Dancing with the Mob: A Dark Mafia Romance Two-Book Collection

by Suzanne Hart

  I almost didn’t look, I wanted to close them. I looked over at the pilot, he shrugged, grinning a now you know, I fucking told you so grin. It was planted on his immaculately trimmed, bearded, smug-as-fuck face. I wanted to punch him right in his majestic jaw, but I had a feeling now, more than ever, that it was one of those rare times when Jack Slade played dumb and actually listened and learned something before making his next move.

  I put both cans over my ears, letting them both get some warmth, and so I could hear better when I asked the pilot. “So, is there anybody who doesn’t know what Jack Slade is doing tonight?” His grin broadened.

  “Your mom?” he said, chuckling to himself. There was no stab of pain or rage. Here was a guy, doing his job and only answering a stupid question from a stupid guy.

  I had to bite that one down. I spent the rest of the trip staring out the window, the points of light below us winking in the cold night, and the chopper’s rotors thumping a rhythm that was constant and sure. I couldn’t relate to any of it.

  As long as Mia is safe, I can look like a fool. I’d give it all up for her, and I don’t even know why.

  The time passed slowly, self-pity and projecting my anxieties in my mind seemed to stretch out the minutes into what felt like days. When we were getting closer to our destination, the pilot let me know we were getting closer. Turned out his training, a little like my own, limited him to one smart ass remark per mission. And for the last few minutes, before we landed, I was imagining myself feeding his manicured beard, face and all, right down to his torso, and right into the tail rotors.

  A small team was waiting in a semi-circle near the helipad on a rooftop. It was dark, except for the neon glow leeching out from underneath the chopper after it had landed. It was winding down. I assumed it was going to wait for me, which was a good sign. I felt a sense of relief that at least one thing had gone right so far, since leaving the Leone estate.

  Three suits, one towered above the other two, it was Gull. He shook my hand, but I could hardly hear what he said over the dying whines and sonic piercing of the chopper. He motioned us all inside a pair of large glass doors. Government Issue, gray everything greeted us, but at least it was warmer. Gull beckoned me further down the corridor, up some stairs, then finally into an elevator.

  Gull didn’t speak, neither did the other two, they could’ve been twins. Standard issue suits with earpieces and sunglasses. Straight ahead and deadpan. I knew they were there to babysit me, to kill me if I went apeshit and tried to do something stupid. I saw myself in the mirrored interior of the elevator, I looked like hell. And for a moment, I thought there was some sort of vagrant or crazy person off the street in the lift with us.

  My eyes bulged, sunken sockets hung on top of my drawn cheekbones, scratched with stubble and dried blood, still. I had helicopter hair, which stood out against the other three, who were sporting close crops. Don Leone had all his men keep regular hairstyles, just to fit in. I was planning my buzz cut as I heard the ping, and we got off the lift.

  “Right this way, Mr. Slade,” Gull said politely.

  We had taken just enough turns for me to begin to lose track of where we had come from, when he offered me an open door to a small room with red carpet and dark gray walls. I stepped in, ahead of the three. The door was closed behind me. I turned, expecting to be alone, or to see Gull.

  It was Rich.

  We stood staring at each other for a moment. He looked just as bad as I did. A part of me wanted to hit him, a bigger part of me wanted to ask him about a thousand questions.

  I renewed my resolve to not speak, to listen. To learn, maybe, about something of what was actually going on. I was the only one, it seemed, who had no idea about what was actually happening this day.

  “First, Jack, I need to say, I’m not FBI. I’m just me. It’s Rich you’re talking to.” He paused for effect, but I was deadpan. “Two, we were hit and Mia was taken, and not by Bernardi’s men, even though we know now; that’s where they took her, to Bernardi.”

  I stayed still and silent, keeping deadpan was easy. I’d just had enough of all of it.

  “I do some contract work for these guys, from time to time. Mostly hits. This time, they wanted me to infiltrate Mia Bella, to find out if there was any sort of threat or financial extortion going on, from a rival cartel. Not the Bernardi’s. That’s all I know, Jack, honest.” He looked uneasy, glancing behind me at the one-way mirrored glass. Not deliberately, just enough micro-movement to give away his tell.

  I rapidly went through some options in my own mind. Instinct wanted to blow Rich’s face off, then shoot my way out of there, hijack the chopper and fly to rescue Mia, but that only happened in movies. This was real, so I had to play it smart, even if I was being quiet. Rich had been a dick, I could tell, but we went too far back for me to just kill him for no reason.

  I also knew Rich was lying through his ass. He always was a terrible liar. It’s why he used scope and a rifle for most of his jobs. But intelligence, deception, no, they weren’t his strong points.

  There was a small metal table in the center of the room, with a stainless chair either side. I took a seat, glancing at myself in the glass, shooting a knowing look too, at whoever was watching us from the other side.

  I looked up at Rich, and he took a seat opposite me, folding his huge hands in front of him. I detected a slight tremor in his left hand. I felt alarm bells starting to ring, deep down inside me. He had stopped looking at my eyes and was staring at the glass.

  “They… they want me to tell you to roll over on Leone, to forget about Mia, she’s getting picked up by something else, something much bigger than the FBI. They want… they need a trophy, Jack. It’s likely Bernardi won’t make it from the strike about to take place…”

  He was looking at me, searching for a response. I kept a full hand of nothing on show.

  “If you won’t give them Leone, they have the cops’ testimony and eyewitness reports that place you and your man, armed, at the scene just prior to Mia’s kidnapping. They have enough to make it look like Leone kidnapped his own daughter, somehow. For her share of the company.” His eyes had widened, he was tensing, and ready for the explosion from me. One that never came.

  Rich glanced nervously from the glass and back to me, then back at the glass again.

  “Okay,” I said, breathing out through my nose, pinching the top of my nose. “Okay, Rich. For you. I’ll tell them whatever they want. I just need to know that Mia is safe. I can’t play this one anymore.”

  Eighteen

  Mia

  The gun was heavy in my hands. I was still feeling weak, but this bad boy was no lightweight. I gripped the handle with both my hands, turning slowly in the soft light of the bathroom. It was beautiful. I’d had firearms instructions on numerous occasions, not what most people would think either; it was mainly through my own security teams over the years, not because of my father.

  The safety was on, which was good. I nearly dropped it after my slippery and weak hands struggled to hold it, admire it, and try to shield myself from the cameras as best I could. I had no real way of knowing how much they could see, if anything at all. I had doubted how much of all of this was real, until I held the handgun.

  I checked the clip, it was full. I pulled the slide back, hearing the soft click of a round finding a snug, steel home. I wondered how long it would stay that way. I put the gun back on the tray, covered it, and resumed my bath. I had some thinking to do, and some serious bathing.

  I tried stretching one of my legs up, like a glamor model we would use to showcase our new bath ware. I was always thinking out new ideas for work, for designs. My experiment was cut short. My ass slipped in the tub, sending me slipping backward. Automatically I felt my back twist and cramp. I had run my hand along the growing stubble of my leg anyway, I felt particularly unsexy at that moment. I had also started to feel hungry again. Amazing what a little bit of oxygen will do for a girl.

  The air in the rooms
was still good, but I knew that wouldn’t last as long as the door was sealed. I also reasoned that Giles --if that was his or her real name, wouldn’t have risked showing himself, the gasmask and the gun, unless some serious shit was about to go down. Plus, Bernardi had made a pretty hasty exit once his guard had got a message of some sort of importance.

  Wanting to stay in the bath, I found myself pulled by a sense of urgency instead. Getting out of the tub, I dried myself, vowing to shave my legs as soon as practically possible, and chose the least dressy clothes I could find. A pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. I did manage to find a pair of pumps at the back of the closet too.

  I stood, debating whether or not to put the gun into the Ziploc bag, along with the gas mask. No dice. If things got hairy, I wanted to have the gun, yes please.

  I went back to the bathroom, with my back to the cameras, and lifted the lid on the tray; half expecting to see it empty, or a tray of food in its place. The gun was still there. Heavy and cold in my hands, I tried to slip it down the front, then the sides, then back of my leggings. Nope. This thing was heavy, and wanting to go places I didn’t want a loaded handgun exploring. Shit.

  I kept it under my shirt while walking back to the bed, and clumsily lay down as casually as I could act, while slipping the gun under the single pillow. If they’d saw me doing that, they’d be there any second, and I’d probably have my one and only chance at revenge by getting a few rounds off. I lay still on the bed. Nobody came. Nothing happened.

  I was on my back, probably dozed off for a while, when I woke, and I sat bolt upright. The room was as silent as ever, but I instinctively felt the need to move off the bed and get ready. But for what, I had no real idea. My heart had started to race; my mind grew sharp with anticipation. I swore I could have heard a few strains of Mama’s favorite aria. I gripped the pistol with both hands, cameras be damned, and crouched by the doorway, leading to the bathroom.

  My back began to ache, and my legs hurt from crouching. Beads of sweat had formed on my brow, dripping into my eyes, annoying me. Now reminding me of the futile air I would soon be attempting to breathe.

  Whatever’s gonna happen better happen soo--”

  As if on cue, the whole room shook in a silent shockwave, throwing me face first onto the floor, sprawling and losing grip of the gun. I watched helplessly as the room seemed to tilt, the gun sliding away from me, out of reach, underneath the bed that was now pitched upward. There was the groan of steel twisting, plaster and mortar fell in sheets off the curved, domed walls, with lines that appeared across the white of the walls, racing up and in every direction.

  The mesh of steel which held the room together began to punch out from sections of the wall. I felt a sharp, icy pain in my left shoulder. I screamed out in agony, turning to see a rusted steel section of foundation steel, jutting at a sickening angle from my shoulder. I cried out again, almost in disbelief, as the steel began to move in time with the collapsing wall between the doorway and the bathroom. I watched in horror as the narrow steel rod, crimson with my own blood, drew back out from my shoulder. I had never known such pain, I wanted to close my eyes, surrendering to the shock; to faint and avoid the hopelessness of the entire situation.

  Like a weird dream, the whole room seemed to momentarily pitch back the other way, sending my gun sliding back toward me. I fought to stay conscious, stretching my right arm out, crying in agony against the pain in my left shoulder, to grab hold of it before it disappeared through a large crack which had opened up in the floor.

  I shot a look toward the door. There was a smell, a burning, electrical smell, and sheets of sparks sprayed out from around the frame, which gradually pushed out, but only about three inches. I could feel the rush of air whistling in from the outside, but knew that there was no way for me to open the door from the inside.

  My cries turned from agony to defeat as I realized too, that with whatever was happening, I wasn’t expecting to be rescued. If my section was collapsing like that, the whole building must have been. The whole floor shook violently. I had never been in an earthquake, but thought this was what it must be like. I was terrified, thinking only Jack at that moment, fearing it to be my last.

  Jack! I hope you don’t find me trapped and dead, alone and broken like this. I wanted us to be something, not to end like this.

  I suddenly remembered the gas mask, the cistern in the bathroom. Giles had left it, and I assumed he’d done so for it to be used if anything happened, and this sure counted as something fucking happening.

  I clawed my way across the bathroom floor, which had split into two, sending up a sharp column of black rock into the shrinking space. Water had started to gush in from underneath it. I watched in growing defeat as the whole opposite side of the bathroom was crushed, split like a child’s doll house, as the column of rock pushed silently upward.

  The water was freezing, and pouring toward me as the room tilted again, breaking in two, held only by an invisible line from underneath. I had to choose which side to fall toward, each seeming as helpless as the next.

  I chose to throw my weight toward the half of the room with the door still attached to it, in the vain hope there might still be some chance of escape. I didn’t have to wait long to see which side was the best choice. The whole bathroom became a wall of rock, as the side of the domed room I was in was being pushed down and away from it. And the steel door now groaned, then yawned open, snapping in two with the force pushing it from the other side.

  I was choking on mouthfuls of freezing salty water as I struggled to make my way to the opening. Trying desperately before everything shifted again. I grabbed hold of the edge of the doorway with my one good hand, and was pulling myself toward it, when a wall of water smashed over me from behind. I felt my head strike the frame, I cried out, seeing the red bubbles before my eyes, right before everything went black.

  Soft jazz was playing. I could feel the swaying of myself in a slow and close dance. Too much wine? I didn’t even drink. It must be love I was feeling then. The heaving and pulsing of the rhythm, my own breathing and swaying, slowly in time with each other.

  I had my face pressed to his jacket, inhaling his warmth. I didn’t want to open my eyes, but I had to look. I had to see him again. I looked up into Jack’s eyes.

  He swayed in time with me, holding my tiny hands in his. They were large, suntanned and strong. Just like the rest of him. His blue eyes shone so bright it was a silver-white light that looked down at me, so loving, so tender. I wanted to kiss him again, but it wouldn’t have conveyed how perfect the moment was. Just the two of us, holding each other, our bodies pressed together, looking into each other’s eyes, into our own souls. It was perfect.

  I was swooning and slowly dancing at the same time, turning with Jack. Like marionettes whose strings had crossed, we spun closer together, tied to each other for an eternity that would never change. And one that would only grow, like the warmth and affection we felt for each other.

  I had to take a breath, but was frightened to, in case the scene shattered, or in case something changed. In case it suddenly became less than perfect. I took the risk, and I could only breathe in more of him, sighing out again, resting my cheek back on his jacket. I was scrunching my hand into his as we slow danced through the rest of the song, and into the next.

  I felt his broad hand move slowly up my back, stroking my hair back to cradle my neck. He held my face in the palm of his hand, then both his hands were on my face. I felt the rhythm of our dance, break, just as I had feared; there was a cold splinter, an icy tear in the space between us. His eyes filled with sorrow, he leaned in to kiss me, but was being pulled away, by something unseen, a frozen wind that had smashed through everything.

  He was trying to mouth some words, to say something. I could see tears welling in his eyes as he reached further out to me, but he only seemed to get further away. The space between us grew dark, I felt the pit of my stomach give out as I looked down, and there was a foaming black se
a underneath me, huge columns of dark rock rising out of a cataclysmic foam.

  I had both arms outstretched, suddenly becoming aware of a terrible shooting pain in my left shoulder. And Jack was being sucked back even further, we were both trying to scream something to each other, but the words didn’t come.

  I then felt a pressure rising up from my sternum, pushing up through my ribcage; I could feel it carrying everything I wanted to tell Jack. And his hands shrank as his shape grew smaller, further away from me and into darkness.

  Mia! Mia! Miiiaaaa!!

  I heard a rough slapping sound, jolting me awake. I opened my eyes to see the bloodied hand strike me again on the painful side of my swollen face.

  “Mia! For fuck’s sake! Don’t you fucking die on me, girl!”

  Nineteen

  Jack

  One thing I hadn’t mentioned to Rich, to Black, even to Brown; was the plan to kill Don Leone in the event that anything unexpected happened. I’d arranged it with Rollins, that’s why he had to be at the house before anything else had happened, and once we knew the shit was going to get thick.

  Rollins, on my cue, or given a set of circumstances, should I not be able to reach him, was to give Don Leone a fatal treatment protocol, which he could document. He would then sign the death certificate, submit Don Leone’s body to the coroner, whose retirement we had already catered for in advance, securing the paperwork. The cremation could then be finalized within a few hours. The biggest problem was the Leone family themselves, but we had that side covered as well.

  There was a slight change of plan though, at the last minute. A new plan where we both agreed that the whole plan would carry more weight, more credibility, if we had a large, public funeral, with an open casket. And so the whole world could see that Don Leone was actually dead. And especially his enemies, but more importantly, the FBI and, as I was growing to understand, the increasing number of government and non-government agencies that had taken such a keen interest in him, of late. The only one who didn’t think this part of the plan was so great, was Don Leone himself.