Broken Rules: (Broken Duet #1)

“I’ve got him,” Spades says when the hands-free system activates. “He’s in Amber. Can I fuck him up? Pretty please.”

He’s been chasing junkies all day long, searching for Cannon and his friend, whatever his fucking stupid nickname is. A few years back, Cannon owned the best brothel in the city. He was engaged to a supermodel and surrounded himself with rich, famous friends. Back then, we did business daily.

Until he slipped.

He fell for the it’s-just-this-once nonsense. It’s never just this once. Once you cave, you’re doomed.

Cannon started with LSD but soon became addicted to everything he could get his hands on. His girl left, friends turned their backs on him, the brothel went bust, and Cannon fell through the cracks.

I glance at the clock, gripping the steering wheel harder. I promised Layla I’d pick her up at eight, twenty minutes from now, but getting my hands on Cannon takes priority this time.

“Don’t touch him. He’s mine.” I make a sharp U-turn. Incoming drivers flash their lights, veering to the side, barely avoiding a collision.

“I’m coming to watch. I’ll be there in fifteen.” Spades cuts the call before I get a word in.

I step on the gas, dialing Rookie’s number. “Spades found Cannon.” I maneuver around the slow traffic. “Pick Layla up at eight and take her to my house.”

“Sure, I’ll leave now.”

I stopped throwing my fists around four years ago once it got too tiring. I never enjoyed sporting bruised knuckles, so I appointed three guys to do the deeds: Cai, Luca, and Jackson. They’re my main boxers, but I won’t sit back while they beat the ever-living shit out of the fuckers who touched my girl.

I turn left, burning down the street where Amber is, the go-to place of all the junkies and degenerates—one of the leading outlets for my product down south.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Spades smokes, leaning against his car. “I haven’t seen you land a punch in forever.”

“Take a good look tonight. It might be a while before you see me land another one.”

Cracking my knuckles, I get ready to unleash the fury, following Spades as he pushes the double doors with both hands, slamming them against the walls with a bang. The place reeks of stale beer, puke, and sweat. I’d never willingly walk in here if not for the prize lurking somewhere in the corner.

A cloud of smoke that looks almost blue—a mixture of crack, pot, and cigarettes—hangs in the air, illuminated by the bright fluorescent light. It has to be bright so the clientele can see their veins clearly. The bartender resembles a butcher from a low-budget horror movie. He lifts his head, but his eyes look in different directions. I’m unsure if he sees us until a scowl twists his tired, sweaty face. My presence doesn’t bode well for anyone. He rakes his hand through the long, greasy hair, returning his attention to the task at hand—polishing a beer glass with a filthy cloth.

Most guests sit at small tables, daydreaming or dozing off, oblivious to their surroundings. A few guys talk quietly while someone else is tripping on the dirty used-to-be-white floor. He might be dying, but no one gives a flying fuck.

A skin-on-bones woman with protruding cheekbones and cracked lips sits nearby in a dirty wifebeater, tightening a fast-release tourniquet belt around her arm, a syringe between crooked teeth.

I step around the bar with Spades close behind and step over the guy thrashing on the floor, frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies. Cannon sits at a large concrete table with four friends. They look alike—thin, sunken eyes and cheap, meaningless tattoos. Instead of salivating or daftly staring into the distance like everyone else, they’re ranting in raised voices.

“You want help, or will you be an egotistical bastard and fuck them up all by yourself?” Spades asks, still excited.

“Do you know which one was with Cannon last night?”

“Loki.” He points to a guy in a tattered black t-shirt.

“Make sure he stays where he is.” I walk over to the table, taking a seat beside Cannon. “Good evening.”

I’ve always been a little theatrical. I make a show, basking in my superiority, in the fear glimmering in the eyes of those who crossed me; their pleas like music to my ears when they beg for mercy.

Mercy that’s never granted.

Cannon jitters in his seat, pupils dilated, unfocused eyes jumping all over my face. Looks like he’s already had a few snorts of speed this evening. The evidence is there: a rolled-up one-dollar note and a few white lines on the table. “Dante, shit, Boss, what are you doing here?”

His companions follow his lead and sit up, trying to appear intimidating… it doesn’t fucking work.

“I’ve been told you tried to score with Frankie’s daughter last night.” My tone borders on casual, shoulders relaxed, giving the fucker a false sense of security before I release a bomb and watch him shit his pants.

Cannon sneers, showing off a row of crooked, yellow teeth, two missing at the top, two more turning black. “I knew you wouldn’t be pissed off! I told Luca that he should stay the fuck out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. You should have a word with him, boss. He ruined our night! Frankie would’ve had a hard time recognizing the bitch if Luca let us finish. I guarantee it.” He moves closer, the stench of his breath, like something old and rotten, fanning my face. “I’ll finish it off for you. Just say the word. I know where Frankie lives.” He looks at his friends, bouncing in the seat. “We’ll grab her and have some fun, right?”

Everyone nods, eager to please me because they know I’m the one who supplies their dealers with the product. One word from me, and no one will sell them shit.

“Yeah, just say the word, Boss,” Loki says. “I’ll fucking gut her like a fish for you.”

“You’re right,” I say, my tone calm as I eye Cannon. “I’m not pissed off. That’d be an understatement.”

Two creases dent his forehead, speckled with an angry, dry rash. “What do you mean? She’s Frank’s daughter, Dante! I was doing you a fucking favor, you ungrateful—”

“A favor? You touched my girl, bruised her, cut her, scared her, and you call that a fucking favor?!”

He retreats, his ashen skin turning paler, almost green. The realization of what will happen next petrifies him to the core. Rightly so. He jerks back, scooting away with the chair, but doesn’t get further away than a few inches. “Don’t do anything stupid! It was a misunderstanding, c’mon, I didn’t know! She’s all good, right? No harm done!”

Satisfied with his begging, I grip his neck, knocking his head against the concrete table in one swift motion.

Teeth fall out.

Blood splatters halfway across the table.

His jaw pops out of place.

Fuck, that must hurt. He screams, writhing and thrashing like a loose garden hose, but I hold him in place, pinned to the tabletop, so he won’t splatter my clothes with, most likely HIV-infected blood. Two others jump to their feet, starting toward me, hands balled into fists smaller than Layla’s. Cannon slides to the floor, covering his face when I let him go.

A foldable chair by the wall looks out of place, so I find it a new home, folding it across the face of the first guy approaching. His friend stops mid-step. Good for him.

It doesn’t pay to play the fucking hero.

“Dante, I didn’t touch her!” Loki raises his hands. “I didn’t do anything! He wanted to fuck her, but I didn’t touch her!”

Cannon lays on the floor, frantically trying to stop the nosebleed. His demented, howling whimpers worthy of a mental patient give me a headache, so I grip his neck and hit his head against the table again. He falls silent.

All the while, Loki is begging. I fucking love it when they cry, beg, and swear they won’t ever do anything to cross me again. I step forward, but he jumps on the chair and then onto the table like a circus monkey.

He thinks he’ll get away?

Good luck.

I don’t have time for this shitshow. I’m fucking late for my first date with Layla.

I grip Loki’s ankle, jerking him to the side. He dives, hitting the dirty floor head first. For a second, I think I broke his neck, but no. Not so lucky.

He rolls onto his back, arms folded across his face. “Please, stop. I swear I didn’t touch her!”

“You wanted to.” I yank him up by the collar of his t-shirt and smash his arm on the table, breaking both bones at once. “If I find out you so much as uttered her name, I’ll find you and kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Got it?”

“Never,” he squeals, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I swear, Dante! Never!”

“Good. Pass the message to Cannon when he wakes up.”

I turn around and march out of the building with Spades and his wide grin right by my side.

“That was fun.” He hands me a small towel and a bottle of water so I can clean the blood off my hands. “Better?”

“No.” I toss the towel back in the trunk, then light a cigarette. “Even if I killed them there, it wouldn’t turn back time.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “All day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if Luca wasn’t there.”

“But he was. Stop overthinking, Dante. Get back home. Layla’s waiting for you.” He pats me on the shoulder, his grin more prominent now. “I’ll see you two at ten tonight. I want to meet the girl. She’s doing you good.”

That she is. So fucking good… my little pissy, feisty Star.

Twenty minutes later, I watch my girl from the living room doorway. She hadn’t noticed me arrive, busy cleaning the mess she made behind the bar. Either a small bomb blew up, or Layla has two left hands. Ice cubes litter the counter among mint leaves, sugar, and spilled rum. She glances around with a deep frown. Failing to locate what she’s looking for, she picks the shards of used-to-be-a-glass with bare hands.

“Leave it,” I say, crossing the room. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“I’m sorry, I made myself at home a bit too much.”

A green dress hugs her petite body, highlighting her slim waist and the soft roundness of her hips. I grip her underarms and sit her on the countertop, away from the mess she made. I take a step closer, standing between her legs, dizzy when I have her this close.

Fear no longer taints her steel-gray eyes. She’s calm, and that’s how she should be all the fucking time.

“I missed you,” she whispers, tracing the contour of my jaw with delicate fingers.

I breathe out, relaxing under her touch, and move my hands to her thighs, caressing her soft, smooth skin. We have an equally overwhelming effect on each other. The electricity jumping between us, the longing, the pure lust is more than I ever expected to feel. I grip her jaw, closing her parted lips with mine, pouring my emotions into one forceful, greedy kiss. I dip my head to graze my lips along her neck and kiss away the goosebumps dotting her skin.

No other woman ever reacted to my touch the way Layla does. Like I’m all she craves, all she needs. Theory confirmed when she tilts her head, giving me better access to her neck. The sweet scent of her perfume envelopes my confused mind, soothing the anger that’s usually bubbling non-stop.

“Good girl.” I slide her dress off one shoulder, kissing along her collarbone. I’ve imagined this moment every day for two fucking weeks. “My girl.” I move my hands higher, climbing her thighs until my fingers disappear under the hem of the green dress.

Layla tenses, spine straight like a guitar string, but she doesn’t move away like I expect. She clings to me harder, clawing at my shoulders to hold me closer. This is not the first time she’s craved my touch, but it is the first time that I don’t mind.

My fingers sink firmly into her thighs and keep climbing, exploring every inch she’ll let me explore. I’m in for the wait of a lifetime before she’ll want sex, but I’m curious how much she’ll let me do.

Not much.

She turns rigid again when I touch the lace of her panties, my mind in turmoil once my fingers find a wet patch. She’s soaked… aroused… so warm. Her eyes fly when I stroke her pussy through the lace fabric, barely putting any pressure. An ugly grimace distorts her calm, gorgeous face before two small hands shove me away with more strength than I’d expect in her frail body.

I take an involuntary step back. Fear clouds her face rendering me temporarily insane. My throat constricts as if someone’s tying a rope around my neck, pulling harder and harder. Anger spreads like a malignancy when one thought hits me with the force of an avalanche…

I should’ve fucking killed Romeo.

By the look of her, reality blurs inside her head with the memories from last night. Her cheeks burn scarlet when she jumps off the bar, pressing the back of her trembling hand against her forehead. My hands shake, too, when I turn to pour myself a large, neat drink.

Layla walks away, curling into an almost fetal position on the couch, eyes focused on mint leaves drowning in her drink. She tries fishing them out with a straw as if her life depends on it.

I gulp half of my whiskey before I sit beside her, watching her face, so I won’t miss her reaction. “Baby… are you scared because you think I’ll hurt you or because you think I want to sleep with you tonight?”

“You don’t want to?”

“Of course, I do.” More than she’ll ever know. I’m holding myself back on the shortest leash, trying my best not to rush her, but I am a red-blooded man craving what’s mine. The image of her naked body writhing beneath me on my California King bed upstairs plagues me in my dreams. “I want to know if Romeo last night scared you so much that all you think about when I touch you is that I’ll hurt you.”

Her cheeks burn bright red, the color almost matching the Shelby in the corner, but she shakes her head. “He didn’t scare me that much. I know you won’t force me to do anything I don’t want.”

“That’s right.” I curl my fingers under her chin. “I will be your first, Layla. I’ll show you exactly how good sex can be. I’ll teach you every trick. You’ll learn how to meet my needs and demand I meet yours, but it won’t be today, tomorrow, or any time soon.” Giving up on her body until further notice is the last thing I want, but I can’t claim her virginity tonight. She has to trust me first.

“I don’t understand. You want to sleep with me, but you won’t? Why?”

I smirk, tugging her hand until she takes the hint and straddles me. “You’re the one who needs to want, baby. to want, you need to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“No. No, you don’t. Not yet. You want to trust me. You want to believe not everyone is trying to use you. I’ve got time, Star, but don’t push me away again. We won’t have sex until I know you’re ready, but I will be touching you. Everywhere. And I’ll be very possessive when I do so.”

Her red cheeks fade to light pink. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

“No need. I can read you. You tensed when I touched your hips. I wanted to know how much you’ll let me do before you say no. I just didn’t expect that you’ll panic.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight—”

“Don’t apologize for listening to your instincts.” I rest my hands on her hips. “And, get used to this because my hands will be here a lot. Just as much as here,” I squeeze her butt, “Also here.” I cup her face, closing her lips with mine. “And now…” I pat her butt. “I should grab a shower, Star. We need to be at the club in an hour.”

She moves away, and the pure joy dancing in her gray irises reminds me of her younger self. Back then, she looked at me just like this. As if I were her favorite person.

“Try not to demolish the house.”

“I’ll try.” She sips from her glass, then spits a mouthful back with a wince. “This is awful. Wine might be a better idea.”

Climbing the stairs, I yank my shirt off and stop when I hear Layla chasing after me. She catches up to me, one hand around my arm while the fingertips of the other brush the contours of my tattoos.

A few years ago, I spent countless hours at the studio. My back and arms are covered with Gustavo Dore’s illustrations for The Divine Comedy. My mother is a huge fan. She even gave me the author’s name. I read the book when I was old enough to understand it. When the time came for ink, there wasn’t anything else I could’ve chosen.

Layla draws a line down my spine, her touch featherlight but sensual enough to rekindle my desire. I spin around, grip her wrists, and pin her body against the wall, closing her mouth with mine. Her eyes sparkle when I pull back, careful not to get carried away. We’ll spend a lot of time making out if it’s making her this happy.

“Are you done?”

“No,” she says with a pout

“You might want to finish this another time.”

I leave her with a frown marking her forehead, and three minutes later, I lock myself in the bathroom upstairs, jumping under an ice-cold shower. I will probably need many more before I find release in Layla’s sweet pussy.

Fifteen minutes later, I load my Beretta 92 in the holster, draping a white shirt over my back, and get back downstairs, too fucking eager. Layla stands in front of a long mirror hanging out in the entryway, fixing her hair when I return downstairs.

“It won’t get better,” she mutters, smoothing out non-existent creases on her dress.

“It can’t get any better.”

She spins around, rolling her eyes. “If you had told me we were meeting your people’s girlfriends, I would’ve put on something nicer. A heads-up next time, please.”

“You look stunning, Star.”

“You’ll change your mind when I’m standing with the supermodels your men probably date.”

She’s not whining or fishing for compliments. She’s genuinely irritated that she won’t blend in. She’s right there. Too much fabric covers her body, and not enough jewelry adorns her neck for her to blend in with the other girls.

“If I wanted to date an overdressed Barbie from the cover of Vogue, I wouldn’t be dating you. This,” I run my finger down her arm, touching the green dress she wears, “Is exactly how you should look for me—modest but sexy. I didn’t like you yesterday in that slutty dress.”

“I didn’t like myself either.” She smooths the creases out of my shirt. “Allie chose that dress. Her taste is problematic.”

Allie, welcome to the black book of people I don’t fucking like.

Layla would’ve been safe at home last night if not for her. On the other hand, she wouldn’t have a reason to call me, and we wouldn’t be standing in my living room now. I’d choose not to have her over what she’s been through any day.

“While I remember. Allie was wondering if she could come to Delta sometime. Security doesn’t let her in.”

“You should’ve asked before you said who chose your dress last night. I’m sorry, Star, but she won’t get in. No one from Frank’s entourage ever will.” I glance at her parted lips and kiss her because… well, because I fucking can. “There’s one more thing that doesn’t suit you.” I pull a long pin out of her hair, letting the locks fall down her back, surrounding her round, doll-like face. That’s what she looked like when I first saw her, and that’s how she’s always supposed to be for me—sexy, sassy, innocent, mine.