Hard Up: A Military Mafia Romance Read online

  Hard Up

  Black Saints Book One

  Vivian Wood

  Contents

  Author’s Copyright

  Hard Up

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Join The Vixens

  About Vivian Wood

  Author’s Copyright

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creation

  Copyright Vivian Veritas Publishing 2016

  May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Hard Up

  1

  Viola had never pointed a gun at anyone before.

  Her hands shook as she gripped the little revolver.

  The thug hadn’t seen her slip from the front door of the bar, didn’t hear her come up behind him. It seemed he was too focused on his prey, the target he’d been sent to assassinate.

  One second, the bad guy was standing over Callum's supine body, staring down at Callum where he lie sprawled on the rain-slicked cement. The parking lot was empty except for Vi, the two men, and a glossy black Mercedes.

  The next second, the guy thrust back the hood of his jacket. Vi took in his dark hair and olive skin, her brain instantly firing off: Italian. Mobbed up.

  Then she saw the glint of silver in his hand as he raised his gun.

  Something inside her bubbled up, the part that was born and bred to a life of just this sort of violence. A part that knew what to do, even after years of hiding from her old life.

  She looked at Callum, a man she barely knew, unconscious on the ground.

  Vi knew she couldn’t let the assassin fire a second shot.

  Her hand clenched, finger on the trigger. Before she could even think, the gun went off.

  CRACK.

  Her mouth opened in a surprised O.

  For a few seconds, everything seemed to slow way down, like she was watching a movie of her own life.

  Twenty feet away, the hitman froze, a dark stain blossoming on the back of his hoodie.

  He dropped his gun and reached down to pluck at his chest, as if he could stop the blood pouring from the wound.

  He tried to turn to look at her, to see the person who’d come out of nowhere to take his life.

  She’d shot him in the back. In cold blood, as her father would have said.

  Her target couldn’t turn fast enough to see her.

  Vi didn’t even get a good look at his face as she fired. Just that he was dark-haired and tan, wearing a black hoodie. And he had that look about him, the same look of all the men she’d grown up with.

  Sicilian, some might say. But to Vi, she could only think: made man.

  He stumbled, looked like he was about to drop.

  She stood rooted in place, knowing she didn’t have the courage to shoot him a second time.

  Vi watched as he collapsed onto the pavement. The wound she’d inflicted had proved fatal after all.

  She blinked away the mist clinging to her eyelashes and dripping from her brows. The gun was still warm in her shaking hands as she lowered the weapon.

  Just then, everything sped back up, a rush of sensations all coming back to her at once.

  Her heart started to pound, her throat thick, mouth dry.

  She glanced around for a second before crouching to drop the gun on the ground.

  If anyone had heard the gunshots, they weren’t making themselves known. Still, she couldn’t just stand here with a target on her back.

  She stepped over the gun, leaving it where it lay. It’d served her well, but now adrenaline was surging through her body and brain. She was shaking too much now for the gun to be of any use.

  She moved toward Callum, her pulse racing.

  If she’d ever wondered if she was capable of shooting someone… here was her answer.

  Was it any surprise, really?

  Vi was her father’s daughter. She knew exactly how to handle situations like this one. She probably should’ve shot the guy, wiped down and dumped the gun, and then got the hell out of this parking lot before anyone ever knew she’d been here.

  She could almost hear her father’s voice, coaching her through her next steps.

  Move quick, stay sharp.

  She looked over at the only witness to her crime.

  Callum was still and quiet but awake now, lying against the wheel well of a gleaming Range Rover. Watching her with those unnerving green eyes, curious and unafraid.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  Pressing her knuckles against her lips, Vi whirled, turning her back on Callum. She sucked in a breath, holding in the panicked sob that threatened to escape.

  What have I done? she wondered. She began to shake in earnest, her hot tears mingling with the icy rain on her cheeks. I can’t believe I shot someone.

  No, she thought. Killed someone. I’ve killed someone.

  She’d always been impulsive, but this time she’d fucked up, bad.

  She’d taken a life. Worse, she’d thrown herself in the middle of a turf war between the Irish and the Italians. So, so stupid.

  And for what?

  To save some guy she’d slept with once?

  A one-night stand, no matter how incredible, did not merit dropping a body for someone.

  The worst part was, she had the idea that her father would be proud.

  Maybe you finally learned some loyalty, she imagined him saying.

  “Shit,” she whispered.

  A gust of wind carried away her words, and they slipped into the darkness of the wintry night.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Vi stood in the parking lot and started to pray.

  Please, St. Anthony. Tell me what to do now, she pled to her patron saint, looking skyward.

  Silence. There was no help coming, no one to turn to.

  “Vi.”

  She turned, looking at Callum. He’d managed to get to his feet, although she could see that he was bleeding pretty badly.

  “Come here,” he said, gesturing. “We have to move.”

  She took a step toward him, then he held up a hand. “Wait. Pick up the gun. Never leave a weapon behind.”

  Vi felt numb. She turned back toward the weapon. Three heavy steps, then she leaned down and grabbed it. She slid the safety on, tucked it in the back of her waistband.

  Callum moved toward her, slow but purposeful.

  “We need somewhere to hide,” he said. “They’ll be coming for both of us.”

  Vi only nodded. She dropped her gaze, still unable to look him in the eye.

  “Vi, snap out of it,” Callum s
aid, his voice gone to gravel. “This is serious. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  But she did. Oh, she did know…

  Wrapping her arm around Callum's waist, she started to guide him back toward the bar.

  2

  Two Hours Earlier

  Viola Walker took a heavy plastic rack of pint glasses out of the dishwasher, blowing an annoyed breath at a strand of blonde hair that fell across her forehead. Hands full, she shuffled out of the dish room and behind the bar, depositing the rack atop an empty keg.

  She took a moment to take her waist-length hair down and restore it to the usual neat bun. There were a few patrons playing pool or hanging out at tables, but none sitting at the bar.

  Fine by Vi. She had things to do.

  She grabbed a clean towel and started polishing the glasses, putting them away in the low boy cooler beneath the bar. Glasses on one side, domestic bottles on the other.

  Neat and clean and organized, the way she liked it.

  Well… at least the coolers were organized. Snake’s bar was a bunch of peeling laminate wood on one wall, surrounded by an ocean of pool tables. Everything but the bar and the tables was painted pitch black.

  There were no windows, and no decor to speak of unless you counted a big mirror behind the bar, or a hundred-odd dusty bottles of flavored vodka.

  The mirror wasn’t even there to class the place up, it just gave the bartenders a way to monitor the whole place while their backs were turned from the room.

  Don’t get me started on the whipped cream vodkas, either… she sighed to herself. This is a bar where guys come to be alone. Who thought flavored vodkas were a good idea?

  Then again, since this bar was undoubtedly connected to the Russians, it was probably some kind of handshake deal. Fell off the back of the truck, that kind of thing.

  Snake’s wasn’t the nicest joint she’d kept bar at, but it worked. Especially if she kept herself covered up, under wraps. Not too preppy, otherwise she looked thirteen instead of twenty-three.

  But not too messy or casual, either. She’d tried it, and it drew the worst kind of men, buzzing around her like flies to roadkill.

  Not pretty.

  Speaking of… she thought as she looked up.

  One of her regulars was standing at the bar, staring at her with slightly unfocused eyes. Carl had a potbelly, a perpetual blanket of body odor, and a nose so crooked it could been the mayor of Chicago. Sadly, none of that ever stopped him from trying to flirt.

  “You shoulda let me carry them glasses for you,” Carl said.

  Vi glanced at him, but avoided making direct eye contact with his bloodshot gaze.

  “Nah,” she said. “Then what would I do for a job?”

  Carl guffawed, though her comment hadn’t been a joke. Or not a funny one, anyway.

  “You know, Vi…” he said.

  “You need another beer?” she asked, nodding at the empty pint glass he clutched in his grubby hands.

  “I… well, yeah…” he said, shaking his head. “I was tryna say—”

  Carl glanced up at the mirror behind her, trailing off. Vi didn’t have to ask why; three younger guys walked in, all business.

  The three settled themselves at one end of the bar, farthest from the door.

  Nothing new here, Vi thought, repressing an eye roll.

  “Same as always, right?” she said, plucking the too-warm glass from Carl’s grasp.

  “Ayup,” he said, dropping his head.

  Clearly Carl didn’t want to draw the attention of the three younger guys.

  Vi got Carl’s reasoning, beyond a doubt. She poured him a fresh beer from the bar’s only tap and sent him shambling back to the dark corner table he preferred.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, moving over to them.

  Three guys in their late twenties, all with buzzed hair. Two dark-haired, one lighter. For the first month they patronized Snake’s, she’d just called them The Soldiers in her head.

  “Dec,” she said, nodding to the first of the three.

  Dark hair, reddish beard, friendly chocolate eyes. Also, the only one who ever talked to her. To his right was Cor or Cory; she wasn’t exactly sure, though they’d been her regular customers for months. Dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, beautiful blue eyes that screamed tragic past.

  And then, all the way at the end was… Callum.

  She flushed, not even glancing at him. She didn’t have to, after all. His dark blond hair, bright green eyes, and amazing physique were featured in her damned dreams far too often.

  Not to mention her fantasies…

  “What’ll it be?” Dec said to the other two.

  Dead silence. Vi busied herself pulling out three chilled glasses. She risked a glance up, and found all three men staring at her. Dec just looked kind of thoughtful, and Cor looked… intense, bordering on scary murderer.

  Callum, though… she swore she saw his lips lift for a second, his eyes light… just a little.

  Remembering, perhaps, exactly what she looked like without a scrap of clothing?

  The cries that poured from her throat as she rode him, brazen and wild? The taste of sweet whisky on her lips as she’d kissed him just before she fell asleep?

  And then woke up alone, she reminded herself, trying not to turn totally red.

  “So… tap okay?” she managed to ask Dec, who shrugged.

  “Sure.”

  She turned to fill their glasses, feeling like a silly schoolgirl.

  It was one night, one silly mistake. He’d stayed past last call, long after Dec and Cor left. Sipping his beer, watching her with those emerald eyes.

  Vi didn’t have one-night stands. She didn’t sleep with anyone, actually. She kept to herself, kept her head down. But that night the bar had been so packed, and she’d gotten her ass kicked. At the end of it, once the money was in the safe and the other patrons were gone…

  When Callum asked for a shot of Maker’s on the rocks, it sounded too good to resist.

  So Vi had poured them both a shot, sat down next to him, and they’d quietly watched each other drink.

  Not ten minutes after she sat down, they were upstairs in her cramped two-room apartment, ripping the clothes off each other. Callum was smooth as hell, for all that he was a stranger.

  And in bed… damn. Vi had never done anything like that, never been so wild.

  Or been with a guy so… big, someone who knew how to use his assets the way Callum did.

  So what if he was gone in the morning? she thought for the thousandth time.

  Carefully juggling all three beers, she turned around and set them before each man, belatedly remembering coasters.

  “Cool,” she said. “Enjoy, guys.”

  Dec lifted his beer and gave her a nod. The other two stared at her like they weren’t sure if they wanted to bang her or kill her, so she hurried off to the other end of the bar.

  “Real nice, the pair of you,” she heard Dec say before she was out of earshot.

  A few other customers came up for refills at once, and then she had to change the keg out. Her least favorite duty, since she was only five-foot-four and the keg weighed almost what she did.

  Still, she always wrestled the new kegs into place with a steely kind of determination. She didn’t want to look weak. Not to the customers at Snake’s, not to anybody.

  Head hard as a damn rock, her father would have said.

  Gritting her teeth, she shoved the keg into place and hooked up the lines, then poured a couple beers to siphon off the foam. Sighing, she brushed back that same lock of hair that kept escaping her bun.

  Old Tom came up to the bar. He was a cantankerous old coot, friends with the absentee owners of Snake’s. That meant he drank cheap and sometimes gave Vi a hand if she needed it.

  “Hey,” she said as she refilled Old Tom’s beer. “Do you think you can watch bar for like… three minutes? I’ve been standing up for nine hours, I need to take a break.”

  Old Tom gave
her a look, his wild white eyebrows rising. “How long?”

  “Five minutes, max,” she said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her off. “Go on.”

  “Thanks,” she said, ignoring his mumbled complaints about the appropriateness of women working in bars.

  She tried not to look at the three men as she stopped at the beer cooler for a bottle of water. Really, she did.

  Only, Dec’s hand tattoos caught her eye. He was gesturing, palms hovering over the bar, and she managed to finally read the markings. She’d been trying to decipher them for ages, and curiosity got the better of her now.

  Black, written in a fine script on his left hand. On the right, Saints.

  Black Saints, she thought. It must be the name of their crew. Well, if you wanted to know whether they were officially mobbed up… there’s your sign, Vi.

  She caught Callum's gaze for the briefest moment as she straightened. His gaze narrowed, as if he might say something. But he didn’t, and the moment passed.

  Vi half-ran out the back hallway, deciding to spend her precious minutes outside. Fresh air, stars…

  She pushed into the back alley and rolled her eyes at herself. Glamorous, it was not.

  It was also cold, something she hadn’t considered before coming out here in nothing but jeans and a long-sleeved tee. She rubbed her arms briskly, wishing she’d thought to bring a jacket out with her.

  The alley backed up to the patio of a coffee shop on the other side. Since it was after nine p.m., almost ten, the shop was closed. Their patio had a little cinder block wall to divide it from the alley, and that’s where Vi perched.

  “Ahhhh,” she groaned aloud as she sat down.

  Her feet hurt. She worked five or six days a week, depending on whether the owners showed for the Monday and Tuesday shifts. Shifts were from noon ‘til close, and close was whenever the place emptied out. Sometimes eight p.m., or sometimes two in the morning.

  Friday nights like this, the bar busy with steady customers, she’d be lucky to close by one a.m. At least she’d make some cash, which was always welcome.