Run Posy Run (Underboss Insurrection, #1)

by Cate C. Wells

That makes her my weakness. For the moment. This isn’t how I’m made. I’m sure it’ll pass. Familiarity will breed contempt.

I can recognize feelings, but only Posy’s are real. Only Posy’s matter.

He laughs again. “You’re an arrogant motherfucker, aren’t you?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “But with your skills, you can be.” He’s speaking the truth, but he leaves part unsaid. He needs me, and he hates me for it.

He’s in power because I have no interest in wearing the crown, and he knows it, and it galls him.

“There’s no conflict.” Frankie will pay, but I can wait in the interest of smoothing things over for now.

Before Posy swims, she stands at the edge with her toes curled over. Then she slowly dips a foot in, shivering, hugging her big, beautiful tits. She makes a face, and then all of a sudden, she jumps in and shrieks. Every time. I love to watch her. The reluctance.

Posy Santoro isn’t in my system. She burst into life in my empty shell and made it into something. She is my system. Maybe I didn’t understand that before I lost her.

I don’t just get off on what she is—I need it.

He doesn’t speak of Posy again. He cannot fathom that she is going to be his downfall, but if he forces me into a choice—it’s simple.

He’s capo because until this moment, I had no other preference.

He meets my eye, wiping his palms on his tracksuit. Totally unconcerned. Why would he be? He thinks Renelli’s the man in charge, and he’s been a good little rat.

It always boggles my mind—how people see what they think is there. In school, I always had my nose in a book. I liked computers. I was a nerd to Lucca and the others. They still see me that way, and there’s always that flash of surprise when I pull out my knife.

That first day, I had the things I’d bought her boxed, but when my temper cooled, I asked the housekeeper to return them to her drawers. I didn’t like the dresser and closet half empty. It felt like a tilted picture frame.

“You were looking for her, too,” he whines around his mouthguard. “Because she’s mine.” I force her to meet my eyes.

“Renelli wants to kill her. You picked the wrong horse, Ivano.”

I tear off my gloves, rip the tape with my teeth, and take my knife from where I tucked it in my sock. I fish for his snitch tongue, and while he moans with fear, I saw it off. His blood is warm and smells like pennies.

“I never betrayed you, Dario, I swear,” she whimpers, swaying. She’s going to pass out. I grab her upper arms. “I know,” I say. “I never cheated on you.” Desperation tinges her voice. “I believe you.” She moans. If I weren’t holding her up, she’d probably fall to her knees.

“Understand what?” The hysteria is rising in her voice. I don’t have much longer before she’s useless. “I killed Giorgio Fusco. Ivano here, barring a miracle, is going to bleed to death on this mat. And this isn’t the end. There’s going to be a trail of bodies before I’m done.”

“I do it for you, Posy. You belong to me. You’re a very dangerous woman now.”

“You’re crazy.” I suppose that’s true after a fashion. On the mat, Iv...

I exhale, and my lips curve. I rest my forehead on hers. “Are you sure? He wouldn’t save you.” “No one can,” she breathes, so quiet, it’s almost voiceless. I smile. She’s right. “You’re not going to try to run again, are you, Posy?” “No,” she agrees immediately. “Good girl.” I’d kiss her, but she’s a mess.

Maybe after a nap she’ll be ready to play again.

I can’t think about earlier. I can’t. I was raised around dangerous men, but they never brought it home. Never made me watch.

He rarely dresses so casually. He lounges in the leather wing-backed chair, an ankle propped on his knee. He looks so normal. So classically handsome. There’s no trace of the blood that covered him earlier.

He drums his fingers on the table. “What would make you happy, Posy?” “Let me go.” I say it quietly. I don’t anticipate an explosion. I should have. Dario’s chair skids back, and I jump, scrambling on the soft leather.

There’s a twinge, and I whimper. “Posy?” It’s a question. I don’t know the answer. All of a sudden, he stops.

He stoops and pulls his pants back up. Then he eases my panties up, too. “Stand up.” Why? So he can push me over again? “Stand up.”

By some miracle, the queen’s still upright. I reach out and flick her over. She didn’t stand a chance.

He wraps his arms around me like a lover, hugging me close. We’re both facing the window. I’m trembling, and he’s strong and steady. A stupid, raw part of me that never wised up clings to the suggestion of security.

“You’re upset.” He says it as if he’s discovered a secret I’ve hidden from him, and he’s vaguely pleased with himself because of it.

“I don’t know, Dario. You tell me.” “Because you’re a love-starved people pleaser.” I almost buckle from the blow. How can anything he says still hurt? I don’t love him anymore.

He sighs and rocks me slightly side to side. “He didn’t deserve you. There is no way a piece of filth like him could have appreciated what he had. Of course he took advantage.” What?

“Why didn’t you tell me no, Posy?” I did. Didn’t I? Should I have to? He kidnapped me. Hurt me.

He sighs, his breath ruffling my hair. “I’m not good at that.” “Then assume it’s a no.” “It never has been before.”

He awkwardly pats my shoulder. “It’s all right. We’ll figure it out.” “You hurt me.” I didn’t plan on saying it. It seems ridiculous to complain. He nods. “I’ll learn how not to.” I should quit while I’m ahead, but his answer only makes me angrier. “Why? Because I play games with you? You really couldn’t live without your chess buddy?”

He tracks me with his cold eyes. “You won’t play with me now.”

“Being in the mood doesn’t matter to you.” I know he’s talking about sex. “Yes, it does.” I’m surprised by the vehemence in my tone. Maybe I’ve acted like it doesn’t matter in the past, but it always did. Just other things mattered more. Keeping Dario happy. Not causing waves. Not giving him any reason for his eye to wander. Wonder where I learned that?

Linda Santoro was a walking contradiction. I guess if we live long enough, we all are.

“I like it better when you get off.” My face warms, and I cross my arms in front of my boobs. I don’t care. He’s crazy, and I’m pretty much a captive at this point.

“You asked me to.” “You don’t do anything you don’t want to,” I scoff. He inclines his head. “You need to know your power.” “I have no power.” “To the contrary.”

His eyes darken. “You decimate my control. If you run again, if you make me angry enough, I could kill you. I might not even mean to.” He offers a chagrined smile as if he’s admitting to a minor fault, his expression almost boyish.

“I don’t want to fuck.” I hike my chin. “I’m not in the mood.” “Come on.” He pats his lap and adjusts the chess board so it’s sideways. We’ve played this way before. It usually ends up with me riding his cock reverse-cowgirl. He casts a long-suffering glance at the ceiling. “Only chess. I promise.”

But the deranged boyfriend wants a rematch, so I guess we play. I pad over to him and perch on his knee. He scoops me back and tucks me to his chest.

He’s warm. His left arm is wrapped casually around my waist while he moves his pieces with his right. His chin, raspy with five o’clock shadow, nestles in the crook of my neck.

I know I’m not safe, but my body is lowering its defenses, and I don’t have the energy to fight.

“What are you up to?” he mutters to himself. I don’t even know. I’m playing on instinct.

This is probably the first time he’s noticed that. He helps himself when he’s hungry, or he asks me to make something. I learned early on when I moved in that I need to help myself, too. He doesn’t register other people’s needs. I chalked that up to being an absent-minded professor, his mind always on the markets. I had an excuse for everything, didn’t I?

An awareness is rising inside of me. Nerves. He doesn’t usually touch me like this. He usually goes straight for my tits or ass.

“You threw me in a trunk.” He tenses beneath me. “I don’t like it.” For a second, I’m confused, but then I realize he’s talking about the mark on my leg. “Yeah, well, don’t throw me in trunks.” “Don’t run away from me again.” There’s an edge to his voice. A warning.

I might not have a great sense of self-preservation when it comes to men, but I don’t have a death wish. And no matter how Dario smells and feels like the man I fell in love with, he isn’t, is he?