Uncontrollable Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 3) (3 page)

I tapped my knuckles against the table as I reminisced about the man who saved my life. Cain knew he was living on borrowed time that night, knew it was only a matter of time before the drugs caught up with him. All those years of using, swapping dirty needles and what have you, finally caught up with him and he contracted Hepatitis C. Two years later, Cain was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer.
The doctors gave him six to eight weeks. He survived two.

I was voted in as president of the Satan’s Knights the same day Cain passed.

I leaned back in my chair, reached into my jeans and pulled out a pack of Marlboros as a knock sounded on the door. I lifted my head as I lit my cigarette and tipped my chin to my vice president, Blackie.

Dominic ‘Blackie’ Petra and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He patched into the Satan’s Knights before me, had done more dealings with Cain and he saw a lot of fucked up shit under his regime. He was loyal to his brothers but didn’t agree with the direction we were heading with Cain as our leader. Cain was big on making money, and we were rolling in the dough for a while. We sacrificed our consciences to pay our bills, dealing dope and selling crack to any sucker begging for a fix. Dominic’s wife was a junkie, married three years and he had no fucking idea she was dipping into his product, feeding her habit at his hand.

When Cain passed, the club not only had to decide on a new president, but whether we should re-evaluate the path our club was on. Drugs had made us a lot of money through the years but it cost a lot too. We lost Cain, some of us lost our families and we all lost our dignity.

Cain’s body was barely cold when I propositioned Blackie, promising to clean up the club. I told him we could make it something we could be proud of, to hold our heads up high to be a part of this club
.
He didn’t hesitate jumping on board and I knew he’d always have my back. He’d be my right-hand and we’d make things right again.

I was diagnosed a manic depressive but I’d be damned if I would let a diagnosis dictate who I was. Sure, some people thought it was a glorified word for crazy and even argued I had no place getting in deep with the Knights, let alone be their leader. I proved all those motherfuckers wrong.

And I’d keep proving motherfuckers wrong.

I
was
crazy.

But I was in control now. I had a handle on my illness and a good handle on my club.

“Yo,” he said, as he closed the door behind him. “You wanted a word?”

I nodded toward the chair to the right of me and watched as he took his seat.

“Been something on my mind,” I started, flicking my cigarette. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”

“You ready to share?” He asked, reaching for my cigarettes and taking one for himself.

“You know about my visit with Victor Pastore,” I continued.

“I know that Riggs is a permanent fixture at Xonerated because he asked you to protect Bianci,” he replied. “Now, I know we used to be in bed with Victor, played nice and all that shit but the man is locked up. He’ll probably die in jail and we’ve got a guy sitting on his son-in-law making sure not a hair on his pretty little head is harmed. Not really sure where we’re going with this one. This some good Samaritan bullshit or you cut a deal with the don before he traded his designer suits for prison blues?”

“Vic came to me a couple of months ago with a dilemma. The Fed’s were investigating him. They discovered a body and were putting together a case on him, probably gathering enough shit to put half the organization away. He sent me Bianci…” I continued, only for him to cut me off.

“I remember,” he clipped, leaning forward, eyes set on mine. “You going to tell me where this is going?”

“Danny was the one working the case,” I paused, running my fingers through my hair. It didn’t matter that my brother was dead for months now—the nagging pain never vanished from my gut. I learned a long time ago there was no time limit on grief. I never got over the loss of my son and I wouldn’t get over my brother being murdered. We may not have been close—I may have resented him for not being there for me when Jack Jr. died but he was still my brother. He was still the kid I looked after and shared half my life with. I made peace with my son’s death because it was out of my control. It took a long time and a lot of therapy for me heal.

Danny’s death was different. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an unfortunate occurrence. It was murder. There was no excuse valid enough for him to be in the ground. I could avenge his death. I could make the bastard who took his life pay because he knew what he was doing. Jimmy Gold was in control when he killed my brother.

“I had Bianci in my pocket. He would let me handle Danny my way. All I had to do was give him my word that the case would die. I could’ve made that happen. I would’ve done it but I was robbed of the chance.”

“Because of the fire,” Blackie said pointedly. “Man, if this is about his house going up in smoke and you putting that blame on yourself…”

“This is about Victor Pastore handing me his underboss on a silver platter,” I interrupted.

Blackie’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. I turned around and pulled the manila envelope from the shelf and slid it across the table. He reached for the envelope, keeping his eyes on mine as he opened it and pulled out the contents. He dropped his gaze to the photographs of my brother’s corpse and I looked away. Those images were embedded in my brain, when I closed my eyes, night after night, they haunted me. His body charred, his finger gone.

“Christ,” he hissed, turning the photos over so they were face down.

“Riggs sits outside Xonerated because Victor gave me the proof I needed to kill Jimmy Gold.”

“Whoa, hold it,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m all about an eye for an eye, you know that, but what you’re talking about is a whole different ball game.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Blackie. No one is going to change it either,” I declared.

“Then why you telling me this?”

“I’m going to take care of that motherfucker with or without the Knights behind me,” I said firmly.

“The fuck you are,” he shouted, shaking his head and crossing his arms against his chest. “You’re talking about taking out a
made
man, a fucking boss. That shit don’t just happen without consequences. You give Gold what he has coming to him and you bring war to the Satan’s Knights.”

“Dom, you’re not hearing me,” I said as I leaned forward. “This is happening,” I whispered harshly.

He exhaled roughly and ran the back of his hand along his jaw before piercing me with a hard stare.

“Then it happens in a way we’re covered,” he insisted. “Let me sit on it, figure out a way where you get your revenge and we still get to breathe. Pastore didn’t cut you no slack. He gave you a gift man, something he knew you wanted but he knew the rules. Fuck, he had a hand in making them. He knew you’d be fucked if you killed Jimmy now that he’s running the show. He used you to protect his interests. I’m pulling Riggs off Bianci. Let them guinea’s take care of their own.”

“Bianci is good people,” I said.

“Maybe so, but he’s not your brother,” Blackie stated. “Give me time, Bulldog.”

I stared at him for a moment knowing I’d bide my time. I would let him do his thing but I wasn’t going to let him pull Riggs off Bianci. Anthony Bianci may not be a part of the Satan’s Knights but he was a good guy, dealt a shitty hand, and finally has a bit of happiness in his life now. I would not be the guy to take that away from him.

“Riggs stays with Bianci,” I said finally. “You do your digging, find me a way to get the job done.” I glanced at the clock plastered to the wall, stood up and gathered the photos of my brother, shoving them back inside the envelope and tucking it under my arm. “I got someplace I gotta be.”

I felt his eyes follow me toward the door as he muttered a curse. I pulled open the door and glanced over my shoulder, tipping my chin toward the table.

“Oh, and have Bones sand down the table, maybe slap a coat of varnish on the fucking thing while he’s at it.”

“Fucking hell,” Blackie hissed as I walked out the door.

I heard the engine even before I could turn around and peer out the window, I knew he was there. I watched him as he threw his leg over his bike. He parked right in front of Dee’s Diner; just as he did every night I worked the graveyard shift, which was five nights a week. I didn’t mind the hours, favored them even, the less people coming in and out of this place, the fewer who saw me. But him? He came in every night I worked and he saw me. It was unnerving the way he looked at me, those eyes of his seeing right through my armor, down to the scars that marked my soul.

The bell chimed above the door as his boots scraped across the laminate flooring. I poured him a cup of coffee. He took it black with two sugars. I didn’t lift my eyes, or acknowledge his presence but I knew he parked his ass in his usual seat at the counter.

Five weeks.

Five nights a week.

He came into Dee’s.

Each night I poured him a cup of coffee and slid a menu across the counter.

Each night he pushed the menu back.

I reached behind me and pulled out my pad and pencil. As I kept my eyes focused on the blank ticket I spoke the same words I recited to everyone that came into the diner.

“What can I get you?”

“I’m good for now,” he said. I felt his eyes travel over me, pleading with me to lift my head and look at him.

It wasn’t that I had anything against him. I treated all my customers the same. I took their orders and served their food but I didn’t give them anything more. Dee asked me a time or two why I wasn’t more personal with the customers, told me I’d make better tips if I treated them to a smile here and there. I didn’t want to disappoint Dee, nor did I want to lose my job but I wasn’t so sure I knew how to smile anymore.

“Pie,” he said, jolting me from my thoughts. He never ordered anything other than a cup of coffee. It was a shock, an ad lib in a well-rehearsed script and it caused me to lift my head and stare into his eyes.

They were dark brown, almost black, not a spectacular color, not even something that deserved a second glance. Yet, I gasped when I looked into his black irises. Dark eyes that hinted at a dark soul. There was hurt behind those eyes. There was pain.

I wondered if it was his own pain or if it was just mine reflected back at me.

“Cherry,” he added.

I swallowed, tore my eyes from his and tried to focus.

Pie.

It was an uncontrollable force that brought my eyes back to his. His lips twitched slightly as he cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. God, there was something about this man. He was familiar yet he was foreign. I took a minute to take in his features. He had a strong jaw lined with the slightest hint of black and silver scruff. His lips weren’t thin but not quite full, just right and perfectly in tune with the rest of him. His nose was somewhat crooked—probably broke it once or twice and never had it set properly. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and something told me they weren’t from laughter. His dark hair, almost as black as his eyes, had some traces of gray scattered through it. He didn’t appear old, but rather a man who had lived and lived hard.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered and shook my head when I realized I had been staring at him for quite some time. I went from barely glancing at him to ogling him.

“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Pie,” I paused, glancing over my shoulder at the desserts that lined the shelf. “We don’t have cherry pie.” I turned and dropped my gaze back to my pad.

“Then I’ll take whatever you have to give,” he said, in a tone I couldn’t describe but one that had me lifting my head again.

“The blueberry is fresh,” I mumbled.

“I’ll take it,” he responded instantly.

I nodded and turned around to grab the man a slice of pie. I placed the plate in front of him and reached over to the seat beside him and took the silverware off the placemat. I handed him the fork and his fingers brushed mine as he took it. My body stirred and vibrated at the slight touch and I snatched my hand back.

“Enjoy,” I mumbled, grabbing the rag from beneath the counter to wipe the surface clean to busy myself.

“Name’s Jack,” he offered, breaking off a corner of his pie and stabbing it with his fork.

I didn’t ask his name, and I wasn’t willing to share mine with him.

“Reina,” I responded, defying myself.

“Reina,” he repeated, as he brought his fork to his mouth and took a bite. As he chewed his eyes met mine. At least he was well-mannered enough not to talk with his mouth full. I hated that. I watched his throat as he swallowed. “Pretty name.”

“Thank you,” I said nervously. “Is there anything else I can get you?” I asked, as he dug into the pie for another bite. His hand paused, and he dropped his fork piercing me with a look.

“You want to get rid of me?”

I felt my cheeks heat and I shook my head quickly. “No, please, I’m sorry.”