His Pretty Little Burden: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 4)
His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 2

Present Day

MY MUM TOLD me that bad things come in threes.

Her death: number one.

His murder: number two.

Yep, murder.

Not an accident like they reported.

A murder.

A collection of crows.

Stop stalling!

So, while I look across the street at the imposing, steep white gates, knowing I have mentally and physically prepared myself for this afternoon, wearing a nice pair of jeans, tan ankle boots, and a cute crop top, the swarm of butterflies in the pit of my stomach reminds me that I have number three looming. And that I’m out of my depth here… Stupid, even, for considering reaching out to a man who doesn’t know I exist. Which, according to my mum, isn’t exactly a bad thing.

She’d said he’s a dangerous man.

But I need a dangerous man.

I peer out at the enormous walls that seem to go on forever to my right and left, a sprawling white barrier for an enormous estate. He needs the walls. He’s a crook. Well, Mafia is the word she used, although it’s hard to stomach such a serious accusation. In the Mafia? A Mafia man?

Sighing, I wrinkle my nose. No, I don’t even know how to phrase it in my head, but he’s damn dodgy. I worry my bottom lip while reaching for my right plait, untangling the freshly washed strands before starting on the left.

Just cross the street.

Knock.

My feet don’t move.

I shake my hair free, the long straight blonde curtain falling down my shoulders and over my breasts. I try to calm my nerves, reminding myself that Mum also believed mattress factories are warehouses harbouring secret alien research laboratories. “Five mattress factories in this town, baby. Five. We only buy a mattress every ten years. Who is buying all these mattresses?”

Forcing my feet forward, I take the first step and then watch a camera set above the wall come to life, stalking me the entire way up to the intercom.

When I face the speaker, my eyes widen, reality reaching into my chest and squeezing the air from me. I fiddle with the ends of my hair. It’s not too late to just walk away. I could do a little wave, mouth ‘whoops, wrong house,’ and run like a lunatic back to the bus stop. Maybe no one saw me, maybe the camera has a sensor, maybe no one is actually—

“Miss, please state your business.’

Fuck. I step backwards, then forwards, then backwards because that step was way too big before forcing the words out. “I’m looking for my father.”

Smooth.

I grimace at my outburst, locking my jaw to cease the verbal diarrhoea. When silence circles me, butterflies start to breed inside me, plotting to escape straight through my stomach lining. “Did… did you hear me?”

“What is the name of the man you wish to see?”

“Right, sorry.” I lean into the speaker, my voice a stammering mess. “Jimmy Storm. He lives here, right?” I swallow. “He knows my father, I think. At least that’s what my mum said. I was hoping he would help me replace him.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Ah, Dustin Nerrock… They’re friends. I’ve been trying to track him down for months.” That’s a lie. It’s been exactly eleven weeks, four days, and thirty-seven minutes. I knew from that moment this was my only choice. The only option left. And despite hating asking favours, even more so from privileged people, I’ll do anything for Benji.

Startling me, the gate to my left opens. I’m surprised by the soundless way it slides across the silver driveway. A big breath puffs out my cheeks. I’ve come this far. Before I can wander through, the man on the intercom says, “Wait on the bench by the pond. We will send someone to collect you, Miss. It is quite a walk to the main house.”

I nod, wrapped in awe, as I walk over the threshold. He is going to think I want money. I’m prepared for that assumption. It’s not like these people would miss a small amount, though.

Gazing at the rippling lily pond directly to my left, surrounded by perfectly sculptured hedges, I wish Mum had at least told my dad about me. Wish that she had asked for help, so she could have put food on the table more often. Maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself trying to be a mother when she clearly had no idea how to be one… maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself.

I stroll over to the black-and-white marble bench beside the pond. Sitting, I marvel at the hedges, rolling parallel to the driveway and disappearing off into the distance. I feel as though I have tumbled down a rabbit hole. The hedges are almost too large, the greens too vivid. It reminds me of the movie The Labyrinth, and that, of course, reminds me of Benji.

A sad sigh leaves me. This place is far removed from my foster mother’s little red brick house in Storm River, with her dry, dusty backyard littered with my foster brother’s bikes and broken-down vehicles.

I shuffle nervously when a shiny black car comes into view, the sleek elegance of it an odd sight amongst the vast greenery, the car’s metallic paint glittering under the sun’s gentle touch. It slows to a stop, and I stand, smoothing my shirt down my stomach. Blinking at the ominous black vehicle, I wait.

A man in his early forties, black suit and black tie, steps from the driver’s seat before wandering around to the passenger door. He looks like a butler on steroids. “You won’t be seen for a few hours. The man you need to speak with is busy. Please,”—he gestures politely to the backseat—“I’ll take you somewhere you can wait.”

The formalities stir me. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to impose. If he’s busy, I can come back?’

‘It’s fine, Miss. Please.’ He nods towards the open passenger door.

I swallow my need to hightail it and run as the big arse butterflies inside me fight for space. “Okey dokey.”

Climbing into the passenger seat, I shuffle to the opposite window to take in the sights. As the car takes off, rolling smoothly up the driveway, I realise there is nothing to be seen except hedges. An elegant solution to any privacy problem. Private people have things to hide… I would know.

Rising as we climb a hill, I see an extended roofline with multiple chimneys, and then the house comes into view. No. Understatement. A mansion. “Woah,” I mutter in wonder. It’s three storeys, at least, with a wide, imposing frontage. Large colonial-style pillars tower from the ground floor to the top.

A gentle breeze brings the Australian flag to life, waving it from atop a white pole. I shuffle around the backseat to watch a gardener water the lawn—it appears newly laid with the roll lines still visible, the blades not having weaved together yet.

As we pull into the turning circle, I blink my surprise from my eyes. The boundary netting of a tennis court is visible behind large palm trees. My mouth drops open as I stare up the front steps to the pillars and double doors.

The passenger door is opened for me, and I step out. Fuck me… My nerves are twitching. I look at the flag. He’s patriotic. That’s a good sign, surely?

“I’ll take you around to the pool, where you can wait,” Henchman Jeeves says, indicating for me to follow him.

Passing the four armed guards at the door, I tail him into a parlour and spin around to take in the grandeur, unapologetically stunned.

While walking backwards to not miss a single detail, I peer up the staircase. The sun seems to flood the space, light rolling up the glossy porcelain flooring. Mr Storm’s cleaner must be very good at her job; I can’t see a single blemish.

“Come along.”

I hurry after him.

Entering a room on the left, I watch Henchman Jeeves open double French doors to reveal a large wrap-around stone veranda with marble steps cascading like a waterfall down to the poolside.

“Woah,” I say again, stopping at the top of the steps, the breeze skimming the water surface and rising to tousle my hair around. The aqua water glows within a border of manicured gardens.

“You can wait out here,” he says, and before I can ask him a question, he is on the other side of the French doors, striding away. Shrugging, I ignore the wrought-iron table and tiny chairs because they don’t look comfortable at all.

Knowing the person who owns this house decided to buy them despite having plenty of money, makes me suspicious.

Surely, they are ornamental.

I sit down on the second step, cuddle my knees, and gaze at the pristine gardens and pool with canals disappearing under bridges and around corners.

Drumming my fingers on my leg, I try to redirect my mind while my stomach twists in hunger. The peanut butter sandwich I had back in the motel wasn’t enough after the train, two buses, and two kilometre walk here. Fucksake. I don’t want to ask for anything here, though. I hate owing people shit. I’ll feel that tether of debt regardless, but for Benji, I can handle it.

“Here’s a sandwich.”

I laugh out loud, spinning to replace Henchman Jeeves approaching with a plate. “Thank you, you are fantastic at your job, but I can’t accept that.’

He sets the food down despite my refusal. I peer at a toasted Caesar sandwich, my stomach growling, my mouth salivating. That smells epic.

“Your empty stomach just had a conversation with me in the car. So, yes, you can accept it,” he notes, his words circled in humour, his tone surprising me.

I chuckle, snubbing out my embarrassment with a joke. “Well, thank you. But you know what they say, malnourished is the new sexy.”

I lift the sandwich. The toast crunches as I sink my teeth in. Salt and creamy dressing explode in my mouth. It’s so fucking good. I chew it, twisting to watch the view of the pool. As I moan around a bite of bacon, someone comes up behind me, clearing their throat. I turn, expecting to see Henchman Jeeves, but instead, I crane my neck even further, dragging my eyes over the crisp, fitted charcoal suit of a man who is clearly not a butler or a henchman.

Piercing blue eyes trained on me with unapologetic inference. Behind him, a henchman with an emotionless face stands with his hands by his sides, not looking at me, but appearing ready for anything.

I jump to my feet, dusting the toast crumbs off my jeans and straightening my shirt.

“Hi,” I say, the word skating down a heavy breath. Arching my neck further, I feel as though I am withering beneath his gaze. I attempt to control the budding of my anxieties, inhaling fresh air. An attempt to zero fucking avail.

Now, I don’t believe in God, never have, but if God made man in his image, then I think the tall, dark, thirty-something-year-old in front of me was the prototype. Being beautifully tanned, handsome, with that perfect masculine jawline, and broad chest filling out his expensive black suit to perfection—he’s a damn work of art.

Kudos, God.

And while I have you, you’re an a-hole.

Amen.

My pulse kicks up when his dark brows weave in contemplation, reminding me who he is. What my mum said he is. What I hope he is… Mafia. It’s unmissable too. The suit and polished outward appearance do nothing to gentrify him. I see it within his aura—the phantom of darkness, a no bullshit, no excuses, takes-what-he-wants kind of energy that is very at home within him. My heart shudders with unease because maybe I’m wrong about him being designed by God.

Maybe he’s the creation of the Devil.

I shuffle in his shadow.

“You believe you’re Dustin Nerrock’s daughter?” he says, projecting a tone of smooth, effortless authority. Dropping his gaze to my feet, he scrutinises me slowly, leisurely trailing the length of my body. Settling on my face, his eyes narrow. “You bear no resemblance.”

Not sure why, but that hurts. I’d rather look like the predator than the prey, but I admit, “I look like my mum.”

He nods towards the chair that I refused to sit on earlier, holding his hand out to insist I precede him. And although I immediately walk over to it, my gaze is snagged on the size of his hand. I wonder how many dirty deals he’s signed with them, how many men he’s beaten to death. “Take a seat.”

Doing as I’m told, I slide into the chair, still holding my sandwich tightly. The Devil’s prototype sits down opposite me, leans back, and settles his ankle on top of his knee. He’s all smooth and casual, while wearing a suit that drips wealth, that screams he is anything but a casual man. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. The man you came to see died twelve months ago.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks, feeling as though I’ve missed my opportunity, as though the three buses here were a waste of time, and the money spent just a waste in general.

“Your father…” A hint of a grin tugs at his left lip, the charismatic curve lighting a flame in the lowest part of my abdomen. I don’t like that reaction. “If he is, in fact, your father, is very much alive.”

My eyes widen. “Really? Do you know where I can replace him? Where is he?”

“Firstly,’—he motions to me, a piercing blue gaze sliding across my face with intent—“your name?”

“Fawn.” My eyes dart to the sandwich, which I instinctively place on the table instead of holding it in my lap like a dog afraid her master will take away her bone. “I’m Fawn.”

“You understand I need to make sure you are Dustin’s daughter, don’t you?” When the words leave his mouth, I sink further down onto the cold, hard chair because I have no proof. Just a dead woman’s bedtime stories. I glance to my lap, worrying my lip.

“Fawn,” he says, and as though he has a direct line to my chin, my head rises to meet his stern gaze. “When I talk to you, you look me in the eye.”

Fuck me.

Forcing the dryness from my throat, I swallow and nod. His glowing blue eyes dart to watch the roll of my throat. “And you answer me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say straightaway, his tone stoking the little flame in my abdomen to a full-blown fire. “I understand. It’s just… I have no proof.”

He twists his knees to face away from me. “Come over here. Let me get a good look at you.”

I blink at him.

Once.

Twice…

Oh my God, he’s serious.

When I stand, my legs tremble, nerves racketing through me. I take the two steps to stand by his side, waiting for instruction. He opens his legs. “Kneel.”

My heart scrambles right into my throat while my body does exactly as he commanded—I’m a puppet and he wields the strings. I swear I didn’t give my legs permission to kneel, but I’m between his thighs now, and he’s looking down at my face with a measuring gaze.

I hold his stare, watching the way it traces the curves of my features, the way it flicks from one of my eyes to the other, an action I’m familiar with, given I have one green eye and one blue-grey.

Captivated by him, my breath catches when his forefinger touches my chin, lifting. And God, his smell moves around me, into me. He doesn’t smell like Benji. His scent is like his aura: deep, rich, powerful, and just so very… masculine.

When the French doors open, a man walks through them, and I peer at him without turning my head, my chin still controlled by the gentle touch of his finger. He taps the side of my chin, drawing my attention back to his intense stare that seems to have never left my face. Under his gaze, everything seems strange. Dizzying, yes. But also… like I want to make damn sure I don’t disrespect him.

The man beside us hands him something, and I catch the flash of a thin white column. My breathing instantly becomes shallow. He notices, his eyes dropping to my chest, watching my nervousness play out through the weighted rise and fall of my breasts. His gaze drags back up to my face as he says, “Now. Open these lips.”

When I don’t instantly respond, too busy contemplating his words, bewilderment squeezing my lungs, his hand moves to my jaw. I gasp as he digs his fingers into my cheeks, parting my teeth, forcing my lips wide apart. I wince at the harsh hold, but don’t show any resistance, don’t recoil either, too focused on breathing, on staying very still. He’s dangerous; that much is damn clear. A mob boss? My mind drifts to the feel of his hands, to how those hands have probably taken a life… or two. How he could probably throw my head to the side, snap my neck, and not break a sweat.

And no one will miss you.

He stares at my open mouth, the vulnerability I feel set ablaze by his unwavering attention. I peer down through my lashes as he puts what looks like a white Q-Tip between my lips. A whimper of fear drifts up my throat, feeling utterly helpless. His eyes shift at the sound, now both a cool, crystal-clear blue ocean and a dark, tempestuous sea.

The fire in my abdomen billows into my veins.

A tickle caresses the inner flesh of my cheek, a gentle stroke that moves up and down inside me, the action and sensation forcing a tiny mewl from my throat. A zap of awareness rushes between my legs. I curl in, squeezing my eyes tight, squeezing my thighs together, fending off the warmth making me want to rock my body.

The Q-Tip leaves my cheek.

His hold on my jaw softens. Fingertips caress my sore cheek muscles in a soothing way, making small circles around the harsh dips his thumb and forefinger left, completely replacing the discomfort with… I don’t know, but I think a soft smile plays on my lips at the sensation, an action so incongruous with the weight of indecency in the air.

“Good girl.” In my dazed state, I barely hear him say, “Stand. Go back to your seat.”

I place my palm in his, the size comparison instantly dragging me back to a place of sanity. And while I have it, I use his hand to stand and then drop it quickly, as though something may happen if I feel its warmth a moment longer.

Needing to shift my focus, I grab the sandwich as I slide onto the cold iron chair. Taking a huge bite, I swallow the bacon and chicken, along with the feel of him inside my mouth. Chewing, I ignore the way my body prickles and swoons beneath his gaze.

“Does Dustin know about you?” he asks, his voice taking on a gravelly timbre, a more virile edge. I shake my head, still chewing to avoid anything else. “Fawn,” he warns. The demand for my words, not a simple nod, sails through the air between us and rattles my resolve.

I swallow chunks of the sandwich, replaceing his gaze again. “No. He doesn’t know.”

“Why now?”

Dread replaces a place amongst the fire in my stomach. I wince, glancing at my ankle boots to avoid the perfect blue gaze scrutinising me so thoroughly I feel bare. “That’s private.”

Silence prickles the air between us, and when I look back at him, a slow smile moves across his lips, both daring me and warning me not to be disrespectful. “I asked you a question, Fawn. I expect the right answer.”

Shifting, I work my lower lip between my teeth. I don’t want to lie. I’m a terrible liar. But I don’t know him. And he’s not the person I came to see… I decide to tell him a half-truth, admitting, “I’m pregnant.’ A heavy exhale leaves me, and I meet his eyes, seeing his jaw respond with the slightest of tics. I’m not sure why, but that twisted truth seems to annoy him. And I don’t like how I now care about how he perceives me.

Not that it should matter what he thinks.

Not wanting to make this about money, I follow this half-truth, pressing, “I don’t want money. I just thought that maybe Dustin would want the baby. His grandchild.’

Another tic from him.

Another sinking feeling for me.

Why do I care?

Why do I care that he’s now looking at me like a silly girl for having gotten knocked-up, for not having a home, for being so vulnerable?

The quiet is painful, stretching between us for too long. I can’t handle it. With a nervous chuckle, I blurt out, “I can’t keep it. I’m eighteen. I’ve got very little money. Nowhere to go. I’m… I just can’t look after a baby.’

I’m not made of the right stuff.

It’s not a lie. But it still hurts. I feel my eyes pool, my composure slip, but keep them on him as he asked, keep them submerged in his calculating blue gaze that is somehow unreadable no matter how intensely I feel it tunnelling beneath my skin.

“Good,” he finally says, and I gape at him. “If you’re Dustin’s daughter, then you will stay here.” He stands, smoothing down his black tie. “Until Dustin arrives to collect his property, that is.’

As he turns to leave, I shoot up. “Wait. Here? In this house? How long for?”

“Logistics, Fawn. Your father is a busy man. A…” He considers his words. “Tiresome man to track down. Bolton will show you to your room.”

Then he disappears through the grand French doors to the mansion that is now my place of residence, flanked by his emotionless henchman.

Fuck me.

Not what I was expecting. I want to exhale with the utter relief I feel about having a free place to sleep for a few nights, for being that much closer to my dad and answers, but I’m also acutely aware that nothing in this life comes without certain expectations.

And kindness usually has a cost.