Savage Lover: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 3)

It’s Friday night. I’m waiting for Mason Becker outside an old abandoned steel mill in South Shore.

This place is a fucking trip. It’s right on the water and so huge that it’s bigger than the whole of downtown Chicago. And yet it’s completely deserted—abandoned since the 90s when the steel industry finally collapsed.

Most of the buildings have been demolished. You can still see the U.S. Steel sign all covered with weeds. It looks like the end of the world happened, and I’m the only person left around to see it.

Actually, this whole area is kinda shitty. They don’t call it Terror Town for nothing. But that’s where Mason wanted to meet, so here I am.

He’s late, as per fucking usual.

When he finally drives up, I hear his car before I see it. His engine is knocking. He drives a crappy old Supra, with a big long scratch down the panels where his ex-girlfriend dug her keys into the side of his car.

“Hey, why you so early?” he says, sticking his head out the window and grinning at me.

Mason is tall and skinny, with curly hair and lightning bolts shaved into the sides of his fade.

“You’ve got the wrong spark plugs,” I tell him. “That’s why your car sounds like a lawnmower.”

“Man, what the fuck are you talkin’ about, I just got these changed last week.”

“Who did it?”

“Frankie.”

“Yeah? Let me guess, he gave you a deal.”

Mason grins. “He did it for a hundred bucks and a baggie of weed. So what?”

“So he used the wrong plugs. Probably pulled ‘em out of somebody else’s car. You should’ve had me do it.”

“Will you fix it?”

“Fuck no.”

Mason laughs. “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

“So.” I slide off the hood of my car. “What do you have for me?”

Mason climbs out of the Supra, popping the trunk so I can take a look. He’s got three FN-57 pistols, a monster .50-caliber rifle, and a half-dozen .45s in the back.

They’re all different makes and models, the serial numbers crudely filed down. It’s not as nice as the stuff we used to get from the Russians, but they’re not exactly talking to us right now, seeing as we killed their boss a couple months ago. So I need a new supplier.

Mason brings his guns up from Mississippi. That state has about the friendliest gun laws in the country. You can buy whatever you like from pawn shops and shows, and you don’t have to register it after. So Mason has his cousins pick up whatever we need, then he brings them up the pipeline of the I-55.

“If you don’t like those, I can get others,” Mason says.

“How many cousins do you have?” I ask him.

“I dunno. At least fifty.”

“Does your family ever do anything but fuck?”

He snorts. “I sure don’t. I like to keep with tradition.”

I look the guns over once more. “This is good,” I tell him. “I’ll take it all.”

We haggle over the price for a while—him, because he’s still trying to get Patricia back, regardless of what she did to the side of his car, and he probably wants to buy her something nice. Me, because he made me drive way the fuck over here to this ratty-ass neighborhood where the trash is blowing around like tumbleweeds.

Finally we agree, and I hand him the wad of cash. He transfers the guns to my trunk, into the hidden compartment I built under the spare tire.

If some bitch ever keyed my Mustang, I’d chuck her in the lake. I love this car. Built it up from blocks, after I crashed my Bel Air.

“So,” Mason says, once business is done. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Levi is throwing a party at his house.”

I consider it. Levi Cargill is a trust-fund frat-boy who likes to pretend he’s Pablo Escobar. I never liked him in high school, and I don’t like him now. But he does throw pretty decent parties.

“You going over there now?” I ask Mason.

“Yup. You gonna come with me?”

“Alright. We’re taking my car, though.”

Mason scowls. “I don’t wanna leave mine here. Somebody’ll fuck with it.”

“Nobody’s gonna bother with your car unless Patricia finds it again. It’s not even worth stripping down for scrap metal.”

Mason looks wounded. “You’re a snob, you know that?”

“Nah,” I say. “I like all cars. Except yours.”

Mason gets in the passenger side and we drive back to Old Town. He tries to fuck with my playlist, and I slap his hand away before he can touch it. I do let him roll the windows down, ‘cause it’s hot as balls and the breeze is nice.

We cruise up to Levi’s house, where the party is already in full swing.

This was a nice place when Levi inherited it from his grandma. He’s abused it ever since, throwing so many ragers that the neighbors probably have the cops on speed-dial. They don’t say anything to Levi, though. He may be a puffed-up poser, but he has a nasty temper, enough to go off on any octogenarians who dare to give him the side-eye.

I already see a few people I recognize. That’s usually the case. I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life. Went to school at Oakmont, ten minutes from here. Tried a semester at Northwestern, but left six weeks in. I hate sitting in classrooms and I hate taking tests even more. I don’t give a fuck about physics or philosophy. I like things that are practical. Real. Touchable.

I went to one lecture where the professor spent the whole hour yammering on about the nature of reality. If he can’t understand reality, then how am I supposed to?

You know what you can understand front and back, up and down? A car engine. You can take it apart down to the last bolt and put it right back together again.

Speaking of which, as we walk up to the house, I see a red Trans Am pulled up to the curb. It needs new tires and a fresh paint job, but it’s a classic all the same.

I’m giving it a full once-over, until a shapely little redhead draws my eye in another direction. She’s walking up to the house in a tight black skirt and ankle boots, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail that swishes as she walks.

I automatically fall into step behind her, walking close enough that she turns around to see who’s behind her.

“Oh, hello Nero,” she says, a saucy little smile breaking out on her face. She’s got dimples on both sides of her mouth, with little silver piercings through them. She looks familiar, and also fucking hot in that short skirt and her tight little crop-top. Small tits, but that’s fine. Like I told Mason, I’m not picky.

“Hey, Red,” I say, since I can’t remember her name. “What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

“Is that supposed to be you?” she says, looking me up and down so her lashes swoop down to her cheeks and up again.

“Well, I’m definitely big,” I say in a low voice, stepping closer to her.

“I’ve heard that,” she says, grinning up at me.

“Yeah, from who?”

I know girls love to gossip about the guys they fuck, and I know she just said that to be flirty, but I’m irritated all the same. It pisses me off when people talk about me. Even if it’s supposed to be a compliment.

Red hears the snarl in my voice. She falters, smile fading.

“Well, you used to date Sienna . . .”

“I didn’t date her,” I growl. “I let her suck my cock in the sauna once.”

“Yeah,” Red giggles. “That’s the night she told me about. She said you—”

“Why didn’t you text me when you got here?” a male voice interrupts.

A big, burly guy in a Bears t-shirt slings his arm around Red’s shoulder. He’s got one of those faces where everything is almost in the right place, but there’s just something off about it. A square jaw, but a long face. Straight nose, but eyes too deep-set on either side of it. This guy I do remember, because he’s a complete twat. His name is Johnny Verger.

He’s got two of his buddies with him, a couple other washed-up meatheads that probably played football with our boy Johnny once upon a time.

They’ve all been drinking while waiting on Red. I can smell the beer leeching out of their pores. Johnny most of all—he’s bleary-eyed and belligerent.

“I was just walking in,” Red says nervously.

“With Nero Gallo?” Johnny sneers.

“Maybe you should put her on a leash,” I say. “Then you can make sure she doesn’t talk to anybody else.”

“Why don’t you fuck off?” Johnny snarls at me. “She’s not interested.”

“I doubt you know what an interested girl looks like,” I reply.

Red glances over at me from under Johnny’s arms, her lashes giving that flirtatious little swoop again.

“See?” I say quietly “It’s that look. Like they want you to grab them and bend them over the nearest table.”

Johnny lets go of Red, glowering down at her. Red’s cheeks are burning as bright as her hair.

“What the fuck, Carly?” he demands.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” she says. But her eyes are flitting back to me, betraying every dirty little thought in her head.

Johnny shoves Red. She stumbles backward on her high-heeled boots, landing on her ass on the lawn.

“Hey!” she shrieks, tears springing into her eyes.

Nobody helps her up. Johnny and his buddies have their attention entirely fixed on me. I ignore her too, ‘cause I’m no white knight. She’s the one dating this asshole. She can deal with his temper tantrums on her own.

Apparently, Johnny is set on making their little spat into my problem.

“Keep your filthy fuckin’ hands off what’s mine,” he snarls.

“I didn’t touch her,” I say. “But if I wanted to, I sure as fuck wouldn’t ask your permission first.”

“Oh yeah, tough guy?”

Johnny is crowding into my space, trying to force me to back up. I’m staying still, watching him, just waiting for him to throw the first punch. He’s so big and so drunk that I’ll see it coming a mile away.

“Johnny . . .” one of his buddies says warningly.

“Yeah, I know who his dad is,” Johnny snarls. “I know his brothers, too. I’m not scared of a bunch of greasy gangsters. It’s not 1920 anymore.”

“Is it 1980?” I ask him. “ ‘Cause you look like that douche from Cobra Kai.”

I don’t know if Johnny gets the reference. It pisses him off anyway. He roars and swings a fist the size of a brick at my head.

I duck under it, then I flex my legs like pistons and drive my head directly upward into Johnny’s face. The top of my skull meets his nose with sickening force. In the roshambo of body parts, skull beats nose every time. The sound of the break is oddly hollow, like a baseball bat against a pumpkin. Blood comes flooding out both of Johnny’s nostrils, soaking the front of his Bears t-shirt in an instant.

“ARGH!!! FUUUUGGHH!” Johnny howls inarticulately.

His two buddies rush at me from either side.

I was expecting that. Still, I can only do so much to fend them off. I’m 6’2, strong but lean. These dudes probably weigh 240 pounds each. They look like they spend their weekends benching and injecting each other’s asses with racehorse ‘roids. I may not have stuck with those physics classes long, but I learned enough to know their combined mass is gonna take me down.

So instead of waiting for them to plow into me, I run at one on the left, skidding into his ankle with both feet outstretched, like I’m sliding into home plate. His ankle bends at a nasty angle and he topples over on top of me.

Unfortunately, that gives his buddy time to kick me right in the face. He gets me in the mouth, splitting my top lip. Kicking is a bitch move, especially three-on-one.

Johnny is still howling and clutching his nose, and Red is screaming too, though I’m not sure for what reason—because I’m scuffling with these two meatheads, or because I busted up her boyfriend’s face.

I’m pummeling every inch of the second guy that I can reach. He really pissed me off with that kick to the face. I’ve got him down on the ground and I’m hitting him again and again until my knuckles are bloody. His buddy hobbles over and cracks me one in the eye, and I retaliate with an elbow to his face.

At this point, Red’s shrieks have drawn a crowd. Five or six dudes yank us apart, pulling me off the face-kicker.

While I’m being restrained, Johnny takes the opportunity to slug me in the gut. It slams the air out of me. If I didn’t have people holding both my arms, I’d knife the fucker for that one. I have a switchblade in my pocket. I wasn’t gonna use it in a friendly fight, but now he’s really making me mad.

Before I can get loose, Levi steps between us, shoving us both back.

“Alright, alright, you had your fun,” he says.

Levi’s got bleached blond hair and a bunch of chains around his neck. He’s wearing a stars-and-stripes windbreaker and acid-washed jeans. I’d tell him that he looks like Vanilla Ice, but he’d take that as a compliment.

“If you want to keep fighting, you gotta go somewhere else,” he says.

“I’m gonna kill that little shit!” Johnny roars, still cradling his nose.

“Fine,” Levi says again. “But not here.”

He looks over at me. I spit a little blood out on the grass.

“How ‘bout you?” Levi says.

“I’m good,” I say. “I’ll come inside.”

“Cool.”

Levi nods at his buddies to let go of me. I straighten up, tossing the hair back out of my face.

“You’re fuckin’ dead, Nero,” Johnny hisses as I walk past him.

I just smile at him, blood in my teeth. If I’m in a bad mood the next time I see him, I’m gonna cut his fucking throat without a word of warning.

I head into Levi’s house, which is even hotter than outside and packed with way too many people. The air is so thick with smoke that I could get high just by breathing hard.

The heat makes my lip throb. I head into the kitchen, planning to grab a handful of ice.

Levi’s kitchen is a time capsule of the 70s—pine cabinets and avocado fridge. Granny didn’t give it a facelift, and Levi sure as hell won’t bother. I doubt he’s cooked a meal in his life. The counters are covered in half-eaten take-out boxes.

I crack the freezer door. The only thing inside is an empty vodka bottle. No ice at all, not even the trays.

I close it up again. Over the thud of EDM music, I hear an irritating drawl that’s all too familiar to me. Bella Page, sinking her claws into somebody.

I look over at the girls. It’s the three wicked bitches, surrounding some girl with dark curls tied back by a bandanna.

I usually could not give two shits what Bella is doing. In fact, I’d rather avoid her at all costs. There’s nothing interesting about her practicing her mean girl routine—in fact, I’d be a lot more shocked to see her doing anything else.

It’s their current victim that catches my eye.

Camille Rivera.

Now that is a blast from the past. I could be looking through an eight-year time-warp tunnel. Bella is sniping at her just like she used to in the good old days. And just like back then, Camille looks like she wants to pop Bella right in the eye.

I was always surprised Bella went to such great lengths to fuck with Camille. It’s not like they were in competition or something. Bella had the money, the clothes, the friends, the boyfriends (pretty much anybody worth fucking at school, other than me—though not for lack of trying on her part). Plus, objectively speaking, Bella is way hotter. She’s got that supermodel pout, mile-long legs, and the I-had-four-ribs-removed-to-look-this-skinny thing going on.

Camille isn’t feminine in the slightest. She dresses like Billy Joel in “Uptown Girl.” She’s constantly filthy. She’s got a low, husky voice that hardly belongs in the same conversation with Bella’s biting tone. And she’s poor as dirt. Her dad does good work, but he never charged enough. His shop is so rundown that it’s anti-marketing for the business. She was one of the only kids that always brought her own lunch to school instead of buying from the cafeteria or snack bar. It was always super depressing leftovers in old yogurt containers, not even Tupperware. Bella used to rail on her about that, along with a hundred other things.

But the number one thing Bella would give Camille shit about is her mom.

Everyone knows Camille’s mother worked as a stripper. She had Camille super young, and she was still stripping when we were at Oakmont. People used to throw dollar bills at Camille in the hallway. They’d say they were going to visit her mom at Exotica, and ask Camille what song they should request.

Maybe that’s why Camille tries so hard to be plain. She deflects male attention like it’s her job. Trying to prove she’s nothing like her mother.

Or maybe she just hates showering. How the fuck would I know?

Bella makes some bitchy comment about Camille’s mom.

That’s where I insert myself into the conversation. Not because I care about defending Camille, but because Bella needs some new material.

All the girls spin around to stare at me, Camille most of all.

Bella smirks at me, one hand on her hip and her chest thrust upward for my approval.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she purrs.

“Why would you?” I say, coldly.

Bella’s smile turns to a pout.

She’s been thirsty as fuck since the day I met her. It’s funny—I’ve banged a lot of girls I didn’t like. But I’ve always held out against Bella. It’s almost a game at this point. The more she wants it, the more I enjoy not giving it to her. She’s so damn spoiled it’s probably the one time in her whole life she hasn’t gotten her way.

It ain’t happening. Not tonight, and not ever. I know how hard she’d be to shake afterward—I don’t need that kind of drama.

Bella is the one person who might be as vicious as I am. Trust a snake to know a snake. Who knows what kind of crazy shit she might pull if we were alone and naked.

Those shiny pink lips part as she’s about to shoot her shot again.

To cut her off, I turn to Camille and say, “Is that your Trans Am out there?”

Camille was trying to sneak away. My question pulls her up short. She turns around again, not quite meeting my eye.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

“Is it a ‘77 LE?”

“Yes.”

“Same as Burt Reynolds.”

She smiles.

I haven’t seen Camille smile very often. I’m surprised how nice her teeth are, and how white they look against her tan skin and grease-streaked face.

“I have a Mercedes G-Wagon,” Bella says loudly.

Jesus Christ. She would. I bet it’s white with rose-gold rims and a bunch of shit hanging from the rear-view mirror.

The conversation goes on a few more minutes, but I’m rapidly getting bored of it.

Camille slaps back at Bella about her asshole father, which is fun to see. Even if it has zero effect—you can’t force Bella to self-reflect. She’s got about as much clarity as a fifty-foot oil well.

My lip starts throbbing again and I want to be done with all of them. I steal a swig of somebody’s liquor off the counter, then I ditch the girls, thinking I’ll challenge Mason to a game of Madden if he hasn’t gotten too blitzed to play.

Instead, I bump into Red on the stairs. She’s looking kind of weepy-eyed, reading something on her phone.

“How’s your ass?” I ask her.

“Bruised,” she says. “No thanks to you.”

“I’m not the one who shoved you. That was loverboy.”

“He’s such an asshole!” she cries, glaring at her phone once more, then shoving it in her purse.

I assume Johnny is bitching her out through text, wherever he wandered off to. Probably the hospital, if he cares about straightening his nose out.

“I know how you could get back at him . . .” I say.

I’m standing very close to Red—close enough to feel her breath on my arm. Invading women’s personal space is a great way to make your intentions clear. You get the scent of your pheromones right in their nose. It makes them go crazy, like a dog in heat.

Red looks up at me, eyes wide and lips parted. Her little tongue pokes out to moisten her lower lip.

“You’re trying to get me in trouble again . . .” she says.

She doesn’t say it like she’s telling me off. She says it like she’s begging me to keep going.

I bend my head to speak right into her ear.

“Well, I don’t want to get you in trouble. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to touch you. And you tell me when you want me to stop . . .”

I start at her knee, slowly sliding my hand up her inner thigh. Her legs are freshly shaved and silky smooth. Her flesh trembles under my fingertips.

I can feel her breath speed up as I slide my hand higher. She isn’t stopping me. In fact, she shifts her feet ever so slightly to spread her legs apart.

My hand goes under the hem of her skirt. Her inner thigh is warm and slightly damp, because it’s hotter than a Louisiana swamp on this staircase. The pounding music vibrates the walls.

My fingertips reach the edge of her panties. I pause to see if she’ll say anything . . . all I hear is her rapid little gasps against the side of my neck.

I tuck my fingers under the elastic of her panties, and find her velvety pussy lips, as smoothly shaven as her legs. I slide my index finger down the crevice of her lips, slick and wet though I’ve barely even touched her yet. Red lets out a desperate little mew.

She grabs my face and kisses me like she’s trying to swallow me whole. She tastes like wine coolers and lipstick. She’s darting her tongue into my mouth, splitting my lip open all over again.

I push my fingers inside of her and she groans into my mouth, grinding her body against mine.

“Take me upstairs,” she begs.

I grab her hand, leading her up the stairs to the closest bedroom. There’s already a couple inside, but they’re just making out on the bed, still fully clothed. I grab the guy by the back of his shirt and yank him up, shoving him out the door.

“Hey, what the hell!” he shouts.

The girl blinks up at me, mascara smeared and shirt half unbuttoned so I can see her generous cleavage above her lacy bra.

“Stay or get out,” I tell her.

She looks up at me for a second, then smiles. “I’ll stay.”

“Fine by me.”

I throw Red down next to her on the bed.

Then I close the door in the other guy’s face and lock it.