LUCA_Her Ruthless Don Read online

  Unfortunately, Stone’s a package deal. And Rock must have skipped over the “Keep Your Fuckin’ Mouth Shut,” chapter of the bodyguard text because he’s still trying to get some back and forth going on this plan of mine. “I’m just saying, this is a lot of work to put into getting to one girl—wait there she is!”

  Rock doesn’t have to tell me that. I’ve already spotted her. She’s about a decade older, but even prettier than I remember. No longer a girl, but a woman with glowing hazel skin and a face like God pushed the Exquisite button before delivering her to earth. She wore her hair in a ponytail like a prison waitress back when I was in her father’s cage, but now it hangs all the way to her waist. So long and shiny brown that lyric about girls’ hair coming undone when Frank was twenty-one springs to mind.

  I’m twenty-seven now, and I started smashing long before my legal drinking years, but still… I swell inside my pants just looking at her. Like a boy. Like the kid I used to be before her father beat out the part of me that could still manage teenage crushes.

  And maybe Rock’s saying something else, but all my awareness stays centered on her as she walks past our car. I openly stare, since she doesn’t see me or anything else as she efficiently taps a black and pink mobility stick back and forth, making her way down 116th St.

  Walking as quickly as all these other NYC assholes, I think. But I gotta admit, I’m a little impressed by her total lack of hesitation as she heads towards the entrance portico of the law school’s main building. And the sound doesn’t come back on inside my head until she disappears around the corner.

  “Yeah, I know what he’s got planned, but she’s blind,” Rock’s saying to Stone. “Doesn’t that feel messed up—”

  “Her pop’s on Luc’s list,” Stone answers, shooting his brother a grave look.

  “Yeah, but—”

  I get out of the car, cutting off whatever oversensitive bullshit Rock’s about to say. Stone’s right. Fuck sympathy. Her dad’s still out there taunting me in both my sleeping and my waking dreams. This chick could be Helen Keller in a wheelchair with brain cancer on top, and I’d still come after her. As long as that fucking father of hers is living, I’m not going to rest. Not until I push a hundy down his throat, duct tape his mouth closed, and thank him for ten years of trauma with a bullet between the eyes.

  Plus, it’s taken me a fuck ton of time just to get to this point. Dad ordered me to let the shit with Romano and his crew go after the retaliatory round of slaughters. Said I lost a week, but the Romanos lost a whole regime in the battles that followed, Peretti’s capo and six of his fellow soldiers. He called me at boarding school to tell me it was over, even if that main Peretti fuck still hadn’t been found.

  But like hell it’s over. Dad doesn’t know about the daughter or my obsession with her. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t have a business degree like the one I’m getting, but fuck if that bottom line shit doesn’t come naturally to him. Far as he’s concerned, the embarrassment of his son getting kidnapped was a sunk cost. And he isn’t going to throw good money after bad, trying to hunt down the motherfucker who did it.

  But here’s what happens if I close my eyes for more than four to five hours… if I allow my mind to stop grinding for more than five minutes. I return right back to that basement, hanging by my wrists over a tarp as Peretti uses me as his punching bag. He knew exactly where to hit, so that I bled and broke, but not so bad that I wouldn’t survive to see the next day’s beating.

  I soon found out the tarp wasn’t there to keep the basement’s concrete floor free of my blood. It was there for my piss and my shit and my vomit—all the stuff that came out of me when he hit me just right. And he didn’t untie me until I’d done at least one. So that it felt like some kind of fucked up “Good boy” when he hosed me off, unchained me, then carried me over his shoulder back to my cell where I got to wait, helpless and broken until his radiant-as-the-fucking-sun daughter appeared with a plastic fork and a plate of pasta that would’ve made my nonna jump off the George Washington Bridge it tasted so good.

  Filling my eyes and my stomach with beauty until the next day when he came downstairs, did a full two-hour workout, ate breakfast with his daughter, then dragged me out of the cage to do it all again.

  No… my pop doesn’t get it. And he never will.

  But I couldn’t let it go, even after WITSEC disappeared Bella Peretti better than the average key witness. I purposefully built clout with payoffs to certain Feds. Made contacts of my own, who wouldn’t rat me out to Dad. That took most of the ten years between now and the week still ass-fucking my subconscious.

  But I did it. I found Danny’s hot-as-hell daughter, Bella, living out her anonymous life as a blind law student in New York. Now I just had to figure out how to get close to her. Because it ain’t enough just to use her to find her father. I want to beat Peretti the way he did me. When I put a bullet in his head, I want him to know I fucked his daughter. And as for his two sons, Danny Jr. and Nolan—they’re still alive, but just long enough for them to have kids of their own. Then I’ll coldly do the same thing to them that I did to their dad.

  Why? Because I’m old school Ferraro through and through. And maybe my dad decided to abandon our brutal family reputation after his father and brother caught life sentences for their bloody hands, but I haven’t. I don’t forget, and I don’t forgive. Ever. And that will eventually make me the most ruthless don the Ferraro family has ever had. Someone even the most savage enforcer wouldn’t dare to cross.

  So yeah, sorry, Rock, this girl ain’t getting a pass, I decide as I pull open the door to Greene Hall. My cousin thinks her do-gooder blind girl status makes her exempt from my revenge. It doesn’t. Today’s the day. After a few weeks of watching her from afar, it’s time to make my move.

  When I stroll into the Public Health Law seminar, just about all the girls and gays eye shift into ogle mode. A few of them try to pretend they’re not looking, keeping their faces turned toward their laptops and textbooks, even as their eyes follow me across the front of the auditorium-style lecture hall. But most of the girls watch my every step, faces open, hoping to catch my eye as I make my way up the carpeted steps.

  I’m used to it. It’s the same thing that always happens when I enter any space with people in it. Good hair and as Uncle Tonio used to say, “Face like one ’nuv them Renaissance fuckers painted it.” I’ve been getting stared at and flirted with since before my babymakers dropped. And usually, I use the attention to my advantage. True story—I ain’t touched a piece of homework since the 90’s.

  But today I’m only interested in one girl.

  “Hey, Amber, right?” I say, slipping into the empty seat beside her. This is the closest I’ve ever been to her, and my heart beats just as wild as it did the first time I saw her, even though she’s only a cog in my overarching revenge plan now. Somehow, I manage to keep my voice easy-breezy as I say, “Jake. Nice to meet you.”

  “That seat’s reserved,” she answers. And she doesn’t even turn her head in my direction like I’ve seen her deliberately do when she talks to the other students in the class.

  My brain trips, because I’ve been pretending to listen to the professor drone on while watching her for weeks now. And not once has anyone ever sat in the seat to the right of her.

  “You expecting somebody?” I ask.

  “It has to stay empty,” she answers, her gaze still pinned straight ahead. “Just in case I need assistance.”

  “Have you ever needed assistance?” Seeing the way she strode down 116th, I doubt that’s the case.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she answers, her voice cold as a New Jersey winter. “The chair’s supposed to stay empty.”

  “Okay,” I say, deciding not to argue with her. “I’ll move. But can I take you to lunch after class? I was thinking of trying to get an internship with the Legal Aid Society, and I heard you’ve got an in over at the Manhattan branch—”

  “Y
eah, email me, and I’ll send you the info.” Her voice remains clipped and flat, and she reaches for her backpack, like she’s already done with this conversation.

  “I was hoping to talk to you about the experience—”

  “You can put any questions you have in the email,” she says as she pulls out a laptop and a much smaller rectangular device with braille keys on top.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I ask. “Because I’m feeling some kind of hostility coming off of you.”

  “Look, Jake,” she says in the same tone she would have used if I’d introduced myself as AssDouche. “I have to do twice as much work as you do to take this class, along with four others. That means I don’t have time to deal with come-ons poorly disguised as an interest in doing anything for the Legal Aid Society—who deserves better than getting used as a pick-up line, by the way. So if you could remove yourself from the reserved seat…”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say, staying right where I am. “You don’t appreciate the subtle approach. Got ya, here’s me being more direct: I want to get to know you better, Reynolds, so I’m asking you out on a date—”

  “No. Now, get out of the seat, please.”

  I never in my life heard a please sound less like a request. And the couple of beats I take to decide my next move in an unexpectedly complicated introduction must be a couple too many. Because she suddenly taps her cane on the floor and says, “Professor Cluce, could you tell Jake to remove himself from this seat and that it’s basically like deciding to park in a handicapped spot just because no one else is using it?”

  Shit. If I were capable of being embarrassed after what happened to me in that basement, that would have done it.

  The whole class turns to stare at me now, and not because I’m so good looking.

  Professor Cluce looks flustered at the front of the class. “Ah… Jake, if you wouldn’t mind moving,” he says.

  I do mind, but I get up without another word because apparently, I calculated this chick all wrong. I thought “Amber Reynolds” would be a blind version of the girl I met in that hell basement. The one who passed food underneath the bars of my cage and watched me eat with a sympathetic look on her angelic face.

  But, obviously, she’s not that angel anymore… or the open-hearted do-gooder she painted herself as on her Legal Aid Society application.

  She’s harder. Pricklier. No BS. I can’t even call what she has going on around her heart a wall. More like a reinforced concrete barricade with a trench of hot tar in front and barb wire running across the top just in case I do manage to climb up it. And apparently, she doesn’t give one fuck that I can be pretty damn charming when chicks give me half a chance—which they almost always do.

  So I decide to retreat and regroup. But before I do, I bend down to let her know, “This ain’t over, beautiful. I’m going to get that date.”

  “Contrary to what you might have heard, there’s nothing sexy about a guy who won’t take no for an answer,” she replies coldly, already tapping on the rectangular braille device.

  “Think I can change your mind about that.”

  “But the thing is you won’t,” she answers, breezily, as if her not being into me was a thing written by the hand of God in the Bible.

  I regard her a few hot seconds, not caring how it looks to the professor and the rest of the class. She doesn’t know it yet, but she handled “Jake Ferra” the exact wrong way. I was only planning to use her before. But now she’s challenged me, which means I’ll have to conquer her… Body, mind, and soul.

  With that thought, I walk away and spend the rest of class staring at the back of her head. Because now I’m not just plotting how to use her, to teach her missing father a lesson, I’m imagining her underneath me, taking my dick and begging me for more… and how good it’s going to feel when she drops the hard-ass act and gives me exactly what I want.

  2

  Something’s Gotta Give

  Amber

  “Please, Professor Cluce. You’ve got to help me out.”

  I can’t see Professor Cluce. I haven’t been able to see anything or anyone since the world became a blur of dark and light shadows eight years ago. But I don’t have to see him to know he’s only half-listening to my pleas. I hear the brusque sweep of a tablet and the slight crumple of notebook paper as he deposits them back into his bag—which I’m assuming is messenger-style since Professor Cluce is in his 50s and not the type of anti-establishment young rebel to carry a backpack.

  If he were, maybe he’d take this case, I think with a grumble.

  “Landlord dispute without a rental contract in place. Not my purview. Maybe ask Professor Stanton. He teaches…”

  “Disability and the Law—I already did,” I answer, trying to tamper my impatience. “But he’s out of town that day. And my Racial Justice professor can’t do it because her dog is scheduled for surgery.”

  Professor Cluce makes an aggravated sound. “Then maybe try one of those service organizations for the blind. They usually have pro-bono lawyers—”

  “I tried every single one in New York. But the eviction hearing is in two weeks and the wait time to talk to a lawyer at any of those places is at least two months.”

  He sighs. “While I sympathize with your friend’s plight, I don’t think a Public Health Seminar professor is going to be of much help to you.”

  Okay, I get that he doesn’t want to help me. I’m just one of the many students that pass through his class every year, and Naima, my former social worker turned friend is even less than that to him. But I can’t back down. Not with the very roof over her and her parent’s heads at stake.

  “That’s just it. A little help—a very little help—is all they need. It’s clearly a case of wrongful eviction. I’m sure their new landlord is only doing this because my friend’s parents are both blind and he doesn’t think they can fight back.”

  “I don’t practice law anymore, and even if I did, this isn’t a Public Health issue—”

  “I know. But the professors who specialize in representing people with disabilities can’t do it, so I’m asking you. Please, Professor Cluce.”

  “Really wish I could help you, Amber, but I have a faculty meeting in less than ten minutes—”

  I can already hear his footsteps shuffling across the carpet to get to the door.

  “Great, a faculty meeting,” I call over the sound of the door swinging open. “I’ll go with you, and we can ask the other professors if they—”

  The door whines shut on my suggestion.

  Leaving me alone in the seminar room, inwardly cursing professors who claim to want to make the world a better place but who won’t lift a finger to assist the parents of the social worker who helped me get into Columbia Law in the first place.

  “Heya, Reynolds. What’s what?”

  At least I thought I was alone in the room. But apparently, Jake Ferra has waited up for me. Again. Ugh! He’s been bothering me ever since he transferred to Columbia from Princeton to finish up a dual J.D./MBA degree at the beginning of spring semester.

  “Still not interested, Jake,” I say, heading for the door in Professor Cluce’s wake with my AmbuTech mobility cane in an upright position. I don’t use it in here since I know my way around the classroom. Maybe I can figure out where that faculty meeting is and go…

  “C’mon, Reynolds, why aren’t you interested?” Suddenly, Jake’s voice is in front of me, and the soft mewl of the door opening but not closing lets me know he’s holding it for me as he says, “I’m a really interesting guy once you get to know me. You should give us a chance.”

  “Okay, I’m in a rush, and I’ve got to figure out how to get to Faculty House. So I’m going to say this straight up: I don’t date rich guys or Italians.”

  Harsh, I know. But I got majorly dicked over the first and only time I dated a rich guy back in undergrad, and as for Italians… Well, let’s just say, even though I’ve been Amber Reyno
lds for nearly a decade now, I’ll never forget what happened to Bella Peretti.

  A beat passes, then, “Alright, I’ll take you to Faculty House.”

  Without waiting for me to accept his offer, he gets on my left side and puts his body in front of mine, so I either have to take his bent arm in front of me or run into it.

  “Alright, alright, hold on…”

  Since we’re about to leave the building, I put on a pair of sunglasses. Big and very fashionable, or so I’m told by my best friend, Talia, who bought them for me as a birthday present. That was before she up and never came back from summer break last fall.

  Now here I am in my last semester at Columbia Law and dealing with boys without her help. She’d been a wiz at redirecting them away from me. But now, not only am I missing my main on-the-fly guide, I have to tell this new one, “Me accepting your help to get to Faculty House does not mean I agree to go out with you.”

  “Sure, I get it. Loud and clear. Not yet. Completely understand.”

  “Not ever,” I stress as I reluctantly take his arm.

  “Wondering how you knew I was Italian? And rich?” he asks as we walk out of the law school’s main building.

  “Because you talk like you fell out of Sylvester Stallone’s mouth and smell like those big donor fundraising dinners the school’s always making me attend to prove they accept people with disabilities,” I answer over the sudden sound of New York City traffic and chatting law school students.

  “So, let me get this straight…I’m not prejudiced against blind black girls, but you’ve got something against rich Italians?”