Run Posy Run (Underboss Insurrection, #1)

by Cate C. Wells

I nod. It’s clear. I’m not going to drop it, but I have no problem waiting for revenge. I’m a big fan of antipasti. I like all kinds of things cold.

I decide when the game’s over. If they take Posy from me, I’ll burn it all down and throw their limp corpses on the fire for fuel.

I’m going to bury him out back under the hostas so I can take a piss on him while standing on the edge of the deck.

“Love makes you do stupid shit,” she sighs. All I can do is nod in agreement. “I mean, I’ve never shacked up with a psychopathic serial killer, but this one guy convinced me to join a spin class where they all talked like motivational posters and banged each other afterwards.” “I—” What?

Well-adjusted women with happy childhoods don’t fuck mobsters.

Besides, I don’t need her pretending she’s a tough cookie when she clearly isn’t. She doesn’t need to be strong. I am strong. I can destroy anything that threatens her—if she just fucking tells me where to come get her.

“I know that Carolyn bought me all the stuff. You don’t know me at all, do you, Dario?” I know her perfectly. Better than she knows herself. She’s a tangled ball of self-doubt, foolish pride, dumb hope, brilliance, masochism, and blind affection. And I’m obsessed. I need her back.

She hung up on me, and I stuffed her in my trunk. It’s a bit like bringing a gun to a knife fight, but when I win, I do like to go big.

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

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’m a man. I can be a cliché. Still, it’s true, and I know it now, ever since the moment I caught her. I don’t just get off on what she is—I need it.

“Are you going to kill him?” she gasps. “He’s not dead?” I look down at my feet. His chest is still moving. Very slightly. I’m surprised.

I always thought falling for the wrong man would be my downfall—like it was for my mom. Maybe it’s worse if the wrong man falls for you.

“Everyone else is a piece. A pawn, a knight, a king. Not you.” I snort softly. “Let me guess. I’m the queen?” “Nope. You’re the one on the other side of the board.”

It would be insane to marry a man who hunted you down. Threw you in a trunk. Made you watch him almost beat a man to death. A woman who could do that could have no self-respect, no survival instinct at all. To fall in love with a man like that? It would be signing your own death warrant, wouldn’t it?

It’s so obvious when you think about it. It’s brilliant, really, and so messed up. A man dangles love. The girl leaps. She does what he wants. He castigates her for it. And then he dangles love again. How much higher will she leap? Because she has no other choice, right? If she wants what he’s offering? There are only two choices. Accept being unloved. Or try harder. I’m a scrapper. Of course I wasn’t giving up.

I like this game. I like playing with him. There’s something wrong with me, but my mess fits perfectly against the jagged piece that’s missing from him. I’m needy, he’s heartless, and by some magical alchemy, this—this creature we become together—solves us both.

Nicky the driver