, and the only cousin to Logan and Grant since Joe remained childless. When Carlo was eight, Logan was eleven and Grant six. Times had been different then.

The eight year old’s laughter echoed in the basement playroom. Looking at the frightened expression on his little cousin’s cherubic face, he taunted, “Why are you so scared, Grant Pants?”

Grant grimaced, furious that Carlo had somehow learned of his peeing his pants two years ago. Grant’s wary crystal eyes darted back and forth from his cousin to his older brother standing nearby. His voice trembled. “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”

“Trouble?” Carlo scoffed. “For telling my dad to shut up?” He exhaled derisively, “Hardly.”

Grant and Logan exchanged knowing glances. They wouldn’t dare talk back to their father. They knew what would happen if they tried.

“My dad told me his dad used to beat the crap out of him and Uncle Enzo when they were kids,” Carlo explained. “He promised himself that when he became a dad, he wasn’t gonna hit his kid, like ever.” Shrugging, he added, “So I can do whatever the hell I want.”

Grant’s eyes lit up with terror at hearing his cousin use a bad word like 
h-e-double hockey sticks
, and he nervously glanced up the stairs to make sure his dad and uncle were still up there, unable to hear the conversation.

Logan felt his chest tighten. He wished Angelo could be 
his
 father instead. It wasn’t fair.

Carlo’s honey voice belied the menace in his words, bringing Logan back to the present. “Maybe Grant isn’t sufficient motivation for you, cuz. You threw him under the bus a little too easily. Maybe there’s somebody else you 
truly
 care about—somebody with great potential to become a real businessman, somebody who can contribute his share to the family, somebody who’s your own flesh and blood.”

Logan lunged for Carlo, gripping the smaller man’s arms. They were inches apart as Logan shouted, “Don’t you dare touch Ben!”

Carlo flinched as his cousin grasped the scarred flesh of his upper right arm. But he recovered quickly. “Get the 
fuck
 off of me, you Neanderthal.”

Realizing he was threatening Angelo’s son, the second in command, Logan reluctantly released his cousin.

Brushing off and straightening his shirt, Carlo glared. “Swear to God, you are as stupid as your father.”

Logan was at his limit. If this asshole didn’t shut up soon, he was going to receive the beating of his life—regardless of his position in the Mafia hierarchy. Shaking his head incredulously, Logan fumed, “My father saved your sorry ass, 
cuz.
 And, yes, turns out saving you 
was
 a very stupid move.”

Carlo couldn’t help but flash back to when he was ten years old, his body thrumming with excitement. The smell of booze and the palpable fury emanating off his Uncle Enzo, the thrill of secretly tagging along on an adventure, finally feeling like somebody important, hiding in the back of his uncle’s car, the hum of the tires on the highway …

He 
despised
 this memory. He wished he could banish the experience from his brain, but the images were there, and they would not go away. Carlo was forever haunted by his childhood mistake.

“That fucking pussy piece of shit!” Enzo raged, pacing the great room with a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Easy, brother,” Angelo advised from his place at the wet bar. The two men, both in their thirties, both with midnight-black hair and deep charcoal eyes, traded intense stares.

Ten-year-old Carlo took it all in from his hiding spot behind the sofa. He had never seen his uncle so angry before and was delighted to hear such bad words spewing like venom from his mouth.

“Fanocelli thinks he’s going to inform on me?” Enzo demanded incredulously. “Son of a bitch. When is the fucking indictment coming down?”

Angelo sighed. “From what I heard, about four days.”

“I’ll fucking rip his heart out. I’m not going to prison.”

“I know you’re not,” Angelo replied. “And that’s because we just found out his location.”

“Whose location?”

“Fanocelli.”

Enzo’s eyes widened. “The cocksucker’s not in protective custody yet?”

Angelo grinned. “Nope. He’s all by himself in a house on the south side.”

A wondrous smile erupted on the don’s face. “You are a fucking genius, Ange. We’re obviously paying off the right government pricks. Give me the address.”

“Now wait, Enz, we gotta plan this out, send a team in there—”

“Bullshit! We wait, he goes into custody before we have a shot. I’m going there now.”

“No, it’s too dangerous.” Angelo gestured to the empty glass in his older brother’s hand. “Hell, you’re two sheets to the wind by now, anyway. I got some guys on their way here and we’re gonna—”

“Do you know who you’re talking to? You give me that goddamn address this instant.” Enzo’s voice took on a menacing growl, and Carlo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Maybe he should return to his bed, where he was supposed to be at the moment. This situation was becoming serious.

“This ain’t right, Enz. If something happens to you, what are Logan and Grant going to do?”

“I’ll take care of things and be back home before they know the difference,” Enzo said.

Carlo grinned. He knew something Logan didn’t! He finally had a leg up on his cousin, the boy his father constantly fawned over—it was so unfair. Carlo was finally part of the club. He was playing with the big boys now.

“Quit dicking around, bro,” Enzo ranted. “If Fanocelli gets away and I go inside, I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.” His voice dropped as he stepped closer to Angelo. “Tell me the address, and I’m driving over there right now.”

Hearing those words, Carlo slunk off to find a new hiding place: the back of his uncle’s car. He wasn’t going to miss the 
real
 adventure.

Tucked away on the floor of the backseat, the diminutive ten year old prayed he wouldn’t be detected by his uncle. Luckily, Enzo didn’t even bother to check the darkened interior before getting into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.

His excitement building with each passing mile, Carlo shook with anticipation when the car finally stopped. He held his breath as his uncle rustled around in the front seat for a few moments before quietly leaving the vehicle. Peeking out the side window, Carlo watched him stealthily move toward a darkened house. His uncle wore black gloves, and he’d stuffed a handgun into his waistband.

Carlo gasped when he saw the gun gleaming in the streetlight. What was Uncle Enzo doing with a gun? Was he like a police officer or something? Was he going to arrest a bad man? This he had to see.

Crawling out of the car, Carlo watched from the bushes as Enzo glanced around, then leaned down and fiddled with the knob on the back door of the house. The ten year old was even more intrigued when somehow his uncle got the door open and disappeared inside.

Should he follow? Carlo stopped and started several times before telling himself to quit being such a pussy. He crept toward the same door that had swallowed his uncle. He winced as the hinges gave a small creak, and then suddenly he was inside the strange, dark house. Trying to adjust his eyes to the blackness, Carlo carefully stepped forward. His heart thumped and he wondered if this was such a good idea, but it was too late to turn back.