Restless, p.19
Restless, page 19
Now, my true target is alone, and there is no one else to do or say anything about what happens.
“Whoops. I slipped,” I tease and charge the only goon left. I slam into his body just as he gets his gun free, but I slap it away before we hit one of the tables, and it cracks under his weight. The table breaks apart, and his back is flat on the tabletop as I straddle his weight. Before he can react, I pull the dagger from my waist and press it to his throat.
I must’ve found a kindred spirit because he doesn’t seem scared of dying. His hand comes around my throat, but it seems to be a mutual threat. You cut, and I squeeze.
That’s hot as fuck.
“Hey, sug,” I whisper and press the knife into his neck, but he doesn’t flinch even as the blood drips down. It’s not enough to kill him, and I’m not hitting anything crucial, but I feel how he swells in his pants and... holy fuck. He is one big Daddy, for sure.
I bend down to lick the blood dripping from the knife, and he lets me do it, groaning as his cock thickens even more. Then, I press my mouth against his, a psychotic smirk on my red-stained lips. A moan escapes me as I grind down against the bulge in his pants.
“Ohhh, someone is excited by a little violence and... spoiler alert, it’s not me.” Then, I run my tongue along his, and he lets out a deep growl.
Okay, so I am a bit turned on by violence, and I could really use a cock for free use after this. This goon seems up for the task.
“You’re one crazy bitch,” he rasps, and I moan.
“You’ve got that right. I am very crazy, and I’m a bitch, but I don’t think this big boy has gotten the message. He seems very interested.” I press my lips back against his and tease his tongue with mine until he reciprocates and pulls me closer by my throat. His hips grind back up into me, his free hand grabbing my ass through my shorts. “What’s your name?” I demand as I push the knife harder into his throat, but his cock twitches in his pants at the aggression.
“Lorenzo,” he responds, his voice thicker than a moment ago, a slight Italian accent peaking through his words.
I smirk. “Nice to meet you, Lorenzo. My name is Francine Gray, but you can call me Harley.” I dip my head down and lick back up the short trail of blood, but I don’t remove my tongue from his skin. I bring it up his neck, across his jaw, and all the way to his full lips. He accepts the kiss completely, sucking the blood from my tongue. “I have a job for you, Lorenzo,” I say before moaning against his lips.
Suddenly, he wrenches his lips away from mine and presses his throat against the blade, a growl on his lips. “And if I refuse?”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t do that,” I pout. “I like you, and I’d hate to have to kill you. It’s just a small favor, and if you do it, I’ll make it worth your while.” I lean into his ear and whisper all the dirty, crazy things I plan on letting him do to my body if he does what I ask.
Granted, I have to do it before he passes the message along, but I have a feeling he won’t have a problem with meeting my terms.
I don’t have a problem with adding Lorenzo to my body count list of names, and, from the rod stabbing me in my lady bits, he has the hardware to get the job done.
He moans as I run my tongue along his earlobe, and he reaches between our bodies, unfastening the button on my shorts.
“Take off your clothes then.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
Chapter Seventeen
Him
It’s not very often that I’m summoned by Donatello. When he needs something, he either calls or he comes to us. I rarely ever get a call from him, claiming that I’ve fucked up. It’s always someone else since he thinks I walk on water or some shit. No, apparently, I’ve caused him issues, and now, Sorcha and I are going up there.
The only people in my circle that Donatello likes are me and my sister.
Things have been really strained between us, even more so after last night, but since Francine and I ended things, Sorcha has been withdrawn and not just from me, but everything else. Maybe she was before I ended things with Francine, but if she was, I was blind to it.
I had on rose-colored glasses concerning everything, and I hate to think that my sister has been suffering, and I haven’t been paying enough attention to see it.
“You good, sis?” I ask as I speed down the highway.
She’s quiet for a minute before she retorts, “Do you want the real answer or one that will make you feel good about checking in on my mental health?”
Ouch.
“I know I haven’t been the best brother lately—”
“You haven’t been the best anything for fucking weeks, Finnick. How about you focus on getting your own shit in order, then you can ask me what my issues are? Sound good to you?” If the words were written on paper, anyone would assume she was angry, but her voice is level. I want to say something, knowing there is so much I need to check in on her about, but... she’s not ready.
Even my dad is worried about Sorcha, and he’s been unreachable most days. All of us have our own shit going on, and if my gut feeling is right, I already know who the cause is for Sorcha’s distress.
Fucking Rian.
I’m not an idiot. I knew it was odd that both of them turned into sour pusses at the same time. Rian had been much better mood-wise, but right before prom, he regressed, and at the same time, so did my sister. I don’t know if they had an argument or what, but I’ve noticed the absence of my sister at my house and the lack of communication between the two of them. They are avoiding each other like the plague.
“You were right about Francine,” I admit, but my sister still doesn’t speak. “I’ve fucked everything up, but I’m going to try to fix it. I have no clue if she’ll forgive me or take me back. This whole thing has been stupid as shit, and I don’t know what to do.”
Sorcha’s gaze turns to me as I pull into the parking lot of Donatello’s club, but before she can say anything, she gasps aloud.
“What the hell happened here?” Her voice explodes as I look for what seemed to freak her out.
What I see is graffiti across the front of the building in red, blue, and black spray paint. It’s not a specific design; more like someone just wanted to cause damage with no real thought or reason.
“Who do you think is responsible for this?” Sorcha asks as I park my truck, and we climb out, bewildered by not only the graffiti, but also the broken glass littered through the parking lot and the three cars next to the front door with their tires cut.
“Probably a dead man,” I say honestly as I push open the front door and walk inside. Salvatore Scarfoni, one of Donatello’s sons, and Orion Davenport sit at the bar, ice packs to their faces like they just got jumped by a rival organization.
“Definitely a dead man,” Sorcha mumbles, but when Orion looks up at us, his eyes narrow.
“Not a dead man. She’s a psychotic bitch, and soon, she’ll be a dead bitch in a fucking costume.” I’m surprised steam isn’t coming out of his eyeballs from how angry he is.
Is this why Donatello asked me to come here? What does this break-in have to do with us?
“Costume?” Sorcha asks as my eyes scan the room, taking notice of all the broken glass and the broken table close by.
“Where’s Donatello?” I press, but then my eyes land on more graffiti, but instead of being on the wall, this is in the middle of the dance floor.
“He’s on his way down,” a feminine voice calls, and my head snaps around as I head toward the vandalism.
I’ve known Gillian Murdoch my entire life. She’s the only reason we even have a working relationship with the Scarfoni family. She is never at the club because she is Donatello’s most prized possession, i.e., the love of his life, so the fact that Gillian was pulled into this says a lot.
Donatello is worried about what this woman is willing to do.
I stop short when my eyes land on the graffiti on the floor, and my breath is trapped in my throat. It’s not the same as it was outside. No, this isn’t random, but a picture of... Francine. It’s not her now but before prom with her blonde hair with the red and blue ends. She’s dressed up as Harley Quinn, like she was on Halloween.
And there’s a note painted on the ground in bold, black letters.
Fuck around and find out the extent of my crazy.
XOXO,
HQ
My head spins as I struggle to catch up and put the pieces together. What the ever-loving fuck have you done, Francine?
A red hue covers my vision as rage burns through my blood. Orion fucking threatened Francine.
With my fists balled, I charge back over to him and grab him by the collar of his shirt, slamming his back against the bar, anger vibrating deep within my soul.
“What the hell, Finn!” Sorcha yells as she pulls at my arm, but I don’t give a shit.
“You listen to me, you son of a bitch. No one—and I mean no one—touches her. You harm one fucking hair on her fucking head, and I’ll fucking bury you where they will never find your damn body.”
As Francine says, I have the mouth of a sailor, but I’ve never cursed so much in a single sentence as far as my memory goes. Yet, no one has ever threatened to kill the most important person in my life, either. I’d kill anyone to protect her, even if she hates me.
Orion’s eyes narrow into slits as he fights against my hold. “Fuck you! She came in here like an escaped mental patient, swinging bats at us. Salvatore has a fucking concussion from that whore, and she broke my fucking arm.”
I glance down momentarily at the sling Orion’s arm is in before I return my glare to his bruised face.
“I’ll annihilate anyone who even thinks of laying a single finger on her. If you think Francine’s wrath was bad, you don’t want to imagine mine,” I growl. I’ll burn down Donatello’s entire organization before I let anyone hurt Francine. I would risk death, war, and retaliation to protect her. No one is more important. If something happened to her, I’d burn the world to the ground and then myself to be back by her side.
I fucking love that woman, and I’m done being stupid and pretending that she isn’t the best thing that ever happened to me.
“Okay, okay! Break it up, boys,” Gillian groans as she pries my hand from her son’s throat before glaring daggers at him. “Finn is right. No one lays a finger on that girl.”
“But, Mom—”
“But nothing, Orion. You will do as Donatello and I say, or you’ll be dealt with by The Black Stallions. Don’t test me.”
Orion is the only one of Donatello’s “children” who isn’t biologically his; Orion’s sperm donor was the president of a biker gang back in California before he passed away. Now, his brother, Xander, runs it—as far as I can remember, anyway—and Gillian’s go-to threat is sending him off to be Xander’s lackey, which is somehow worse than being a servant to Donatello.
I don’t get it. I’ve met Xander a few times. He’s a good guy as far as outlaws go. He protects the innocent, much like we do.
Orion shrugs off her arm and glares at me, seething as much as I am. “Get your bitch under control, or I’ll deal with her myself, consequences be damned.”
I’m ready to wring his neck, but Donatello walks down the stairs leading from his office, and Orion stiffens.
“Calm down, son.”
Gillian is instantly at his side, which is odd to see in the current setting. I’m so used to Matilda being at the club with him. It's a little unbelievable to see Gillian marching around like it's no big deal.
Lorenzo walks out from behind his father, and the look he gives me is unsettling. He’s amused somehow, and Lorenzo never shows emotion.
“This is insanity. This is completely unlike Francine. It couldn’t have been her,” Sorcha pipes up, coming to Francine’s defense, but Donatello barely spares her a glance.
“I’ve seen the camera footage, and trust me, it’s her.” Then, he turns his head to Lorenzo with his own enjoyment showing. “Didn’t she...” he trails off, chuckling under his breath. “Didn’t she tell you her name before the, um, payment was given?”
Payment? What the fuck are they talking about?
Lorenzo smirks. “She said her name was Francine Gray.”
Fuuuck. There goes the reasonable doubt angle Sorcha was trying to work in Francine’s favor.
“And the reason she did this was to send a message,” Donatello continues.
“A message? What kind of message could Francine have for you?” Sorcha presses, her defensiveness showing.
“Not a message for me, Sorcha. A message for your brother.”
I feel the color drain from my face. This is about last night. When I saw her getting railed by Malloy, I figured she was done with it, but this proves that assumption was wrong. Her screwing her ex was meant as a kick to my balls, but not this. She wanted my attention, and she fucking has it.
She always does.
“And what exactly is this supposed to tell me?” I ask as I glance around at the broken glass, liquor-soaked tile, and painted dance floor. All I can sense is her rage, and it's addicting. Maybe I’m a bit sick, but I like her anger. It's more seductive than any drug.
“Lorenzo?” Donatello turns to him, and a smug grin crosses his face.
“She said...” he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and reads. “Tell him that if he keeps giving me whiplash like a ragdoll, I’ll fuck the rest of his friends. It won’t only be the one who left bruises on my body he’ll need to worry about.”
The words he read sucker punches me. My mind reels back to when I saw the bruises on her throat, and she told me it was from her having rough sex with someone who wasn’t me. It never even crossed my mind that it was someone close to me. On the contrary, I thought it was Malloy. Okay, so imagined would be a better word to use. I didn’t want it to be Malloy, but it was hard not to think it was him with the way he was constantly around her. Then, seeing them together last night after I rejected her solidified that it had to be him. Turns out, the culprit was someone much closer to home.
It was one of my friends. Either Rian, Eoghan, Colin, or Tiernan screwed Francine not long after I ended things. Logically, I know I have no right to be pissed. I’m the one who ended things, and I know she was in a bad place. None of them seem likely. Rian hates Francine, Tiernan is stuck on Willow, I don’t think Colin has gotten his dick wet period, and Eoghan... Well, I have nothing as far as Eoghan goes, except he’s my friend, and he’s quite literally said Francine isn’t his type because of how psychotic she can be.
If I find out who exactly it was, I’ll probably kill them simply because it’s fucking Francine, and my humanity goes out the window when anyone touches her. Last night was a fluke because I felt guilty for pushing her away. The next time, I won’t be nearly as understanding, even if she gets covered in the blood from my brutality. As a matter of fact, she’d probably get off on that.
And now I’m hard as fuck just thinking about what her reactions might be to my brand of crazy. She’s never seen me lose my shit, and I have no clue how she would react to it.
I don’t make a single sound, but I catch the way my sister gasps, and I feel her pain from here. She’s going over the possibilities as much as I am. She’s scared of who it could be, but she doesn’t say it.
“That’s what this is about?” she asks, but I’m still silent, feigning indifference as I scan the club.
“And this isn’t all she did,” Donatello redirects, and my gaze settles on his face. He’s not angry about the damage Francine did. He seems... impressed, if anything. She destroyed his club and kicked at least two of his sons’ asses, and he looks elated. One thing bugs me, though.
“Why the fuck do you look unharmed?” I ask as my eyes move to Lorenzo. He looks like the personification of the cat that ate the canary, which doesn’t suit his normally stoic expression.
“Oh, I’m not.” He pulls down the collar of his shirt to reveal a gnarly cut on his neck that should’ve killed him. The injury is too close to his carotid artery for comfort. The thing that really gets to me is the circle of hickeys around the cut like a bullseye to the target. His smugness is potent, as is my boiling rage. “She’s a little firecracker. She got a little stab happy.”
I’d like to get stab happy with a blade to his fucking groin before making him eat his own cock. I don’t need anyone to tell me more. I have no doubt from the look on his face that, when she was here, he did something to her. If I find out exactly what that is, I’ll kill him.
Malloy is different. He’s an annoying, cheating douchebag, but Lorenzo Scarfoni? He’s as psychotic as they come. If you put mine, Francine’s, and Jeffrey Dahmer’s craziness on a scale, it wouldn’t even equal half of this fuckers.
Lorenzo fears nothing and no one. He cares about less than what he fears. He’s an unfeeling demon in sheep's clothing.
If Francine let him touch her, I worry for her safety. It’s not odd for women Lorenzo beds to end up in a ditch, and I’ll burn their family to the ground before I allow him to hurt a single hair on her head.
He shrugs as he replaces his shirt with that shit-eating grin on his face. “I kinda like that little psychopath.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Orion growls. “She put Luca in the fucking hospital, and you like her?”
Lorenzo shrugs just as the front doors fly open, and everyone’s heads snap around like synchronized neck-snapping is a recognized Olympic sport, and we’re all going for the gold. Out of the blinding sunlight emerges none other than the last person who should be here. It will end in a bloodbath if I have to protect her.
“Afternoon, everyone!” She throws out a grin, refusing to look in my direction, and saunters in, holding an old carpet bag, dressed in a black leather bodysuit with her short hair up in a skin-tight, neat bun.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Orion explodes again, but no one else moves. I doubt anyone even blinks.
Except Donatello.
“You’re late.”
Late? What the fuck is he talking about?
Francine strolls over like she doesn’t have a care in the world and walks right over to Donatello.
