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CHAPTER 1
EZRA
Flick. Flick. Flick.
I repeatedly open my lighter then swing it shut. This nervous habit is the only thing keeping my hands busy and my racing mind at ease. Right now, I need all the help I can get. I’m thoroughly annoyed as I drive my nondescript truck to the 8th street address that Massimo has sent me at one fucking PM on a Tuesday.
I had to make a vague excuse to Lisa, my executive assistant, and at this point, I’m sure even she has written me off as a useless trust fund brat.
My irritation escalates as I slow down in front of the cookie-cutter house to whose occupant I’m supposed to issue a warning. Damn it, Massimo. What I hate most, aside from being at Massimo Moratti’s beck and call, is having to do what I do in the fucking burbs.
It may not be far enough out of the city to constitute the title of suburb, but it sure as hell feels like it with these manicured lawns and nosy neighbors. I drive my truck a few more blocks down the silent street before pulling in front of a random bed and breakfast. I grab my black leather jacket and gloves. After pulling them on, I grab a pair of tinted glasses. It’s all part of myuniform; the glasses are subtle, but they help to distort the shape and color of my eyes.
I toss on my cap, tucking my hair beneath it so the dark strands are hidden. Once I get out of the truck, I lock it and slide the key into the back pocket of my jeans. Putting my hands into my jacket pockets and hunching my shoulders, I make my way down the streets, completing my attempt at being inconspicuous. If anyone bothers to notice me, all they’d see is an unassuming man with bad posture.
I glance at the blue sky and dim sun warily when a gust of dry, chilly air hits my face. I hope it doesn’t start raining, or worse, snowing while I’m completing my task. I shudder at the thought; I’m a sun-worshiping, winter-despising man through and through. Just the thought of a beach, a cold beer, and some bikini-clad eye candy will have to get me through this gloomy as shit day.
I surreptitiously glance left and right as I approach the house. There’s no one in sight; probably all are at work like the productive, law-abiding citizens that live in these neighborhoods. I walk up to the front door and knock three times.
“Coming!” A male voice calls out, and my hands form fists in my pockets. Lloyd Ferguson. Early forties. Divorced. That’s the profile of the asshole I’m here to issue a final warning to. Owes the Moratti family about ten grand, which is pennies to Massimo Moratti, but it’s the principality of it.
No one who defaults on their loans gets away with it alive, anyway. The door swings open and I lift my head, my eyes meeting a clean-cut, unremarkable man. His face drains of color as if he’s seen a ghost, and he takes an abrupt step back. I might be offended, if that reaction wasn’t my favorite part of the job. I smirk at him as I lift my right hand from my pocket, fiddling with the gold lighter between my fingers.
His gaze drops to my hand, “La Fiamma,” he whispers. Unassuming might be my disguise, but it’s become something of a trademark look; and with the addition of my favorite accessory, I’m well known in this part of New England. He takes another step back into the house and I follow him in, kicking the door shut behind me. I’ve become quite famous for my theatrics, and Lloyd here has earned the full show.
I’m about to grab him by the scruff when a soft voice calls out, “Daddy, is Jackie here for our playdate?” Then tiny footsteps reach us in the barely-furnished living room. A small girl, about seven years old, with pigtails and a frilly pink dress, appears in the doorway.
“Who is this man, Daddy? Is he your friend?” She gives me a wide grin that’s missing a few front teeth. Lloyd goes even paler, if that’s even possible, turning a peculiar shade of green.
He tosses eyes filled with terror at me before he rushes to his daughter. “Kayla, princess, be a good girl and go back to your room. Daddy will be up to see you in a few minutes.” I’m already backing away.
No one told me there’d be a kid here.Fuck.
I turn around and within seconds I’m out the front door. Loyd is wise enough not to follow me. The front door slams shut, and I hear the tell-tale click of a deadbolt sliding into place as I rush down the sidewalk. When I get to my truck, I grab the burner phone from its hidden compartment and hit call.
“Is it done?” Massimo asks, bypassing the usual greetings. He’s a straight to the point, don’t waste time with formalities kind of guy, which I can appreciate. There’s few people I want to waste time chit chatting with less than him.
“There’s a kid in the house. His daughter. Did you know that?”
Massimo mutters a curse. “Kayla is supposed to be at the park.”
I recall her asking Lloyd about a playdate. “Well, she isn’t, so I disengaged.”
Massimo lets out an irritated sigh. He wouldn’t have sent me to threaten and possibly maim the man, if he knew his little girl would be there to witness it. There’s not much to say for Massimo Moratti, but I’ll give the man credit for upholding the number one rule in his organization: no harming kids or women. Massimo and I might be pieces of shit, but we’re pieces of shit that don’t hurt the innocent, no exceptions.
“I’ll make other arrangements for Lloyd. You’ll get a call when it’s in place. For now, go back home.”
“And the kid?” I ask as I start my truck.
“That’s not for you to worry about,” he says impatiently and hangs up. I return the burner where it will await the next unpleasant request from the boss, and drive back to Brattleboro.
Though I didn’t go through with the job, I drive down to my cottage on the edge of town; my ritual when I need to relax and disassociate from my part-time job from hell. My therapist taught me to compartmentalize work from pleasure; at least that’s what I think she was doing after I had my face buried between her thighs, my name hot on her lips.
I hope she added that note to my file:lacks sense of responsibility, but makes up for it with unparalleled orgasms. Nice girl, she really saved me from the dark place where I was heading.
A flick of the remote in my hand has the black gates opening. I drive through, feeling my shoulders relax as my sanctuary comes into view. The gates automatically close behind me, effectively shutting out reality for the time being.
I barely notice the thorns and weeds overpowering the once gorgeous foliage. The deed is under Charlotte Square, my ex fiancée, who has no idea this place even exists. The fact that my father thought he could solidify a business deal through anarranged marriage between construction families is not one of my fondest memories of the man.
