Rachel Dyken - Elect

“Then breathe in me.” I released her and took off my soaked black t-shirt. “Breathe in my atmosphere because then at least I know you’re breathing. At least then I can hear you inhale and exhale. Trace, I can’t fix what’s been broken, and I’m not trying to take his place. God knows I can’t, no matter how badly I wish I could.”

She slumped against me and wrapped her arms around my neck, clinging onto me so tightly that I could feel her heat through her clothing.

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I’ll eat.”

“And what else?” I pried her away from me. “What else are you going to do?”

“Fight.”

“And why are you going to fight, Trace?” I whispered.

She took a deep breath. Water fell across her full lips. “Because that’s what he would have wanted.”

“Damn right.” I grabbed her hand and kissed it.

She gasped and then, somehow, I don’t even know how it happened, we were kissing. No—we weren’t kissing—I was devouring her.

Was it wrong to be thankful? To be so damn lost in another person that even though what they were offering were their broken and used pieces—you still grasped at them for dear life and wished that somehow if you loved them enough, those pieces would magically fuse back together?

“I’m not him, Trace,” I said against her lips.

“I know.” She sighed into my mouth. “I know.”

Our lips broke apart. Both of us stepped away from one another. Damn if it didn’t feel like a part of me was dying right along with Nixon.

She looked down.

Our relationship was going to be complicated; that much was sure. But I wasn’t letting her go—it would take an act of God for me to let her go.

“Take off your clothes.” I sighed.

“What? No! Then I’d be naked!”

I tried to hold in the laughter, tried and failed.

She swatted me with her hand and then joined in. Tears streamed down her face; I wasn’t sure if they were from amusement or just exhaustion.

“Kinda the point, Trace. I promise I can control my urges. Now take off your clothes, we’ll shower on different sides, I’ll be turned around the entire time. Even though, I have always imagined what you’d look like naked…”

“Ass.” She lifted her shirt over her head.

“Always.” I winked. “I’ll always be an ass for you.”

“How sweet.” She stepped out of the workout shorts she was wearing and stripped herself of the rest of her clothes. And as much as I was wanting to slam her against the wall, I couldn’t. Because I was pretty damn sure the last person who had seen her that way had been Nixon.

I wouldn’t take that memory away from her. I wouldn’t replace it with pieces of me—that, in my heart, would be the final betrayal, so I turned around, took off my own clothes and showered with her.

We didn’t touch again.

We didn’t mention the kiss.

And in the end. I made her laugh twice.

Which basically meant I was badass. I needed her laugh more than she realized.

Her laugh told me that even though it hurt like hell… we were going to be okay… One day, maybe not today, we would recover.

“So this is fun,” I grumbled, wondering why I was literally sitting a foot away from the scariest mafia boss known to Sicily. He smirked and said nothing, while Frank, my father’s murderer, kept a gun pointed at my head.

Low point. Definite low point.

“I never said thank you.” I cleared my throat and tried not to sound as freaked as I felt.

“For?” Frank answered.

“Killing my father, of course.”

Frank snorted. “I cannot tell if you are upset I beat you to the punch or if you truly mean what you say.”

“Had he not done it, I would have,” Luca piped up from the front seat. The driver was taking us through a series of subdivisions, almost making me dizzy as trees and perfect houses flew by the windows.

“Come again?” I asked.

“Your father, I hope he’s burning in Hell,” Luca said crisply. “And I hope when I meet him there, I’m able to experience his death by my hands for an eternity.”

Shit. I really hoped Luca wasn’t going to be the one to kill me. I knew I’d already pissed him off enough for a lifetime of torture—which begged the question why was I still sucking in air when he’d made it perfectly clear a few weeks ago that if I double-crossed him, or as much as talked—he’d end me.

“Why am I here—”

“Not now,” Luca snapped. “It isn’t safe.”

“Right. Never is,” I mumbled.

“You’re lucky I need you. If I were you, I’d pray for my soul—because if this ends badly—yours will be damned right along with your father’s.”

“Can’t pray for something you never had.”

I always hated “family” meetings. For normal people, a family meeting meant a talk over curfew or maybe even game night.

Right. Our games included blood and guns. Pretty sure a family meeting at my house was like inviting the devil to dinner.

The only thing I couldn’t really figure out was why we were meeting at my house of all places. I mean, I understood that Nixon was gone, but Mo wasn’t, and since that family was the family, it just seemed strange.

At any rate, it was totally possible that my dad had thought it would be too hard to stay at Nixon’s. I put on nice black slacks and a white button-up with a green tie. The other thing about family meetings?

You had to be respectful. My dad hated that I had tattoos, said they made me look like a punk, which only encouraged me to get more. He wanted me to cover them during meetings.

It had always been tougher for Nixon, considering he even had tattoos behind his ear, not to mention the lip piercing that pissed almost everyone off who met him.

He’d rebelled because it was the only control over his life that he’d had—what he did to his body, it was his and only his. Other than that, his life, the journey he’d been on, had been solidly planned out for him.

“Chase?” my dad called from downstairs.

“Coming.” I grabbed my gun and sent a quick text to Trace for her to stay out of trouble and to keep the doors locked. The Abandonato house was like a freaking fortress—still it didn’t make me feel any better about leaving her alone, especially in her emotional state.

The Abandonato family was huge. Everyone was present, at least all the men. Typically, the women would meet with us for a meal and then we’d all go our separate ways. The men went into a separate room to talk business and smoke cigars and the women gossiped in the kitchen.

You could tell it wasn’t a typical meeting.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, looked like they’d had about an hour’s sleep.

Hushed murmurs came from the living room when I walked in. Why was everyone staring at me? Shit, could they see my tattoos through my white shirt?

Feeling awkward, I nodded once, and walked over to the bar to make myself a drink.

I needed something strong if I was going to make it through the night. Just talking about Nixon made me feel sick.

“How’s it going?” Tex appeared at my side.

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged and took a sip of straight whiskey. “Fantastic.”

Tex chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He poured himself a similar drink, only he added more whiskey to his tumbler. “It’s just that, maybe you and Nixon are more alike than you realize. It’s like he’s left his dark mood with you as well as the stick that was permanently fused in his ass.”

“Thanks, man.” I cracked a smile, not because I thought he was funny but because his words actually made me feel better. It made me feel like somehow Nixon was still with us.

My dad cleared his throat and tapped his glass. “Would everyone please get comfortable? We have much to discuss.”

Tex and I took a seat by the fireplace and waited. A few men grumbled but everyone quieted down when my dad began talking again.

“While we mourn the loss of Nixon…”—he sighed—“we are thankful for the sacrifice he made in order to save our family.”

A few men nodded in agreement while others made a cross over their chests and kissed their fingertips in prayer.

“God bless him.” My father’s voice was choked. “May God continue to watch over this family.”

“Amen,” we all said in unison, making a sweeping motion from our foreheads to our hearts and across our chests.

“Now.” My father clapped his hands. “I hope we can move past the murder that took place so long ago. Nixon’s death proves a life for a life. The Nicolosi family has made it right and we are not to continue searching into something that no longer holds any value in this family.”

That didn’t sit well with me because I still wanted to know who’d killed Trace’s parents, and I knew there was no way that Nixon’s dad had actually committed the murder. For one thing, he’d been a better assassin than that. He’d been set up, and if it wasn’t by the De Lange family… then it had to have been by someone else. Someone who had reason enough to want to knock out not only Trace’s family, but Nixon’s as well.

“… it only makes sense to keep it in the family,” my dad finished. I’d blanked out the first part, but I assumed he was doing what he did best. Taking control.

“Who?” My cousin Vin spoke up. “The only choice would be you, but—”

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” My dad put his hands up. “I do not want the job. My job is to be the right hand of the one in control. I like it that way and though it naturally would fall to me… I believe there is one who deserves it, dare I say, even more so than Nixon.”

Confused, I looked around the room. Who the hell deserved to lead the family more than Nixon? His father had been the boss, as had his father and his before him? Pissed, I was about ready to storm out of the room when I heard my name.

“Chase,” my dad ordered. “Please stand.”

I wanted to say no thanks, but I couldn’t disrespect my father in front of everyone. On shaky legs I walked to the middle of the room. Every eye was on me. I felt hot then cold all over. This couldn’t be happening—it was too soon. I’d never wanted this.

My dad pulled something out of his pocket. “I nominate my son, Chase. Nixon’s best friend and right-hand man. He’s been here since the beginning; he watched the horrors of Nixon’s childhood and stood by his side during the investigation, going as far as to enroll in Eagle Elite to flush out the murderer. He saved Tracey Alfero’s life. There is no one that deserves this title more, not even myself.”

Stunned, I stood there, hoping to God people would think my dad was drunk and spouting absolute nonsense. I opened my mouth to say something but was too late.

“I second.” Vin raised his hand.

“Third.”

“Fourth.”

Men kept agreeing, and with each agreement I felt like I couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. I didn’t want it. I’d never wanted it. I imagined what was happening to me felt a lot like slavery, like watching yourself getting sold to the highest bidder knowing your life would never be your own again.

“It must be unanimous.” My dad cleared his throat and looked at Tex.

My eyes pleaded. I stared him down. Hard. I was going to kick his ass if he raised his hand. “I’m sorry, Chase.” Tex closed his eyes and raised his hand.

Words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t think. Not with everyone staring at me, not with my dad holding my hand in the air.

And when he thrust a ring on my right hand, I almost puked.

Nixon’s ring.

I’d said I wanted to be him.

And now I was.

I closed my eyes to keep the tears of rage in.

It should have never happened this way.

And now I was stuck just like he was, chained to the family in more ways than one, and poor Trace—history was on repeat.

“You okay, man?” Tex brought me my fifth glass of whiskey and smacked me on the back of the head.

“Use a baseball bat instead of your hand and I’ll let you know.” I sipped the drink and let the alcohol slide down my throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re an ass,” I spat. “All you had to do was say no.” My words were already beginning to slur but I didn’t care.

“I know that.” Tex took a seat next to me. “But your dad was right. He isn’t the man for the job, you are. Maybe by taking his place, you’ll set things right.”