Page 64 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
“Not give her up. Move smarter. But what do I know? I’ve only lived thirty plus years in this lifestyle.” She places her hands on her rounded waistline and strikes an authoritative pose only she could pull off in my presence.
I smirk. “I’ll give it some consideration.”
Ms. Poitier winks at me as she turns to walk out. “You know, Nevaeh’s making you a lot less hardheaded. Maybe the girl’s worth keeping for that alone.”
* * *
The popular expression revenge is a dish best served cold applies to many life circumstances where a wronged person seeks to make someone suffer for what they’ve done. What’s missing from the expression is that revenge is a dish that’s also best served when you least expect it—out of the blue when you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security.
Nero Vorone has an ego the size of the city of Dresden. He believes himself to be invincible, waltzing around the city like he owns the place. With so many industries in his back pocket, it’s no wonder he’s under the illusion he’s unstoppable.
But there’s one industry Nero doesn’t own, even if he believes he does—the streets.
The other side of the criminal world. Those underground and not a part of an organized crime family with proper rules and traditions.
The guys on the street are the antithesis to somebody like Nero. They’re hungry and willing to go whichever way the wind blows if the offer’s beneficial enough for them. Many do Nero’s bidding, dealing drugs in the roughest neighborhoods for a cut of the profits, but there’s no real loyalty among them.
Their loyalty lies with the biggest paycheck.
I’m lurking half a block down when the cold dish of revenge is served to Nero. The group of men he has with him escort him from the ritzy hotel he’s been staying at, to the back of his town car waiting for him. He’s got what he’d call a dime piece on his arm, a woman in a short dress with her tits practically hiked up to her chin. She clutches at his arm as he says something and then she laughs.
That’s not his wife.
In another minute, she’ll regret being his mistress.
I check my watch and rustle the newspaper that’s in my hands. You’d think I’d stick out like a sore thumb given my brutish size. Friday evening on one of Dresden’s most populated streets provides enough cover that a man sitting out in front of a coffee shop with an untouched latte and newspaper isn’t catching anybody’s attention.
Nero’s helping the dime into the backseat when the dinged up Cadillac I’ve been waiting for drifts by. A masked man pokes his head out the window and sprays bullets at Nero and his men. The drive by causes pandemonium on the very public city street.
Pedestrians scream and flee for their lives. Nero cowers on the ground, covering his curly-haired head. His men draw their weapons and aim to return fire at the Cadillac, but it’s too late—the Cadillac without a license plate is already rounding the corner.
The stink of gunfire pollutes the air and almost brings a grin out of me.
I fold my newspaper up as several of his men crowd around the casualties. One of his soldiers and the dime piece were both struck. Nero’s enraged screams almost drown out the whirring sirens from the emergency responders on the way.
“HOW COULD YOU FUCKERS LET THEM DRIVE OFF!?” he barks amid the chaos.
It’s my cue to exit. I rise up from my seat outside the coffee shop and start down the opposite end of the street.
Some would say the stunt I’ve pulled is crazy. Others would tell me it’s a death wish.
Both claims would be accurate—I’m a man knocking on death’s door, doing what I want, when I want, and that includes making a fool out of Nero Vorone.
* * *
Nevaeh doesn’t know she’s helping me celebrate the revenge I sought. She smiles prettily at me as I pull her into my lap that evening and press kisses into her throat. Her arms slip over my shoulders, and she draws back to give me a quizzical look.
“You’re in a good mood.”
“You say that like it’s a rare thing.”
She laughs. “That’s because it is. Cael, you’re the grumpiest man I’ve ever met.”
“I love when you call me Cael.” I bury my face in the crook of her neck again and treat her to even more kisses. Her skin is so delicate and soft, so sweet-smelling that it makes me hard as hell. My hand grips her hip and I chase her mouth with mine ’til she’s giving in and kissing me on the lips.
I’ve never imagined affection could feel this good.
The times I’ve had with women in the past don’t compare. It’s as if I’ve been experiencing human touch and feeling on mute before, versus now where the volume is dialed all the way up.