Hard Up: A Military Mafia Romance Read online

  “Well, I haven’t always been a bartender slumming it in Savannah,” she said, spending a moment plucking various bandages and supplies from the kit.

  “Explains some things.”

  She arched a brow. “You’re dogging on my bartending skills right now? Really? I just killed a man for you.”

  Callum went silent, looking away. She’d been joking, attempting levity, but she was completely fucking right. She had saved his life, no question about it.

  “Let’s see the damage first, okay?” she said, changing the subject. “I’m going to help you get your shirt off.”

  Callum straightened and slowly raised his arms. Vi stripped his t-shirt up over his head as fast as she could, but he couldn’t hold in the low sound of agony that escaped his throat.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Vi said, her big blue eyes flashing with remorse.

  “S’okay,” Callum mumbled. “Do you have anything up here to drink?”

  “Ummm, yeah…” she said, turning and moving to open a shoddy white cabinet door.

  Even wounded, he couldn’t help but check out her ass when she reached up to grab a dusty bottle from the shelf. He closed his eyes, knowing that the last thing his body needed right now was all his blood flowing straight to his cock.

  And unfortunately, that was what Viola always seemed to do to him.

  “Just Johnny Walker, looks like. And no glasses,” she said, turning with a shrug.

  “Don’t care,” he said, reaching out for the bottle.

  He unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle with his good arm, slugging back a shot. He regarded the label, noticed it was high-end stuff.

  “Fancy whisky.”

  Viola didn’t respond, just leaned closer to examine the wound in his shoulder. “This one’s just a graze.”

  Meaning, the bullet hadn’t actually pierced him.

  “The one on my hip is the same,” he said. “Guess I got lucky.”

  “Hold on,” she said, heading for the back of the apartment again. When she came back, she offered him two fat white pills.

  “Vicodin?”

  “Take them both. Have another shot. I’m going to clean your shoulder aggressively.”

  “And my hip?” he asked.

  Her face colored. “You’ll have to take your pants off.”

  Callum couldn’t quite repress a smirk as he took a second shot of Johnny Walker, then set the bottle aside.

  “Ready?” she asked, her hands hovering above his shoulder.

  He nodded, gripping the tops of his thighs. Viola pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then liberally doused his shoulder with antiseptic.

  “Fuck!” Callum groaned, tightening his grip on his knees.

  “Sorry,” Viola said. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

  He glanced down and saw that the wound looked like a really bad cut more than anything.

  She used wads of sterile gauze to gently dry his shoulder, then produced something that looked like a thick piece of clear tape.

  “Butterfly bandage,” she said. “I’m going to have to pinch the wound closed, though.”

  “Just do it,” Callum said.

  She was quick, he’d give her that much. She pinched and taped the laceration, ignoring his grunt of pain.

  “See?” she said as she wrapped a bandage around his arm. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

  Callum just gave her a look.

  “Okay. Let’s get your pants undone,” she said, wasting no time.

  “Not the context I’d hoped,” he said, sliding off the counter and unzipping.

  He only had to slide his pants down a couple of inches to reveal the spot where the bullet had grazed his flesh. Viola went red as a tomato, but she just knelt at his feet, repeating her gauze and antiseptic treatment.

  His window to enjoy the sight of Viola on her knees was all too brief. The second she touched him, he was in the purest agony.

  It took everything Callum had to stay still and silent as she butterflied the wound on his hip. He actually felt faint for a moment, reaching out to steady himself on the counter ledge.

  “Whoa,” Viola said, standing up. “Let’s get you horizontal.”

  She got her arm around his waist and helped him hobble to her cramped bedroom. The bedroom, he remembered a little more than the kitchen. The surprisingly nice silk sheets, the dark wood headboard, the closet full of colorful clothes.

  He sat on the bed, his movements ginger as he stripped off his bloodied jeans, leaving him in his boxer briefs. He could feel Viola’s gaze on him as he lied down on her bed, though he couldn’t tell if she was checking him out or making sure he didn’t bleed on her sheets.

  As he lied back, he felt the painkillers start to kick in. His vision went a little fuzzy around the edges, and the throbbing in his hip and shoulder receded to a mild buzz.

  He must have drifted off, because when he opened his eyes a few minutes later he saw Viola standing at the kitchen sink, head bowed. Her shoulders rose and fell a few times before he realized that she was crying.

  Too stoned to do anything, much less comfort a girl he barely knew, he closed his eyes and let himself succumb to darkness once more.

  In the back of his mind, the echo of a question.

  Why did she save my life?

  5

  Callum dreamed of his time in JAG court, back before he was discharged from the SEALs.

  Specifically, he dreamed of the way he’d felt as he listened to the charges leveled against him and his two closest friends. Listening to strangers give evidence against him, baldly lying about the incident.

  The incident, that was how the Navy court referred to the ambush and murder of half a dozen SEALs during a high-risk rescue operation on the outskirts of Walakan, Afghanistan.

  When the dust settled and the bullets stopped flying, Callum and Dec and Cor were the only ones left standing. They’d walked out of the slaughter suspiciously unharmed, not a scratch on any of them.

  A little too suspicious for the Navy’s liking.

  Made sense, because it was a stone-cold setup. Someone had gotten the drop on Callum's team, then left the Black Saints standing to take the blame.

  Only… it hadn’t quite gone down like that.

  Callum's bastard of a father, notorious Irish mob boss Seamus Connor, had prevented Callum, Cormac, and Declan from seeing a day on the inside. Bribery, coercion, violence — Callum still didn’t know how Seamus had swayed the judge.

  In fact, he didn’t know much during the court martial, other than the fact that he received a note from his father, through his appointed lawyer. The note simply said to sit tight, that the matter would be resolved.

  Whatever that meant.

  Callum had been forced to sit silently and listen to that shark of a prosecutor accuse him of conspiracy, treason, and murder. All the while, Callum had just glared at the prosecutor in his crisp dress whites, wondering whether the man had ever seen a single day of action.

  Callum was willing to bet that he hadn’t. Hell, the attorney was only a handful of years older than Callum's twenty-seven years. Smarmy and self-important, two features that Callum never could respect in a man.

  In his dream, he remembered the way the prosecutor had smirked over his shoulder every time he presented a piece of damning evidence. Callum sat in his chair, his body locked up and tense but unable to move, heart pounding as he listened to the bastard spout lie after lie.

  In real life, the handing down of the verdict had been so quick, Callum had blinked and nearly missed it. The judge pronounced them guilty, sentenced them to ten years in the brig.

  In the dream though, the judge sprouted horns, growing bigger and taller until his black robes threatened to blot out the sun. He snarled, banging his gavel; it sounded like the crack of thunder right before a downpour.

  “GUILTY!!!” the judge howled, pointing at Callum.

  “No, no—” Callum tried to say, but men in white Navy uniforms closed in around him, trying to trap him, hold him down—

  “Callum!”

  Callum's eyes flew open. He was nose to nose with Viola, gripping her wrists as he pinned her against the bed.

  “The fuck?” he said, releasing her and rolling away. The pain of his injuries resurged, making him instantly regretful that he’d moved onto his side. “Damn.”

  “Jesus,” Viola said, scrambling up from the bed.

  Her long blonde hair was tousled, and she wore nothing but a pair of skimpy cotton shorts and a thin tank top. He had a split second to scope out the creamy bare skin on her thighs and chest before he realized she was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

  “What happened?” Callum asked. His throat felt unbearably dry, his eyes gritty as sandpaper.

  “I tried to wake you up and you grabbed me,” she said, and frowned.

  “Old habits die hard,” he said, slowly sitting up with a grimace. “But, sorry.”

  “Well, I would leave you to sleep, but… there’s nowhere for me to go,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the size of her apartment.

  “You could’ve just got in bed with me,” he said, raising a brow. “It’s not like it would be the first time.”

  Viola glanced away, cheeks pink. “Yeah, well. There’s a first and last time for everything.”

  He wasn’t sure if she meant fucking him, or having a one-night stand. Honestly, he didn’t much care.

  “Where’s my phone?” he asked, rubbing his face. “Where are my jeans? I need to check in with…”

  He trailed off, not wanting to name any names in front of her. Dumb, because she knew Cor and Dec, and probably knew the name of their crew, too.

  Still, better safe than sorry. The less she knew, the less she could tell someone else… and that prot
ected her and Callum both.

  She turned around, searching the floor. She bent over, giving him a great view of her ass; he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing panties under those tiny shorts.

  When she stood and tossed his phone over to him, he caught it. Checking the screen, he saw he had about thirty missed calls and texts, mostly from Dec.

  WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???

  CALL ME

  He checked the time, saw that it was very early morning. He decided to text Dec rather than call, opting for a simple: Shot. Safe. Lying low. Call tomorrow.

  “Do you want some more Vicodin?” Viola asked him, leaning against the door frame.

  “Nah, I don’t like that shit.”

  “Bad dreams, huh?”

  She had no idea. He watched her for a moment, but didn’t respond. She fidgeted.

  “What do we do next?” she asked.

  The dreaded question, and him with no answer to give her.

  “I need to sleep a few more hours, then we gotta split.” He leaned back on the bed, noticing that the bed smelled like her, a hint of vanilla and spice.

  “Split up?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

  “No, like… leave here,” he said, closing his eyes. “Let’s talk about it when I wake up, okay?”

  He heard her footsteps recede, though he had no idea where she would go. He could cross the entire apartment at twenty paces.

  He lied on his back, more than ready to return to sleep.

  Instead, her question hung in his mind.

  What do we do next?

  There was no simple answer. Viola, in the heroic act of saving his life, had put herself in danger. He wasn’t exactly sure who’d sent the hitter to take out the Black Saints, but he had a few guesses.

  Valetti. O’Roarke. Ivanov.

  All of the names that came to mind were mob bosses, and none of them were guys you wanted hunting you down.

  All guys a lot like the Black Saints. In the span of a year, Callum had gone from dedicated spec ops soldier to mob soldier. From saving lives and fighting for freedom, to a life of violent crime as a mercenary owned by the Cúram — the Boston faction of the Irish mafia.

  He’d done worse in the service of the mob than he ever had in the military. Worse than the clown who’d shot him yesterday, even.

  He did his best to keep a kind of moral code, rising above the guys slinging heroin and coke. The guys who beat up their stripper girlfriends, cheated on their pretty trophy wives, laid the smackdown on broke guys in debt up to their eyeballs…

  Callum wasn’t like those guys. Or least, he tried not to be. He only hurt people when he had no other choice, and he never went after their families. Lucky for Callum, being a 6’5” ex-SEAL and showing up with two other big motherfuckers at his back…

  That was usually enough to make anyone bow down and submit.

  Usually.

  Now that the Black Saints had been promoted from foot soldiers to run their own territory…

  Maybe promoted wasn’t the right word. They’d been sent from Boston to Savannah, given the sleepy Southern city as their post. As a vital artery in the flow of cocaine and guns from Miami to New York, Savannah was important to the Cúram.

  And when the drop houses they used to store and smuggle contraband started getting robbed — the first thing the head of the Cúram did was send his three best mercenaries to handle things. If they succeeded, they’d prove their worth. If they failed…

  Well, then at least none of the Cúram’s made men died in the effort.

  How far I’ve fallen, Callum thought to himself. In just a year’s time… SEAL to ruthless killer. Following in my father’s footsteps, the very thing I joined the military to avoid…

  He forced the thought from his mind, focusing instead on his breathing. In… out… slow and steady…

  A little trick from his time in the service. Worked like a charm, every time. Before he knew it, the darkness was pulling him down again…

  6

  Vi woke from a light doze, startling enough to almost tip over the hard wooden chair she’d leaned up between the counter and the front door.

  “Morning,” Callum said, standing a handful of feet away in all his shirtless glory.

  And damn, was he ever glorious. A shiver slid down her spine as she examined him, six and a half feet of taut, tanned muscle.

  Then there was the smirk on his face. Like he knew just what she was thinking.

  Jerk.

  “Um, hey,” she said, dragging a hand through her unruly hair as she struggled to her feet, still half-asleep.

  Callum turned toward the bedroom, giving her his back. Vi had the unique experience of watching a drop of water roll from his tousled dark hair down his neck, then snake its way down the valleys of his shoulder.

  How did a guy even get shoulders that well-defined? Not to mention his abs…

  Quit being a perv, she told herself.

  She followed him to the bedroom, watched him pull on his jeans. He didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious, not even with her silently watching him.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  He shot her a glance, wincing as he pulled his bloody t-shirt over his head.

  “I appreciate what you did yesterday,” he said. “It was stupid, but… I appreciate it.”

  Not quite the level of gratitude she’d hoped for, but… okay.

  “I did what needed to be done,” she said, noncommittal.

  “You shot a high-level enforcer in the Italian mafia. You killed an officer. You’re lucky you aren’t dead, honestly.”

  “Italian?” she asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

  Inside she was thinking, no no no!

  “Yeah. And if anyone figures out that you were the shooter, you’re dead as a fucking doornail.”

  Vi bit her lip, thinking about the moment before they stepped back into the bar from the parking lot. The guy in the dark track jacket, a few hundred yards away.

  He’d run as soon as she spotted him, but… a witness was a witness.

  “Someone saw me,” she admitted.

  Callum glanced up at her, startled. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Some white guy, dark jacket. Never seen him before.”

  “And you’re just thinking to mention this now?” he demanded to know.

  “Well, I was kind of busy locking doors and getting you patched up,” Vi snapped.

  Callum's expression was stony. “Fuck.”

  “You think it’s a problem?” she asked.

  “On the slight, slight chance that he’s not mobbed up, someone will get to him and ask him questions.”

  Her heart dropped. “Well… fuck.”

  “I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Stay here, okay?”

  Vi nodded as he brushed past her, limping toward the front door. He went out, closing it behind him, but she could still hear the rough timbre of his voice from the stairwell.

  She was dying of curiosity, wondering what his super secret phone call might be. He raised his voice several times, but the stairwell echoed and masked his words all too well.

  After a moment, he came stomping back up the stairs, looking angry.

  “Get some things together,” he ordered. “Anything you can’t live without for a couple weeks.”

  “A couple weeks?” she echoed, put off.

  His glare discouraged her from further disagreement.

  She changed first, hiding in her closet while she pulled on jeans and a tank top, her comfy blue Converse shoes. Then she went to the closet and pulled out a Chanel suitcase and a Longchamp bag, and hurriedly packed everything that would fit in them.

  She took special care to pack her medical books, things leftover from college. Then she looked around, looking to see what was missing.

  “Crap, I need toiletries,” she muttered, pulling a couple things out in order to wedge her makeup bag and bathroom necessities inside.

  Last but not least, she pulled a fat stack of cash out from under her mattress, careful not to let Callum see it. She wedged that and a couple of fake IDs into the bottom of her bag, then zipped it up.

  “Jesus, what the hell did you pack?” he said, coming in from the kitchen to cast a disparaging eye over her bulging bags.

  “You said two weeks!” she said, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

  “Chanel, huh?” he said, fingering the tag on his suitcase. “This real?”