A fingernail traces the grooves of my six-pack, and she lowers her head. When she sucks me back into her mouth, I exhale breath through my teeth.
“Yeah. More of that.”
The pace she sets works. And when my hips start to jerk upward, she rides the rhythm, taking me even deeper, until my balls tense and the seed spills in a pounding rush.
“Mmm,” I groan, burying my fingers in her shiny hair and stroking her scalp. “Fuck.”
* * *
ARYA
I am goingto leave the Viking. Silently and without warning.
But not for the reason he’ll probably think. The way he forced me to bend over and take him… that rough sex wasthe bestever.
It’s early afternoon and he’s sound asleep as I shuffle out of the bedroom. I’m wearing Erik’s white t-shirt and need to change. The borrowed shirt is what put us in this position. I wish I’d never opened his dresser.
The tight plastic-wrapped stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills are still scattered on the floor next to the tall wardrobe. I knocked them down while searching for the safe’s combination. Wanting to get a better look in the fire-proof safe that’s nailed to the floor seemed imperative because his journals were full of passages of violence and death, albeit beautifully described.
One passage, dated two years earlier, turned my blood cold.
I had been flipping through the older journals from around the time we met, looking for anything he’d written about me. I did not expect to read a first-hand account of Luis’s murder.
The Viking’s journal contained the story of a group of young drug cartel members, leaders and soldiers, who were set upon in a house by a group of men from the Irish Mafia. The description of the stillness and the military precision used to move from room to room were eerie. Silencers were used so that, as each man was killed, the others wouldn’t wake from the sound of gun shots.
Upon reading that account in Erik’s journal, a headline from a Boston newspaper immediately shrieked across my mind.Five Sosa Cartel Members Slain.
The things in Erik’s journal could be fiction. He’s a writer, so it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d read the news article and used it for inspiration. Maybe he plans to write True Crime one day. Or a thriller. His guns and the stacks of cash, however, suggest a sinister alternative.
Returning to my voicemails, I listen to the one from my father that mentions the Viking’s uncle’s name. Joe Sullivan.
When I use my phone to search for that name in connection with Boston organized crime, dozens of results appear. The first story is from four years earlier. In the picture, Sullivan looks to be in his sixties. He wears an expensive suit as he sits at a courtroom table.
The headline reads,Alleged Head of Irish Crime Syndicate Acquitted
Rubbing my forehead, I grimace.
As I skim the article and the following one, my worst fears are confirmed. Joe Sullivan is the head of the Irish Mafia in Boston.
I look up the article about the Sosa house slayings. The story reports that a confidential informant said Joe Sullivan ordered the killings to resolve an ongoing conflict with the Sosa Cartel.
The rifle is for hunting,Erik said.
I picture the Viking at the door, pulling down night-vision goggles as he left.
This is the reason Erik didn’t even blink when I warned him two years ago about how dangerous the Sosa family was. It’s why he never asked me a single question. He already knew who they were. His family was already at war with them.
The cold feeling in the pit of my stomach turns to ice.
Erik Sorensen isn’t just a superstar football player and student newspaper reporter.
He’s also a Mafia hitman.
18
ERIK
When I wake, it’s afternoon and I’m alone in bed. With a gruff exhalation, I glance around the room. The packets of money are still in the corner.
