Nicky the Driver (Underboss Insurrection, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

I know what men like that want. Something easy. A woman who knows how to keep her mouth and legs shut unless he wants them open. They don’t want to be bothered. They want to drag you along their lives like an undertow, and if you drown, they don’t notice—and if they did happen to notice, they sure as shit wouldn’t care. They don’t watch you. Not unless you’re bending over or showing off your tits.

I walked myself right into the trap. This is my new jail. This terrifying, silent man is my new jailor, and there’s no way out.

When he hurts me, I’ll fight. Then I’ll go for the weights. The bat. The knives. I have options.

My nipples contract, hardening into points that poke into my forearms. I raise my eyes to meet his, and instantly, I’m stuck, a fly in honey. His black, glassy irises are tar. Quicksand. My breath shallows.

Calmly, methodically, he wraps his fingers around the base of my ponytail, slides his fist to the ends, and then winds my hair around his hand, forcing my neck to crane and my chin to rise. Pulling at my scalp until tears spring to my eyes. I can feel his strength, how much he’s holding back. I reach behind my head to clutch his wrists, but I can’t budge him. My back is forced to arch. I sob. He leans to speak in my ear, his breath hot on my cheek. “I like it either way,” he says.

I knew it would be like this. She’s still afraid, but soon, she won’t be. Zita’s no coward. She’s a fighter. I can’t wait for her to throw down.

No, it’s gonna kill Paul DeStefano. One day when Zita doesn’t give a shit about him anymore, I’m going to decapitate him with a hacksaw and punt his head off the Widow’s Bluff overlook into the Luckahannock.

Some men have Jesus. God and country. A dream. Ambition. I have Zita.

We’re hurtling toward the end, throwing ourselves over an edge, running and leaping because everything else in the world hurts. Everything else is cold and impossible and empty, and this isn’t.

While I gasp for air, he kisses my lips, softly, as he gazes into my eyes. And I am afraid. Because he’s not smug. Not self-satisfied, not done and over it until he wants it again. He’s here. With me. Me.

In between, Nicky keeps me tucked against him, and he strokes my hair, my arms, down the valley between my breasts to my belly. My muscles ache, my limbs are weak, and my brain is numb. Quiet. The fear is muted and far away, and whenever it swells, Nicky flips me over and fucks me until I’m floating again.

“I’ve gotten us here, Zita,” he says. “I’ll get us the rest of the way.”

Nicky’s black eyes are on fire. He’s not there. His stony control is gone, and he’s not a guy in a suit. He’s an avenging angel, St. Michael from the mural on the ceiling of St. Celestine’s, the beautiful monster that strikes terror into the hearts of men.

The women in our circle whisper that that’s why Dario Volpe married her. I don’t believe it. I’ve seen him look at her, how his eyes turn almost human.

“Do you know how many bodies he’s laid at my feet to earn you? How many of my enemies he’s erased? How many bullets he’s taken?”

I am broken, but I’m not afraid.

When I fucked her out of her head, she treated me like what I am—hers.

Some men have hearts. Souls. Walls. I have Zita Graziano.

She’s so vulnerable. I want to build her a suit of armor. I want to arm her to the teeth.

She’s beautiful. Her smile fucks my heartbeat up. Her body haunts my dreams. I know she doesn’t see it that way, though.

She and I aren’t drowning, though. Every day, we’re working on our escape, and she doesn’t know it, but I’m not leaving her behind. She’s my strength. If I hadn’t found her, my lungs would’ve taken on water years ago, but she saved me.

“I’ll make you feel good,” I tell her. I’ll drive all the demons out of her mind. I’ll break her free, and I’ll build her a new life.

Nicky fucks like he’s lost his mind, and he’s trying to find it between my legs. He fucks like I’m hiding something that he’s desperate for.

I haven’t forgotten who the enemy is. And in the back of my head, so faint, so hesitant that I almost—almost—don’t hear it over the roar of mindlessness I’m hurtling towards, a voice whispers, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

He’s repainting my memories. Now, I was never alone here. He was up there. Not coming closer because I was happy. Peaceful.

“Come lower. Ride my face.” He licks my outer lips, nibbles their fat, swollen folds, and swipes his tongue along the inner lips that peek out. “I’m going to smother you.” I squirm. “You hate me, remember?” he says. “Do your best.”

I understand exactly what he’s feeling when he looks at me like that. Not because I feel that way about him. Not yet. But because his craving speaks to something inside me. Not the ugliness that tries to drag me under but the longing that keeps me going, keeps me fighting, maybe down but never out.

when he’s around— I’m stronger. Even when I’m falling apart.