Page 3 of Ruthless King
CHAPTER2
CAZZO, WE’RE SCREWED
Stella
Bo spins at the stranger, fury roiling off his slender, muscled form. “Mind your own fucking business,” he spits.
I try to catch a glimpse of the man, but Bo’s long legs block my view. The only thing I can make out are a pair of expensive looking loafers. The flickering fluorescent light catches on the hardware atop the soft leather and the interlocking G’s. Growing up a block away from China Town and the myriad of knock-off purses lining the streets, I’d recognize that Gucci logo anywhere. And this one looks legit.
“You are my business. Anyone who treats a woman like that deserves my full attention,” the stranger says, his tone chilling a few more notches around a distinctive Italian accent.
Bo turns to him and finally releases the iron grip on my hair. Rubbing my scalp, I crawl toward my backpack.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” Bo growls as he stalks toward the man.
I hazard another peek, but the guy’s wearing a black baseball cap and a dark trench coat, obscuring his features. He’s built like a freakin’ Greek god with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Even the oversized coat can’t hide that.
The ground begins to rumble, and the familiar sound of the approaching subway sends my heart leaping up my throat. I eye my textbook one more time before resigning myself to the loss. I’ll figure something out.
The subway races into the station, and I hazard another peek at Bo and Gucci guy. My ex still blocks him, but the man is tall, towering over him by a few inches. The sudden crunch of bone against bone freezes the blood in my veins. Bo’s head snaps back, and a curse rings out over the rumbling subway.Holy cannoli. I’m torn between the fight and my getaway, my eyes bouncing back and forth between the men and the subway car. The doors glide open, and I only dawdle for an instant. Bo’s going to be pissed. And I can’t count on my Italian knight in shining armor to rescue me again. I dart inside, lingering by the doors as they slide closed.
The subway surges to life as my gaze remains fixed on my subway savior. He’s nothing but a blur as we speed away.
Once we’ve passed the station, I collapse into a seat and reach for my inhaler. Taking a quick puff, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Just a few more weeks, and all of this will be nothing more than a bad dream.
* * *
Jiggling the old knob on our apartment door, I mutter a curse when the overhead deadbolt blocks my entrance. “Dad!” I knock once, then twice, taking out my frustrations on the old timber. My professor called me out when I told him I’d accidentally dropped my textbook on the tracks. He was a total douche. Like it would’ve killed him to let me photocopy a few pages from his. I’d already studied for most of the Econ final. I only needed a few more chapters.
Deal with it, he’d said.
“Open the door, Dad!” I shout.
“Stop yelling, I’m coming.” My father’s voice seeps through the cracks, and I wrap my arms across my chest, still stewing. Somehow, I’d managed to avoid Bo on my way home. He was probably nursing a shiner. That guy had gotten him good. Wish I would’ve had a front row view of the smackdown. I couldn’t help a smile from curling my lips as I picture it.
The door finally whips open and Liam McKenzie stares down at me, eyes bloodshot and wisps of graying hair darting in all directions. “Good, you’re home. I’m hungry.” A wave of whiskey breath crashes over me as each word flees his lips.
“Cazzo, Dad, it’s only one o’clock. How much did you drink already?”
He glares at me, the haze of alcohol lifting. “Don’t use that foul language with me.”
“Italian?” I smirk.
A sharp sting sears my cheek, and my neck snaps back. I mutter another curse, this one in English so I’m sure he understands it. Hot tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall, to give him the satisfaction. He’s been trying to break me for years. My best friend, Rose, the aspiring therapist says it’s because he wants me to be as miserable as him. No, I’ll never let it happen. I’ll cry in the quiet of my room later, over a pint of ice cream like a respectable girl.
“Sorry,” he grumbles and folds his hands behind his back. He’s not always a total asshole. He just gets worse with the booze. And he just lost his job at the bowling alley so that’s been shit. “I’m just on edge ….”
“I know, Dad.” I cup my bruised cheek and attempt a cheerful smile. “I’m sure you’ll find another job soon.” I cross my fingers and pray to St. Anthony. He’s the saint of finding all things so how hard could it be to find my dad a semi-decent job? Mom was a hardcore believer in good old St. Anthony, one of the few remnants of her deeply Catholic upbringing. I wish I had her faith, but after all the loss, believing in some benevolent higher power seems like a joke.
I march into our crappy living room and toss my backpack on the plastic-covered couch. Which is ridiculous. There is nothing worthwhile under that plastic left to protect.
“You think you can run down to the corner store to grab some cold cuts and bread? It’ll help with the um….”
Hangover. He’s probably been drinking since he woke up. I turn on the sink and fill a chipped glass with cool water. “Here, take this.”
“I’d go out myself but—” He drags his knotted fingers through his thinning hair.
“But what?”
