by Frankie Love
Sweet Stalker
A Dirty Kings of Vegas Mafia Romance
Frankie Love
Alice May Ball
Contents
About
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
About the Author
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Frankie Love
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
About
Sweet Stalker
A Dirty Kings of Vegas Mafia Romance
By Frankie Love with Alice May Ball
I’ve loved her since the moment I saw her.
I know everything about the sinfully beautiful Giulietta – but we’ve never even met.
And if our families have a say in the matter, we never will.
Our mafia families are rivals – and winning her heart feels impossible.
Until one night on the floor of a Vegas casino, our worlds collide.
I’ve stayed in the shadows as her sweet stalker long enough.
Now it’s time to make her mine.
Dear Reader,
Let’s go to Vegas – where the desert sun isn’t the only thing burning up. Peter O’Malley is in the Irish mob, and he doesn’t take no for an answer. Good thing we don’t either.
Xo, Frankie and Alice
The Dirty Kings of Vegas is a mafia romance series with love at its core.
We met the O’Malley clan back in the novel McQueen – but here they are again, ready to show everyone who’s boss!
Frankie Love has teamed up with the sinfully sweet Alice May Ball and together they’re ready to roll the dice on love.
Chapter One
Peter
Giulietta Moretti. Even her name is like music to me.
Giulietta. My eyes have been on you for so long now, I feel as though you’re mine. You’re not, of course. And you never will be. I know that. Even if there wasn’t a war brewing between our families, you’re out of my league. I wonder how you would react, though, how your eyes would stretch wide and your mouth would pop open, if you only knew. I really would love to see that.
I would hate for you to be afraid, though. Of me, or of anything. If anyone ever so much as thought about harming you, I would break them in two. Without a thought. I would do anything to keep you safe, Giulietta. The only thing I want more is to make you happy. But I can never do that.
You’re a smart girl, I know. If you knew I was watching you, shadowing you whenever I can, you would turn and run. Fast and hard. Because of who I am.
She’s dancing and I’m hooked, caught in a spell. Watching through a window from across the street, my body sways in time with hers. I can’t hear the music, but even through a window from this far away, I feel her movement. Her dancing silhouette gets me pumped up hard. Almost as hard as seeing her directly, up close. What I can’t see of her, what’s hidden in the darkness and shadow, my mind draws. And my pulse responds.
Her arms go up and she turns. Slow and soft, her breasts bounce as her hips twist and roll. My body uncoils. Straightening. I thicken and swell. Hot and hard. Aching.
My job here is surveillance. That’s supposedly the reason why I’m sitting by a window in the flat echoes of this dusty, empty $3.5-million-dollar Vegas safe house. From here, I’m looking into the sprawling, gated compound of the Moretti family.
Twice in the past couple of days, I’ve seen fleets of limos and clusters of showy Italian cars snake in through the tall iron gates of the compound. They’re planning a move, for certain.
On my phone, I’ve got video of all the wise guys. I recognize men from Boston, some from LA, as well as Moretti captains of the Las Vegas mob. Ducking out of their cars, peering around through their shades, snapping the coats and shooting the cuffs of their Italian designer suits. It’s a regular yearbook of Italian gang royalty.
I got shots of all the drivers. All the muscle that huddles and clusters around them. I know enough of the faces. I send a text and a few pics to my brother, John.
Now I can go back to watching Giulietta.
The Moretti family are our archrivals. They’re always looking to expand their territory, here in Nevada as well as in Boston. They have interests in LA, too.
Here they are in the gaming business, just like we are. Their resort on the Strip is called the Cosa Nostra. A cute double bluff. What could be more fun than a mafia theme park, styled like Prohibition and bootleg-era Chicago? The cocktail waitresses are dressed as molls. Dealers wear uniforms styled like flappers and hoods.
Tourists think it’s edgy. They cluck over their winners’ cups as the video poker machines burble and gulp some more money out of their plastic credit. Gee, Blanche, what if it really was run by the mafia? Well, guess what, Beryl? It is.
The Moretti family hides their business in plain sight. Just like we O’Malleys do. Politicians, cops, and the gaming commission are all bought and paid for, many times over. Once per crime family, at least. The Life, as the Italians always call it, has rules and codes, and it has disciplines.
Skills are needed. They’re not the skills that nice people have.
The authorities are not a problem for us O’Malleys. Not for the Morettis, either. Their problem is us. And the thorn in our side, our greatest obstacle to peace, harmony, and outrageous profit, is the Famiglia Moretti.
And that’s why Giulietta is my deepest, darkest secret.
I’ve spent longer than I can ever admit falling deeper and more hopelessly in lust for Giulietta Moretti. She is so heartbreakingly fucking beautiful. She is perfect. And I am so totally fucking doomed.
If she knew an O’Malley was stalking her, she would probably shoot me. Or maybe she carries a stiletto and she’d cut me. I could wind up with a scar like my brother Paul’s. Would she like me with a scar?
I have to get out of here. I need a drink.
Driving through old Vegas on my way to the Strip, it feels like the pace is changing here. Downtown has always been a down-market, poorer relation to the resorts on Las Vegas Boulevard. Locals and smart gamblers play downtown for the better odds, but I feel a change in the air. Like the place is ready to wake up.
The out-of-date Wild West themes in flashing lights on the old King Pine gaming hall get me thinking about opportunities for development. Not your area of business, I imagine my big brother John telling me.
My thoughts soon drift back to images of Giulietta Moretti and my head nods, bobbing with the slow, hypnotic roll of her hips, the waves of her thighs, the slow bounce of her tits.
I’ve been obsessed with her since the moment I saw her. I was by the pool in Spades Royalle, a casino resort on the Strip. Across the sparkling, noisy Imperial pool, she was in the cool shade of a green cabana, stretched out with a book. A golden sheen on her dark butterscotch skin, her hair almost jet-black, silky and perfect. She wore big shades and a white bikini I wanted to eat.
The rise of her breasts made my breath stop. She raised her knee, then peered slowly over the tops of her shades. My heart banged like I’d been hot-wired as she looked my way across the pool. My mus
cles zinged. My pulse thumped in my chest and pounded straight to my groin.
I started to walk around the pool to say hello, maybe get to know her. Then a line of goons closed around her. Overstuffed black suits standing in pairs, their knuckles folded, cut off my path. One huge, ugly motherfucker stuck his chest out.
I could have killed him just for getting in my way. It would have been very heroic of me. There were eight of them, though, and I was very exposed. My ugly and very pointless death would have been immediate.
I figured I would forget about her soon enough.
That was two years ago.
More times and more places than I’ll even admit to myself, I’ve followed her. I can’t help it. Any time I know where she is or where she’s going, I have to be there. I need to make sure that she’s safe.
She’s my dangerous obsession.
John and Paul, my older and younger brothers respectively, are at a ringside table in Spades Royalle’s VIP bar.
John’s customary greeting never disappoints. “Hey, little bollocks. Wake your face up.”
My thick blond hair and pale blue eyes mean I’m always treated like the youngest, even though I’m two years older than Paul. His brooding looks and the scar on his face mean that I’m cast as the baby. Families have roles that have to be filled. This is mine.
“Look at that scowl,” Paul says, raising a hand to call a waitress. “He’s been cooped up watching the grass grow at the Moretti compound. We shouldn’t grind the poor fucker’s gears about it.”
“All right, all right.” I raise my hands as I sit. “Enough already.”
I tell them about the meetings in the Moretti compound. Show them the pics of all the faces that showed up. I send the photos and videos to Paul’s phone.
Shifting tack, John says, “Would it kill you to wear a fucking suit for once in your life?”
I sometimes wish that John could see what an ass he’s making of himself, but in the end, to me, it’s water off a duck’s back.
“You know damn fucking well I got suits coming out of my asshole. I just know how to dress appropriately is all.” The waitress brings my beer at last. “I’m here to relax and kick back. Get a drink with my two favorite asshole brothers. Even though all they want to do is bust my balls.”
“Well,” John says, “that’s because you need it.”
“No,” I smile, shaking my head, relaxing now. “It’s because while I may be the baby of the family, you two really are a pair of children.”
After a couple of beers, I leave them and head for the casino floor. I want to play the wheel.
Chapter Two
Giulietta
This evening I’m dancing, moving to the beat even longer than usual. I keep going almost until I’m exhausted. Tonight, today, I really need something to happen. And I feel like something will.
I feel like I’m dancing for an audience. Not that I would ever dance that well, but the feeling is magical with bursts of thrills as I move. I imagine eyes, a pair of eyes that glide and lap all over my body. I’m carried on the beat of the music. It rolls and turns like a wave, spinning patterns, driving my body. Setting my feelings free, leaving my thoughts behind.
I feel empty when I stop. Not that I have anything to complain about. My life is good. Better than good. My family is rich and powerful. I want for nothing. But I’m stifled. I’m not challenged. I’m bored and unfulfilled.
I decide I’ll go downtown to play some roulette. On my way out, I see Angelo left his laptop open. We have a lot of rules in the family. One is if you don’t want something seen, don’t leave it out in the light. If someone finds your secrets, it’s on you for not taking more care of them.
On the screen, a spreadsheet tells a horror story. Financial data, going back about five years, is the blow-by blow picture of a business drowning.
My brother Giovanni smiles when he finds me reading the screen.
“It’s cute that you put in all the effort,” he says. “Plowing through stuff like that.”
“I love spreadsheets,” I tell him. “Math. Numbers. Stats. It’s like magic. Music is all math, you know.” I was the only one in my class with a double major in music and accountancy.
Giovanni gives me his indulgent smile. “Why worry about any of that? You’ll get married. Probably soon. Your husband will be rich enough to give you everything you need.”
Angelo walks in, smiling. “And he’ll make you happy, caro.” He comes to stroke my hair. My mouth tightens as I duck away.
“Of course,” Giovanni says, “because he’ll know that if he doesn’t, we’ll break his legs.”
I try not to scowl at them, but I’m annoyed. I saw a business opportunity in the figures. But they don’t want to hear about it. Not from me. I know they love me and they care about me, but they treat me more like a pet than a member of the family. I’m tired of it.
I stand. “I’m going out.”
Angelo says, “We’re going to the Strip. Come with us.”
“I want to go downtown. I want the old Vegas vibe.”
Giovanni is the eldest. He always acts like the decider. “We’ll take you to the Strip. It’s better. Classier.” He gives me his big brother smile. “You’ll want to change. Don’t be too long.”
“No, I’m ready.” I put my hands on my hips, hoping they’ll give it up and let me go out separately.
Angelo says, “Please, caro. Don’t be like that. We have an image to keep up.”
“You do. I’m just decoration. So take me as I am, or let me go where I want.”
In the limo, I tell Giovanni and Angelo I want to be left alone at the casino to play roulette. Meaning I don’t want to be surrounded by guards. Massimo and Bruno are good guys and their team is the best, but Drago is another matter. And they all make it impossible for me to relax.
Angelo says, “You have to stay safe.”
“You have to stay a virgin, too.”
I hate Giovanni saying that. I feel like livestock, like a piece of meat.
In the Life, that’s what women are. We’re a commodity. Tradable, with a value like a roulette chip. When the chip is in the right place, its value rises. And that’s when she’ll be traded. Or sold.
I’m about as resigned as I can be to the idea. Someday I’ll swap the tyranny of my brothers and my father – just the thought of Daddy causes a chill in my spine – and I’ll be part of a deal, like a medieval princess married into another family.
I’ve never met a man I wanted to give my virginity up to, and I’ve considered how it would be with a man I didn’t care for. I only ever saw one man I did care for, and I didn’t even get to meet him.
It was my seventeenth birthday. Those pale blue eyes. Dazzled by the reflection of sunlight on the water, those eyes were all I saw. With a look, he reached inside me. Took hold of my heart.
All I knew was his shape in his perfect suit. And his size – he was huge.
The family goons circled around me. Drago, the ugly, sadistic man-mountain, stood in front of him.
What I would give for a man to look at me like that, make me feel like that again. But that’s not my fate. As Giovanni says, I’ll be married off. Soon, by the sound of what he said.
I still think of those eyes when I’m alone. When I’m in bed, or sometimes in the shower.
At the casino, they still want to control me. The driver pulls up at the grand entrance and a doorman steps up to open the limo door. Giovanni says, “Come with us. Join the poker tables. You’re a good player.”
“You don’t want my loose jeans and white tee-shirt look dragging your image down.”
Giovanni waves to Massimo in the SUV that followed us. At least Drago isn’t on duty tonight, but I don’t want any of them near me. Angelo is about to speak, but I’m determined.
“I’m here to have fun and play roulette. I’m not going to sit in a room with a lot of men making alpha grunts at one another.” Stepping out of the car, I say, “As you say, Giovanni, I’ll be m
arried off soon enough,” and I skip away. “You have fun your way. I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow.”
“Caro!” Angelo calls after me. I hear the resignation in his voice and don’t stop. They won’t admit it, but they’ll be secretly relieved that I’m not in the VIP poker room with them.
I always beat them.
Through the merry bloops and babble of the slots, I find a friendly table. Medium stake limits and not too many players. Nobody here is too serious, everyone is just having fun. Nice-looking females, most of them about my age, and a few men. The men are definitely here for Andrea, the dealer. A gorgeous redhead, she flashes her eyes and an occasional naughty smile.
A croupier’s job has always appealed to me. Combining fast calculation with easy chat seems like something I would enjoy.
I watch the table and the crowd for a few spins, then I make some plays. A few corner bets for safety, something on red, and ten on my favorite number, seventeen.
Andrea looks up and her smile shines. Quickly, I realize it’s for someone standing beside me. Andrea leans forward.
A strong male hand moves a hundred-dollar chip purposefully next to mine, and my breath catches. My stomach plunges as I turn to catch his eyes. They’re heavily hooded and the palest blue. A spark sets me alight inside.
In the same way that I knew him only once before, I’m fighting hard against the urge to squirm in my pants.
The wheel spins. The ball zings and whizzes around the bowl. Then it and clatters as it starts to slow. We all groan when it drops into the double-zero. My husky companion raises a confident eyebrow. His voice is low and strong with a trace of a brogue. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”