Bad Intentions by Tara Wyatt

15

Olivia glanced over at her grumpy bodyguard as they drove from the Prescott Group’s offices to the bistro, where she had appointments lined up with several vendors to discuss things like flooring, the custom bar, furniture, and more. Her head felt like it was spinning a little with everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, including being assigned an enormous, tattooed, scowling bodyguard.

Lucian had brought her into his world, and Killian was a man he trusted, even if she could feel the grumpy resentment rolling off him in waves. But things were already difficult enough for Lucian with how complicated and complex the situation was, some of it still nuanced beyond her understanding. But she could make this—Killian looking out for her—work. She owed that to Lucian, to try to get along with his man. To make things less tense and shitty, if possible.

“I’m sorry that you’re stuck babysitting me,” she said, glancing over at the huge man. He had dark curls falling almost to his jaw, which was covered in a salt-and-pepper hued scruff. His blue eyes were light but intense, and his features were sharp, as though he were carved out of stone. He wore a plain white T-shirt that showed off the tattoos scrolling down both arms and across his chest. She couldn’t see a gun anywhere, but after spending time with Lucian, she knew that just because she couldn’t see a gun didn’t mean that he wasn’t armed.

He grunted, his eyes on the road. “What was a girl like you doing dating a fucker like Massimo Greco?” he asked, still not looking at her.

“Well, I didn’t know he was a hit man when we started dating. And we only dated for a few weeks, and now he’s being a total psychopath.”

Killian cut his eyes at her. “He’s a hit man for the mob, girlie. Of course he’s a psychopath.”

She shifted in her seat, angling herself toward him. “I get the feeling you have firsthand experience with hit men.”

He barked out a laugh at that. “I used to be one, so yeah. You could say I’ve got some experience.” He frowned suddenly. “Wait. Walsh. Any relation to Gavin Walsh?”

She nodded. “He’s my father.”

Killian barked out another laugh, the sound filling the cabin of the SUV. “Massimo Greco’s ex and Gavin Walsh’s little girl. Lucian doesn’t do anything halfway, does he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he must have it real bad for you to risk pissing off both Sal Perri and Gavin Walsh just to be with you.”

She blushed at that. “We might piss some people off, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Killian shook his head, mumbling something that sounded like “Romeo and Juliet shit.”

She studied him again. “You know, Mr. Byrne, I think we’re going to be friends.”

“You do? You got a lotta former hit men as friends?”

She grinned. “Not yet.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You are something, I’ll give you that. And it’s Killian. Just Killian.”

“Tell you what, Killian. We’ll be at the restaurant in, what? Five minutes? I bet I can convince you that we should be friends before we get there.”

He shrugged, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Sure. What the hell.”

“What’s your favorite TV show?”

Killian’s eyebrows rose, as though he hadn’t been expecting that question. “Erm, I guess if I had to pick one, it’d be The Simpsons.”

She grinned and reached into her purse, pulling out her keys and showing him her Bart Simpson key chain. “See? We have the same favorite show.”

He smirked. “That could just be a coincidence.”

“Okay. Fine. What’s your favorite food?”

This time he didn’t hesitate. “My nan’s homemade stew.”

“Oh. Darn. I can’t say that I like stew.” She wrinkled her nose slightly.

“Only because you’ve never had my nan’s,” he said, defensive pride in his voice.

“I’d love to try it sometime, if that’s an option.” She had no idea if his nan lived near or was even still alive.

“I’ll save you some next time I make it.”

“Exactly what a friend would do,” she teased.

They came to a red light and he glanced upward, muttering “heaven help me,” under his breath.

“How old are you?” she asked, settling back in her seat. Even though he was gruff and snarly, she liked him. She felt safe with him.

“Thirty-eight.”

“And you were in the Irish mafia.”

“I was.” He glanced over at her. “How did a girl like you come into Lucian’s orbit?”

“We actually met years ago, when I celebrated my birthday at one of his clubs. We became friends, I guess, plus the connection through my father. Are you…married?”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “No, and I’m not looking for a wife.”

“And the ladies of Manhattan wept,” she teased, earning a lopsided grin.

They pulled up in front of the bistro and she turned to face him again. “So, we’ve figured out that we both love The Simpsons, you’re going to make me like stew, we’ve discussed our love lives, and I made you laugh, although I’m not entirely certain if that was with me or at me. What do you say? Friends?”

He cut the ignition and turned to her. “You’re a troublesome girlie, but I like you. Even if you think you don’t like stew.”

She laughed. “Always happy to be proven wrong.”

“You don’t have any sisters, do you?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s just me. Why?”

She could’ve sworn she saw the tiniest flash of disappointment in his eyes, but then he grinned. “Thank the Lord. One girlie like you out there is more than enough.”

“Because I’m trouble?”

“You’re definitely a whole lotta something. Especially if you’ve got Lucian Prescott wrapped around your finger.” He stepped out of the car and came around to her side to open her door. Surprising her, he took her laptop bag and portfolio from her, then helped her down.

“Now, which tattoo do you want to tell me about first?” she asked as they headed inside the bistro.

* * *

Lucian parked his car down the street from the steakhouse where he knew Sal was working today. He knew the man’s routine like he knew the back of his hand, and tracking him down hadn’t been a problem.

When he walked up to the front of the restaurant, he tried the front door, expecting it to be locked. It almost always was, and any visitors had to be buzzed in. But it swung open, which could only mean one thing. Sal knew he was coming, and he was waiting for him.

Even though Sal was his mentor and someone Lucian considered a close friend, he didn’t know what he was walking into today. But he was prepared.

He was always prepared.

“I figured you’d show your face today,” said Sal, emerging from the shadows behind the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. Two other men flanked him, hanging back a couple of feet, holstered guns at their sides. Lucian had come alone in a show of good faith. He hoped he didn’t regret that decision, even though he was confident in his ability to handle himself. “You always faced things head on,” said Sal, stepping closer again. “I never figured you for a snake.”

“Can we talk? In private?”

Sal scowled at him as he considered Lucian’s request, then nodded. The two men retreated into the kitchen, eyes shooting daggers at Lucian the entire time. Sal stared him down, an unreadable expression on his face, and then he moved back behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of bourbon.

“I’m not a snake,” Lucian said, sitting down on one of the barstools and accepting the glass of amber liquid Sal slid to him. “It’s not what you think.”

Sal came around from behind the bar and took the seat next to him, leaving the bottle of bourbon within reach. “No? Because I think you came to me and asked me to do you a favor—get Massimo off the case of your investor’s daughter.” He sipped his drink. “I talk to him. He tells me he doesn’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. That he dated the girl, and yeah, he’s tried to get her to go out with him again, a few texts, whatever. Massimo’s one of my guys, so I trust what he says. Then I find out that you lied to me.” Lucian opened his mouth, but Sal held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt. I know what you’re going to say. You didn’t lie, everything you told me was true. But a lie by omission is still a lie, Lucian.” He turned his gaze on Lucian. “I thought you were better than that. And I thought you and I…” Sal shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink, then poured himself another. “You left out the part about you claiming the girl. About you having a beef with Massimo. You made it sound like what you were asking me for—to give one of my own guys shit for how he was conducting his personal life—was business. But it was personal. It was always personal.”

Lucian leaned on the bar, toying with his glass. “Listen to me, Sal. Your guy Massimo is full of shit. He grabbed her in public, made threats. I know you don’t want to believe something shitty about one of your own, but I’m telling you the truth. An entire restaurant saw him grab her, threaten her. I thought it was your job to keep your guys in line.” He shrugged, anger and frustration burning through him, coupled with an underlying sadness at the fact that this was probably the end of his nearly thirty-year friendship with Sal.

“Hey, don’t you fucking tell me how to run my ship. You don’t have that right.”

“Then don’t call me a liar when I came in here and told you the truth about your guy.”

Sal narrowed his eyes at him, then shook his head. “Even if you did tell me the truth about Massimo, you left out your role in all of this.” He leaned closer. “You’re supposed to be neutral in all of our dealings. When there’s a fight, you don’t have a dog in it. Now, you are the dog. You’re starting something, something big and potentially game changing and over what? A piece of ass? What’s gotten into you?”

Lucian clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the glass. Anger pulsed through him. “Call her a piece of ass again and we’re gonna have a big problem, Sal. Bigger than me leaving out the fact that Massimo is harassing my woman. I’m not here to ask for your forgiveness or explain myself to you. I simply came to clear the air, and I don’t owe you more than that. I’m not one of your guys.”

“No, you made your choice all those years ago.” Sadness flickered in Sal’s gaze as he looked down at his drink.

“When I saved your life,” Lucian said, shaking his head. There was so much history between them, but now it felt meaningless. “This is your warning. If Massimo touches her again, I’m gonna kill him. End of story. You can do what you want with that information.” He tossed back his drink and stood, having said everything he needed to say.

“You’re really willing to blow up our world, set fire to everything and make a whole lotta enemies for this girl?”

He glared at Sal. “You’re fucking right I am. Keep Massimo away from her, or he’s dead.”

“You’re starting something over nothing, Lucian. He doesn’t want her.”

Lucian just shrugged. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem.”

“We already have a problem. You can’t just involve yourself where it suits you and not expect any fallout.”

“I don’t give a shit about the fallout. She’s mine, and if there’s a fight coming, then bring it on. I’m done walking this tightrope you’ve got me on. From now on, I’m playing things the way I want to play them. You can either accept that, or not. It’s up to you.”

And with that he turned and walked out into the steaming sunshine, leaving Sal behind. And even though he’d most likely lost a friend and mentor—and a powerful ally—he felt freer than he had in a long time.

Fuck the rules. Fuck straddling everyone else’s shit. He was done, and fuck, it felt good.

* * *

“What do you mean, you’re done?” asked Luca several hours later, staring at Lucian across the table in the quiet restaurant, not touching his food.

“I thought I’d chosen this role, but really, I fell into it ass backwards without a thought as to what I actually wanted. I’ve justified it to myself over the years in various ways, but…things are different now.”

The restaurant—one of his own—was nearly empty, only a few other tables occupied between the lunch and dinner rushes. Naturally, that hadn’t stopped Luca from ordering an entire chicken dinner. The man never stopped eating, it seemed.

Lucian’s phone buzzed and he picked it up from where he’d laid it face down on the table.

Killian: We’re wrapping up for the day here.

Lucian: Take her back to my place. I’ll be there soon.

Killian: You got it.

Killian: I like her.

Lucian: Me too.

Killian: Whatever you need, I’m in.

“So where does that leave us?” asked Luca, his eyebrows dark slashes above his eyes. Lucian sighed, reaching deep for some empathy. Luca had been with him the longest, and he knew he was upending his world with all of this. But sometimes change—even necessary, positive change—was painful.

“What if instead of policing the mob, we keep them in check? What if we try to do more good than harm? What if we stop acting like fucking puppets and do what we feel is right?”

“And what feels right to you?”

“We could take down the Bleeckers. For example. They sell drugs, run prostitutes. If we got rid of them entirely…”

Luca pursed his lips, looking doubtful. “You don’t think we’d find ourselves in a Hydra situation? You cut off one head and two more grow back?”

“Not if you cut off the first head in a way that scares the shit out of all the others.”

Luca took a bite of his chicken and then snorted out a laugh. “So you want to just take on all of organized crime in Manhattan. Who do you think you are? Batman?”

Lucian grinned. “I think I’m Lucian fucking Prescott and I can do whatever the hell I want. I have the guys. I have the power and the money.”

“But you’ve always had that. How are things suddenly different now?”

“Because now I have her. And I want to be more than a judge for mob disputes. We could use what we have—the influence, the skills—to protect people. To make the city better.”

“You’re fucking crazy. You fall in love—and she’s beautiful, I’ll give you that—and you’re willing to rearrange your entire world.”

Lucian nodded. “I am. And I’m going to. If you want out, I get it. But we’re headed in a new, better direction, and I hope you’ll stay.”

“Where the fuck else am I gonna go?” he said, grinning. A feeling Lucian had very little experience with settled over him, and he realized that it was peace. He was at peace with his decision, with taking his life and the Kings of Hell’s Kitchen in a different direction. It was the right thing to do.

“Reach out to your mafia contacts,” said Lucian, slipping a hand into his pocket for a lighter and his pack of Dunhills. Smoking wasn’t allowed inside, but it was his restaurant, so he could do whatever the hell he pleased, including smoke. He slid one out of the pack and lit it, taking a deep drag, savoring the hit of nicotine rushing through his veins. “We need to find out where Massimo is.” He blew out a stream of smoke.

“And when we find out where he is?”

“We make him disappear, one way or another.” He took another drag, and he had to admit there was a dark thrill charging through him at the idea of getting his hands on the fucker who’d threatened to hurt Liv. His phone buzzed again and he picked it up.

Olivia: Will you be home soon?

Lucian: In about an hour. Maybe a bit longer.

Olivia: Okay. I hope you’re hungry. I’m planning on cooking you dinner. In nothing but an apron.

Lucian: I’ll be there in thirty minutes.

Olivia: That’s more like it.