Dead of Wynter: A Dark Mafia Romance (Frost Industries Book 2)

The moment my eyes make contract with the box a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s not that the box looks particularly suspicious or that it’s marked in a way that anyone else would find it worrying, but whatever is in that box is going to hurt my little dove, and that’s not acceptable.

Despite allowing her to be a part of the decision making and takedown of the Russo family, I’ve avoided telling Wynter what was in the first package that was delivered here for her.

The moment she pushes against me to stand, I know I have to come clean, that despite all my good intentions of protecting her, she needs to know the full extent of the threat.

“Did you check it?” I ask as Wynter clambers from my lap.

Storm shakes his head, eyes glued to the package as he places it on the desk in front of the monitors I was using. “It’s not a bomb. They swept it at the gate.”

Wynter crosses the room toward the desk but I quickly tug her back into me. If there’s something in the package that can hurt her, I’m going to be standing between her and it. “Everett,” she hisses. “You are not kicking me out this time, I’m officially just as involved and complicit as you two so you’re not keeping me in the dark.”

“Stand behind me,” I growl and to my surprise, she listens to me.

“What was in the first one?” she asks.

“A dead dove,” Storm answers.

Wynter’s body stills behind me, her breathing stuttering for the briefest of moments. “How do they…” She trails off, asking the same question we asked ourselves when it arrived.

“The rat,” Storm and I answer at once.

Understanding crosses her features and her body visibly shivers.

“You don’t call me that in front of anyone.”

“I know. We think it has to be someone close, but we can’t pinpoint who, and even after I checked everyone’s backgrounds, they all came up squeaky clean,” I tell her.

“And we’ve triple checked everyone who knew we were going to see the lawyer?” she asks.

“No one has so much as a friend six times removed of any of Russo’s people,” Storm says.

Wynter closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, each one sounding more steady than the last. When the ice blue reappears, any fear from before is long gone, and she’s back to being the fierce queen I know her to be.

“Open it.”

Storm sucks in a breath as he cuts the tape holding the box closed. We both peer over into the box while Wynter remains behind me where I put her.

“Motherfucker,” Storm roars, his hand sweeping the monitors from the desk in one swift movement. The contents isn’t a bomb, but I almost wish it was. It would likely cause Wynter less pain and end this war before it can really begin.

“Do I want to look?” she asks, her fists holding on to the back of my shirt in a vice grip.

“Probably not,” I admit. I should throw her over my shoulder and cart her out of here so she never has to see the contents of the box, but I don’t want her to resent me for keeping things from her, even if I’m only trying to shield her.

Wynter moves slowly until she’s staring down into the box. The color drains from her cheeks and her hands fly to cover her mouth as he eyes flit from item to item.

It’s not any one thing in the box that is most horrifying, because all of it is equally so. Every single thing is more twisted than the last, just for different reasons, and separately most people wouldn’t think twice about any of them.

I place my hand on the small of Wynter’s back to remind her I’m here as I look up to meet Storm’s gaze. The fire and fury swirling around in the gray is darker than any I’ve ever seen. We’ve had threats to the women in the family before, Emerson was kidnapped for god’s sake, but no one has ever gone after one of them like this, so personally. It’s like they’ve pulled all the worst moments of her life and threw them in a box.

Another dead dove.

A newspaper with her on the front claiming her to be the ‘Queen of Chicago’ and a broken crown beside it to represent her fall.

A doll with blonde hair and ice-blue eyes lying face down with red pen marks all over its ass and thighs.

And a note with bold writing clear enough to read without ever having to touch it.

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, YOUR HIGHNESS.

Wynter’s eyes shoot up to meet Storm’s and the two of them stare at one another for a moment. “How the fuck could they know about this?” She pulls the doll from the box and shoves it toward him. “How the fuck does anyone know about this?” she shouts. “You’re the only fucking person on this earth that knew up until a few days ago. There were no photos taken, I never told another soul, so who the fuck did you tell?”

Storm’s face is ashen, the color completely drained as he stares at the doll meant to represent the day she was violated. I’m curious about who knew as well, because Rayne and I were never told, and the fact that someone else knew makes me ropable. “There were photos,” he murmurs and Wynter stills beneath my hands, her eyes widening as she waits for her brother to continue. “I had the doctor take a few on a disposable camera just in case we ever needed it.”

“In what universe would we need it?” Wynter cries. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Storm? I was fucking violated by a man you hired to protect me, and you thought it was pertinent that we have evidence that that happened to me?”

“I thought if there were any lasting impacts from your wounds a doctor might need to know what happened to you,” he admits.

“But that’s not why you’ve kept them all these years,” I say. I don’t know how I know, maybe it’s the way he’s avoiding eye contact, or the way his head is hung in shame, but I consider this man my brother, and I always know when he’s lying.

“No, it’s not.” He shakes his head and collapses into the chair behind the desk.

“How could you?” Wynter whispers, her body crumpling into mine.

“This is the part of the business you don’t understand, Wyn, it’s why I never wanted you or Snow involved.”

“Because you have to keep dirt on your own fucking family.” Wynter’s yelling now and there’s no amount of comfort I can give to ease this hurt.

“That’s not what this was.” Storm’s eyes flare as they finally meet ours again. “I killed a man who has ties to some serious fucking fire power, men that we wouldn’t want to meet in our goddamn nightmares, and I killed him for what he did to you. I will never feel sorry for what I did, no matter the amount of heat this family gets for my actions, someone hurt my baby sister and he deserved a much worse death than even I could give him, but in the event that some of that family came looking, I thought it may help to have evidence of why I killed him. People like that understand loyalty, and if showing them the fucked-up things he did to you meant they didn’t come after us. It was a precaution,” he explains.

Wynter’s body shakes violently, but without being able to see her face I can’t tell if it’s fury or pain causing the shivers. I wrap my arms around her and hold her against my chest, making sure she won’t fall if her legs buckle beneath her. “It’s been eight years, Storm. I think the statute of limitations is well and truly over.”

Storm is still being evasive. His eyes dart around the room, sweat drips from his temple, and the man who always has his shit together looks moments away from crumpling.

“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.

He sighs, his head leaning on his hands on the desk. “There was a… breach a couple of months ago.”

“A breach?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes. The photos were in my office at Frost Industries because I thought no one would be dumb enough to break into a building for a company that literally designs half the world’s security systems.”

“Why the fuck didn’t I know about this?” I growl.

“Because I didn’t want you to,” Storm snaps. “You forget who runs the show, brother.”

My body stills as blinding red crosses my vision. Anger pumps through my veins, and the only thing holding me back is the woman I love in my arms. Her softness soothes me just the same as it always has, ever since the first time she patched me up after my uncle hurt me.

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Red clouds my vision, but not because I’m angry. Blood drips into my eyes as I stagger up the drive of the Saint James estate. It’s a miracle I made it here at all considering one of my eyes is so swollen I can’t see out of it, and the other stings from my own blood.

But this is the only place I’m safe. The family I wish I was born to. The one who are the enemies of my own but still give me everything I need without me having to ask.

I drop my bike in the driveway and clamber up the stairs, tripping several times on the way up before knocking on the door. While I wait, I lean against the frame, finally allowing the pain to break through the walls I built until I could get to safety.

The Russos don’t believe in weakness. They don’t believe that a man should feel pain, and therefore any sign of agony would only lead to being beaten even more.

Today’s injuries are courtesy of training, or at least that’s what Uncle Angelo called it. Sometimes when he’s bored, he’ll pit my cousin and me against one another. Elijah is a few months younger than me, but he is a little taller and a whole lot stockier than I am.

The aim is the same as survival of the fittest, but what that really translates to is enjoying his nephews beating the life out of one another until one of us taps out.

Except, tapping out isn’t the end of it. God, I wish it was. I’ve watched some professional boxing over the years and I know the concept, but that’s not how he plays it. When you tap out, you’re giving up, and Russos never give up. Despite the fact I don’t share a last name with the piece of shit, I still fall in that category.

This is the first time I’ve fled to the refuge the Saint James family offer me, but when I ran it was the only place I could think about coming. It’s the only place I’m truly safe from my uncles.

A mess of blonde flashes across my vision and when I look up, I’m met with ice blue filled with horror.

“Oh my god, Everett, what happened to you?” Wynter shoots forward to help me into the house.

Everything in this house is nice, too nice even. It’s kind of funny that this was my father’s house, even if we never stayed here. I never even came here. My mother preferred to be closer to the city, I guess being isolated here with the devil himself wasn’t that appealing for her.

The first time Uncle Angelo found out I knew the Saint James family he tried to fill my head with lies. Of course I know Ron killed my dad and took over his operation, but the reasoning my uncles gave me is so farfetched I can’t believe they thought I would believe them.

I don’t answer the angel I’ve become obsessed with, instead letting her help me inside and hoping I don’t drip blood all over the expensive furniture. When she tries to steer me into the lounge room I immediately halt.

“Not in here,” I say.

Wynter watches me for a moment, as if trying to find something within my beaten gaze before nodding. “Okay, let’s go into the bathroom.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Although I trust the Saint James family, I already owe them so much, and I know in the line of work we’re in that’s never a good thing and seeing as I owe the Russo family for taking me in after my father was killed, I already owe entirely too much.

Wynter tries to support as much of my weight as she can, but she’s so tiny she’s barely holding any of it. I won’t tell her that though because it would make her sad, and I never want to see her anything but happy. Her smile has quickly become my favorite thing in the world, and sometimes when I hang out with Rayne and Storm, it’s mainly in the hope that I’ll see her.

We’ve grown closer over the last year and even though she’s a few years younger than I am, she’s one of my best friends, but it would still be weird for me to come over just to see her.

She helps me perch on the toilet lid and busies herself looking through the cupboard for the first aid kit. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asks.

“No,” I reply. Wynter is too pure to be tainted for the shit my family does, especially what they force Elijah and I to do to one another.

Her eyes dart up to meet mine before nodding. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She pulls the kit out and places it on top of the vanity. “But if you ever do need to talk about anything, I’m here for you.” The small smile playing on her lips is both comforting and concerning. Doesn’t she know I could never taint her with my darkness.

“Thank you, dove.” The nickname I’ve been calling her in my head for the last year slips from my lips, but I don’t try to take it back.

She watches me for a moment, unsure she heard me correctly, but she doesn’t question it. Instead she opens the kit and starts cleaning my wounds. With anyone else, I would try to hide my pain, but not Wynter. She won’t judge me for flinching when antiseptic seeps into open wounds, or laugh if I swear from the pain, because she’s not like that.

Wynter is the kindest, gentlest person I’ve ever known, and being around her settles the wounded parts of me that have always felt like gaping sores.