What I Fight For: A Bad Boy Military Romance (Easy Team Book 1) (27 page)

Chapter
Nine
Halle

              I blinked twice, trying to clear my head. My nerves had gotten the better of me and I had tossed back my drinks way too fast.

              Although I was feeling a bit foggy and lightheaded, the courage my drinks had provided had paid off in one way. The group I sat in seemed to find my presence less peculiar and more amusing.

              I tried my best to maintain my bravado while still trying to garner some useful information.

              Roy’s speech had been unusual to say the least. The men around the room had looked a little taken a back by it but had toasted dutifully nonetheless. And with endless drinks and juicy steaks abounding, they could hardly care less what Roy had said.

              Not wanting to draw too much suspicion, I had let my table’s conversation flow on its own while just soaking in whatever useful tidbits they might drop. But men being men, most of it was just nonsense. They laughed about another man’s fuck up on a job, or shared the gruesome details of a hit, or grunted in reminiscent pleasure of being with one woman or another.

              I had tried to keep my eyes focused on my own plate but it was hard not to dart the casual glance over to the head table. And not just anywhere on the head table.

              My eyes seemed to magically hone in on Marco.

              With his crisp black buttoned shirt teasingly opened at the collar and his olive skin stretched taut against his muscled arms and neck, he looked like a man of unmovable strength even when sitting in repose.

              I had caught him looking quite surprised by his father’s speech. But it had only been a momentary flicker of the eyes. He had immediately quashed the look under his normal look of bored contempt.

              So Marco had been surprised by Roy’s words as well. Roy
had
been hinting quite a bit at the idea of family and what it meant. Could he have meant more than the Family? Could he have meant
his
family?

              But Marco was the backbone of the Desmond Mafia. If Roy was the head, Marco was the spine that kept the body functioning and moving. Why would Roy feel it necessary to essentially threaten his own son?

              “—back with that German chick again,” one of the men at my table said in a teasing tone.

              I snapped my head up. German chick?

              Another man shook his head. “I don’t know why we even bother with that kind of front. We have more front businesses than we know what to do with stateside and all of them make way more money. And that German gal don’t do nothing but talk business.”

              Front businesses? Those were businesses that people could use to usually launder or hide money through. Usually small time crooks used places like pizza shops or Laundromats. But with the Desmonds, the scale was much larger. The FBI knew that at least one of the most powerful oil companies was actually a front for the Desmonds.

              I slowly sipped my drink, trying my best not to look too eager for information.

              Wiggy shrugged with his drink in one hand and a cigar in another. “Don’t question the Big Man,” he said simply. He threw a hard look towards the man who had initially spoken about the German chick. “And anyway, he ain’t asking you goons to take care of that business. That’s all Marco’s responsibility. So what do you care?”

              Were they possibly mentioning the German manufacturing plants that were under Marco’s name? If so, then those plants were clearly not anyone’s priority except Marco’s. And my guess was right: the plants
were
small change compared to other Desmond holdings.

              I watched as the wait staff came around, clearing the tables. I noticed that the men of the head table were slowly rising to their feet, concluding dinner. My heart sped up.

              This was a clear chance I had to be in the presence of the regular working Desmond Mafia men. These were the men I could ask more invasive questions without getting too much notice. I had to ask carefully, of course, but I had a better shot with someone like Wiggy than with someone like Gus.

              Other men at the other tables began to make noise to rise, seeing the men of the head table rise.

              Dinner was almost over! Time was running out!

              “So,” I said, my voice a little too loud in my haste. I coughed and lowered my tone. “So,” I repeated, “when are
you
going to find yourself at the head table, Big Wiggy?” I batted my lashes a bit.

              It’d be useful to find out who was next in line for promotion. That person would have the best information about the higher ups.

              Wiggy turned to me in surprise, clearly having forgotten I was there. He raised a brow at me in question and then a slow, creeping grin crossed his face. “Ah,” he said knowingly, “so the little accountant is a table chaser, is she?”

             
Table chaser?

              “Like the big men with the big power, huh?” he said, his voice becoming an octave lower.

              “No, of course not,” I said in a haughty voice. “I just like to know that I’m sitting at a table worth my time.”

              Playing the quivering maiden would certainly not do me any favors with the Desmond Mafia men and would most definitely not win me the attention of Marco Desmond. But I wasn’t quite sure if playing the brave and headstrong new Mafia hire was going to be any better.

              Chairs scraped behind me as I saw men rise to greet Roy goodnight as he left the dining hall, followed by the other men of the head table.

              Well, at least now I didn’t have to worry so much about being seductive while eating a steak, which seemed like an impossible task if I ever heard of one.

              Maybe now I could focus on getting more information from the men at my table before they left and—

              I turned back towards my table and immediately swallowed hard. Without the head table there to enforce the dinner etiquette, the men at my table now stared at me with the hungry and lascivious look of a wolf on the hunt.

              Wiggy carefully set down his drink, his thin face darkened with intent. “Worth your time, eh?” he said slowly. He looked at me, his eyes several shades darker. The entire table was looking at me like I was naked and dancing in front of them.

              “Would you like us to show you exactly how much your time is worth?” Wiggy said.

              I pressed my lips together, keeping my face cool and neutral even though my heart was pounding so hard it was nearly bruising my ribs. Every time I felt like I had a moderate handle in being in the heart of the Desmond Family, I was always met with a harsh reminder of just how dangerous it really was.

              I gave a short, cool smile. “I think not,” I said and quickly rose to my feet, feeling that a speedy exit was my best chance.

              I headed towards the doors when a hand shot out to grab my wrist, whirling me around and throwing me up against the wall.

              My head smacked hard against the wall in a whiplash moment and I winced as sparks flew across my eyes.

              But when I opened my eyes, the pain only worsened at the sight of nine men slowly closing rank around me. I tried to look over their heads to see what help may be around. A stray maid maybe? But the men were too tall for me to see anything but their hungry faces.

              My body felt sluggish and slow as it fought against the debilitating alcohol. I could feel a subtle shaking take over my body as I began to realize just how dangerous my situation was.

              Wiggy kept a firm hold on my wrist as he pinned me against the wall. His other hand slid intimately across my hips. I wriggled, hating his inescapable touch. Oh god, what could I do to get away? Would anyone in a crime family stop a rape? Would they even care?

              Suddenly Wiggy’s hand shot down and cupped me hard between my legs. “Want us to show you exactly how much
this
is worth?” he breathed harshly against my cheek.

              I opened my mouth, ready to scream when suddenly I felt a gust of air brush past me.

              Wiggy zoomed past me, collapsing against the table, sending the heavy china plates crashing to the floor. The men around him immediately pulled back, their faces pale in surprised fright.

              I tenderly massage the wrist Wiggy had been gripping. Confused, I turned to my right.

              And there, standing above me, was Marco Desmond.

              I had thought he had left with Roy. My mouth was slightly agape as I stared in complete shock at his presence.

His face was darkened with anger and I could see his neck taut with his fight to hold back. His large fist was still in the air, clearly hungry for more faces to smack into. He looked coldly at the men with a gaze that could cut rocks.

              “What do you think Roy would say when he hears his accounts manager has been assaulted right under his nose?” Marco said quietly. His voice was so icy cold, I was sure the men would get frostbite just from hearing it.

              Wiggy paled, as did the others.

              “Sir, we were just teasing,” Wiggy said, awkwardly getting back onto his feet. Half of his face was already swelling and turning purple. “We didn’t mean—”

              “Get the fuck out of here,” Marco interrupted. “And remember where you’re fucking role is in this Family.”

              Wiggy and the others made an awkward nodding-bowing motion and then scattered, clearly afraid of incurring more of the Desmond wrath.

              A moment of silence passed in the empty dining hall before I let out a shaky sigh of relief.

              I stepped away from the wall and turned toward Marco.

              “Thank you for—”

              But before I could finish, Marco put both his hands against the wall, pinning my head between them. His tall and broad frame pinned me back against the wall as he stared down at me with incredulous anger.

              “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he demanded.

              I stared at him. Although I was taken aback by his anger, I still felt an odd relief in having him there. A wave of security flooded me in knowing that Marco had come to my rescue.

              “I was
trying
to leave the dinner when—”

              “Was that before or after your four glasses of brandy?” Marco asked in a clipped voice.

              My eyes widened in surprise. And a little in indignation. “You counted!” I said in an accusatory voice. Perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest decision to drink so much but then again, I was a grown woman. For god’s sake, I was a goddamn FBI agent!

              “You’re damn right I counted,” Marco said unapologetically. “Just like I’m about to count to three for you to get your ass out of here and up to your room.”

              I scoffed. Gorgeous or no, this man could not act like some lord of the universe just because his name was Desmond.

              “Okay,” I said sarcastically, nearly rolling my eyes but feeling a little too lightheaded to manage. “If you think that I’m going to jump just because you said—”

              “One,” Marco counted, his voice clear and strong. I looked up at him. His eyes were nearly black under the dim, glittering lights of the chandelier. His chiseled jaw was cut and square, lending him a look of authority and strength. And above it all was an expression that told me to not even
think
about defying him.