NERO: Alliance Series Book One

“Take care of it,” I snap.

“I just wasn’t sure—”

When my second-in-command, Rocco, starts to make an excuse, I lose my patience. “I said, take care of it. Have the men get the money from him now. Or take limbs as payment. I don’t give a fuck which.”

I hang up before I become more pissed off.

My men are loyal. They have to be. Sometimes I want to slit their throats. But King and I can’t do it all on our own––we’ve tried, right after we destroyed the previous regime––it’s just simply too much work to run a criminal empire without cannon fodder.

Striding into my bedroom, I kick the door shut behind me.

I don’t lock it. I don’t need to. No one would dare walk in.

Leaving a trail of clothes as I go, I strip my way into the bathroom.

Peeling off my socks, the black marble floors are cool on my bare feet.

The black-on-black design in my suite of rooms is cliché. The classic mobster aesthetic. But black is fitting, as it matches my cold dead heart.

I keep the lights dimmed in here. Not needing a bright reflection of all my scars, I stand in front of the mirror, and I take them in. The slashes of raised skin up and down my ribs, the circular rise of flesh low on my abdomen, and the matching round marks on the front and back of my thigh are still visible even now.

They tell my story. One of torment, survival and violence.

My tale is not a pretty one. But it is mine. And so far, the plot has sided in my favor. I’ve lived when so many others haven’t.

Still, my luck won’t last forever.

It never does for men like me.

And that’s exactly why I need to forget Payton. Why I need to pretend she doesn’t exist. Why I need to delete every shred of information I’ve collected on her and let her live out her own differently-miserable existence.

Turning from the mirror, I don’t bother looking over my shoulder at the canvas of memories etched onto my back, as I stride into the shower.

With my face tilted back, I turn the handle and the cold spray pours over me, shocking me back into the present.

My muscles start to unclench as the water slowly warms.

I need to focus on what’s important. And that’s the same thing it’s always been. Surviving.

When King and I made our move all those years ago, we knew exactly what it meant.

It meant freedom from the shackles of servitude. It meant retribution against those who stole our futures away from us.

But we aren’t good men. Not King, and especially not me. Because more than anything, it meant vengeance. And we took our pound of flesh.

A dark sort of glee fills my chest.

We took more than a pound.

We took it all.

The sewers ran red that night.

The night we cut down the Russians and the Irish, we had an option. For the first time in so many years, we actually had an option. We could leave this life and walk away. Try to find some sense of normalcy. Or we could take control of the territory and build our own legacy.

A quiet life was a nice daydream. But the first time I killed a man, I knew there’d be no going back. So, we climbed the mountain of bodies, their slit throats making the path slick and treacherous; and we formed our own destinies.

We formed The Alliance.

Heavy with memories, my head tips forward.

Steaming water cascades through my hair. The warm after the cold making me appreciate it even more.

It’s easy to get used to luxury. Easier yet to get swept up in the feeling of invincibility.

As if to remind myself that I’m human, my hand reaches down to trace the gunshot scar on my stomach. It’s the closest I’ve ever come. Even with the beatings, the cold nights, the starved days, that little piece of metal was the closest I ever came to death.

There’ve been times I wish it would’ve taken me. Done me in. But I still have moments I’m glad I’m alive.

Like last night.

My eyes slowly open, locking on the small, stolen bottle on the shelf in my shower.

I shouldn’t have taken it. But shouldn’t have never stopped me before. And, I blow out a breath, it’s not gonna stop me now.

Bending, I scoop up the bottle, pop the lid open and inhale the scent of roses.

It’s floral, but it’s not light. Not girly or carefree. It’s… dark.

I breathe it in again, and my mind is filled with her.

Payton.

Her pale skin. Her scared eyes.

My breathing picks up.

The fear in her eyes shouldn’t excite me.

I want to protect her.

I want to walk away so she doesn’t get hurt.

But her eyes… those goddamn eyes. The flecks of midnight in those blue orbs.

When I woke her from that nightmare, she stared up at me like I might save her. Like I was something other than the boogeyman lurking in the shadows. Like maybe I could be more.

And the moment her fingers curled around my forearm…

I groan, and my dick reacts the same way it did in that moment, hardening to its full length.

“Fuck.” I bite out the word even as I tip the bottle over and fill my palm with her body wash. The red liquid glistening in the dim light.

Setting the bottle down, I brace my free hand on the marble wall and lower the other.

You’re a sick fuck.

But even my inner hatred can’t stop me now.

My palm connects with my cock, and I let the rose scent engulf my senses.

“Jesus,” I hiss, as I tighten my grip. The body wash making my cock slippery.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tighten my grip on my dick and begin to stroke. Only instead of my hand, I imagine it’s Payton’s sweet hot cunt hugging my dick. Her slickness, her need for me, removing the friction.

Pumping my hips, I fuck my fist and I pretend I’m hovering over her.

Pretend it’s her eyes blinking up at me. A mix of fear and hero-worship looking back at me, tightening my balls.

I think about the way her tits would bounce as I slammed into her. Our hips connecting, jolting her body.

Her soft curves writhing underneath me. Trying to get away, yet trying to pull me in deeper.

She’d probably cry out.

My fingers squeeze harder.

She’d probably scream. Her previous lovers not as endowed as me. Not as ruthless. Not as cruel.

My hips thrust faster.

I bet she’d suck me so good.

Those pouty lips. Those full cheeks.

That Sweet Girl could take me.

She could swallow my cock.

A groan rolls up my throat.

Or she’d do her best and gag trying.

My balls tighten.

Her throat would constrict around me. Her eyes would stare up at me. Tears rolling down her cheeks, fear in her expression, wondering if I’ll let her breathe.

If I’ll give her a break or if I’ll shove my dick all the way down––

My cock jumps, my orgasm tearing through me, as I splash my release across the wall.