Chapter Three
Salvatore
The coffee I’m served at American Diner is so terrible, I order the waitress to take it away after just one sip. She picks up the cup of sludge with a patronizing smile.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“No.” My voice is cold, the word landing with a thud.
She skitters away at that, leaving me alone. I watch the street through the front window, waiting for my old friend. On the phone, Anthony had sworn that he wasn’t coming this time, and that I should delete his number. But he says that every time, and he always comes. And I’ll never delete his number, not while he’s still useful to me.
A figure lumbers in the distance. It’s dark out, so he’s hard to distinguish in his black suit. Anthony walks quickly, with his head down, clutching a folder under his arm. He pushes open the door to the diner with his maimed hand. He blinks up at the bright lights, glances around nervously, then approaches my table.
“This is it,” he says, before ever sitting down. “This is the last time.”
He sits down, waving off the waitress’s advances. My cousin doesn’t look at all like the man he used to be. Like me, he has nearly black hair, and the almond shaped brown eyes of the Mariano’s, but the similarities end there. He’s paler, with dark circles under his eyes, and thinner too. He seems particularly conscious of the missing fingers on his right hand. He keeps glancing at it, and stroking the short ends with his thumb.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought me,” I say, reaching for the folder.
Anthony holds it out of my reach. “You first.”
I reach into my jacket pocket, and withdraw an envelope, thick with cash.
“Pass it under the table,” Anthony says, glancing around at the nearly empty diner.
I toss it through the air like a basketball, and it lands in his lap. Anthony curses me as he stashes the envelope in his pocket.
“I’m always happy to help out a family member,” I say. “You know that more than anyone.” I slide an open palm across the table, and Anthony gives me the folder. I lean back, perusing the contents leisurely. It’s a fucking goldmine, exactly what I need.
After Anthony’s unfortunate kidnapping, where he’d lost his fingers, and due to the stress of his wife’s illness, Franco saw it fit to take him off the streets and stick him behind a desk. Poor Anthony took a massive pay cut, but luckily for him, he has access to Franco’s books, the real books, which is something I’m willing to pay for.
On a quick scan of the documents, I can see that the Mariano’s are raking it in. That’s why Franco wants to take care of me once and for all. He doesn’t want me fucking things up while the getting’s good.
Anthony stands up quickly. “Don’t call me again,” he warns, before leaving.
I study the documents, looking for weaknesses I can exploit. It will take some more thought, but from what I can see initially, the Mariano’s are making more money than they can properly launder. The dirty cash is just sitting there. It can’t be invested or funneled into new businesses, so it’s losing money in a way. And the tax bills on the clean money are killing them.
Excitement stirs my blood. A plan is coming together. I can’t see it yet, but I will. My first step will be to get back into the Mariano’s good graces. Once I’m there, I can infect them from the inside out. I won’t be satisfied until the entire family is in tatters.
But I need to figure out the details. I smile to myself. I can hardly wait to go home, light up a cigar, and allow my devious mind to do its work. Clutching the folder, I leave to do just that. I don’t even look at my waitress, who has the good sense not to ask me to pay for the shitty brown water they try to pass off as coffee.
*
I’ve decided which cigar I’m going to select from my humidor by the time I reach my apartment door. My place is bare, besides a refrigerator in the kitchen, a bed in the bedroom, a leather armchair by the gas fireplace, and other essentials. I won’t be staying here long, so I didn’t bother with much else. The property was left to me in my father’s will. It’s out of the way, and the last place anyone would expect to find me.
The air inside is balmy, just how I like it. Heat makes me feel alive. It reminds me that my heart is beating, and blood is pumping through my veins. I take a freshly lit cigar to the armchair, spread the documents out on my lap, and begin.
I’d only just laid my eyes on Franco’s number when there’s a knock at the door. Who the hell could that be? I thought I’d successfully given my tenants the impression that I’m not to be disturbed. They can take their petty problems up with the real estate agency I hired. I consider answering the door and scaring them off, but decide instead to ignore them until they go away.
They knock again, timidly, quietly. I might have to scare them away after all.
“Mr. Mariano?” they call through the door.
It’s a female voice, soft, but with a forceful edge. I imagine whoever it is had to work up the nerve to knock on my door. I close the file in my lap. The voice intrigues me. Whoever it is is already afraid of me, and it’s no act. I need to know what she looks like.
With a stony face, I open the door and inspect my guest. She’s at least a foot shorter than me. Her curly hair is pulled away from her face, but a few errant tendrils hang loose around her forehead. Nice tits, nice ass, I mentally check off my list as I scan her. But what I like the most is how she looks at me, or makes herself look at me, and the nervous flutter of her long eyelashes.
I lean against the doorway, smiling deeply. “I didn’t order a girl tonight.”
“What?” Her mouth falls open, and her cheeks burn red. Stop it baby, you’re killing me. She shakes her head, trying to recover, then offers me her hand. “I’m Molly Wright. Your tenant in 3C.”
I study her hand, long elegant fingers, neat short nails devoid of polish, and skin that looks soft to the touch. She senses I’m not going to shake it, and tries to yank it away. But I grab it before she can, stroking her skin with my thumb.
“Hello, Molly Wright in 3C.”
Her fingers slip between mine as she pulls her hand back. She shifts on her feet, waiting for me to continue this transaction. But I let her wait. She pushes a curl from her eyes and finally speaks.
“I need the wifi password for this floor,” she says. “It was left out of my packet.”
She stops talking. I let silence fall around us. She clears her throat. I step away from the door, showing her a path inside.
“How badly do you want it?” I ask.
I expect her to melt into the floor at that moment. I’d rather feel her melt beneath me. Her entire face turns red. She gropes for something to say, but comes up with nothing. I decide to cut her torment short, and withdraw into my apartment. I return with a slip of paper containing the password. Molly glances over it nervously, thanks me under her breath, and scurries away. I watch her ass as she walks back to 3C, round and firm, perfect for spanking. She glances over her shoulder at me. When she sees me looking back at her, she picks up her step. I growl, feeling myself get hard.
Miss Molly, I think, closing the door. Wouldn’t you make a fun plaything? I’d like to press all of your buttons, just to see what they do.
I return to the arm chair, and pick up the financial documents. I’ll have to put my dick away for now. As much as I’d like to make my pretty little tenant my next project, I have a bigger target on my radar.
Chapter Four
Molly
I dream of him that night, Salvatore Mariano. He’s a black, shadowy figure that swoops into my bedroom window, hovering over me while I sleep. I’m paralyzed beneath him. I can’t move or speak. It’s obvious that he wants something from me. I don’t know what, but it’s something vital; energy, blood, my sanity. I should be afraid. Instead, I’m waiting for him to sink his teeth into my flesh.
The dream haunts the edge of my consciousness at work. I shouldn’t be thinking of him at a time like this,
while Greg and I hide out in the break room, pouring over our budget and trying to find money where there isn’t any.
“We’re stretched thin,” Greg says, rubbing the back of his neck. “No doubt about it.”
I shake Salvatore from my thoughts, and the hopeless feeling returns. “All I want to do is help people. Why is that so hard? I just want to do good.”
Greg shrugs, squinting at the spreadsheets. “To do good, you have to put up with the bad. Sometimes you have to get into bed with it.” He gives me a wink.
This is supposed to make me laugh, but it makes me think of my landlord. I shudder.
“I’ll take the cut,” I say, resolutely.
“No, Molly, don’t do that,” Greg advises. “We’ll all absorb the loss.”
“No. If we cut the counselor’s pay any more, they’ll quit. They’re already at near poverty levels. So are you, Greg.”
“I’m used to it,” he says. “Grant is too. That’s why he’s the breadwinner in the household while I’m out saving the world. How about we both take a hit? Split it 50/50.”
I don’t want to agree to this. I’m already getting Greg’s expertise for a song, paying him much less than he’s worth. But I know Greg won’t let me shoulder the burden alone.
“Deal,” I say, shaking his hand grimly. This has to be the most depressing deal ever made.
Greg straightens the papers, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I still have some savings left over from my inheritance,” I say. It’s a lie I’ve told Greg many times. I’m afraid if he knew that I funneled every penny of my grandfather’s money into this place within the first year, and that I now rely on my dismal salary, he might advise me to give up on this place. And I’m afraid his advice would be sound.
We adjourn our meeting, and I go into my office to get ready for my next client. As I’m straightening the pillows on the chairs, I suddenly realize I’ve made a horrible mistake.
The apartment building has income requirements. By falling below that, I could lose my place. I’m supposed to alert Mr. Mariano if there’s a change in my income. Well, I’m not doing that. I’ll wait for the leasing agent to return from vacation. Maybe I can work something out with her. If not, I’ll get a second job, sell an organ on the black market, anything to avoid losing my counselors.
I hear my client approaching down the hall. I banish my problems from my thoughts. It’s time to pretend that I have it all together, both for the client, and for myself.
*
Salvatore
I sit at my desk in the bedroom, watching the grainy footage that’s displayed on my computer monitor. I’ve been watching the Mariano’s, closely, ever since I banished myself from them. I have cameras everywhere, and trackers on several of their vehicles. The feed I’m watching now is from Snake’s office in the concrete shop, my father’s old office before Snake killed him. I set up this particular camera during Snake and Jess’ wedding when I knew everyone would be away. They didn’t send me an invitation, but I knew exactly when it was.
Snake is in there with Jess, his wife, the bitch who put the entire thing into motion. If it wasn’t for her, no one would’ve ever known that my father framed her fiancé for being a rat. Monty never would’ve attracted Franco’s wrath.
Snake sits in his desk chair, with Jess standing beside him. He loops his arm around her ass, pulling her closer to him, and kisses her. Jess slides a leg across his lap and straddles him while Snake pulls up her shirt.
I switch the monitor off. I usually watch them fuck, but right now I have no taste for it.
After hours of studying Franco’s finances, part two of my plan has crystalized for me. Franco is screwing Snake, and every single Mariano soldier. They’re making ungodly amounts of money that Franco is hoarding for himself, with very little trickling down to the guys beneath. I’m sure the “official” set of books don’t show that.
That little weakness is my opening. I could easily sow discord between Snake, Franco, and the soldiers. Nobody likes being ripped off, especially mobsters. The question remains, how do I get myself reinstated with the family? Not only do I need to convince Franco that I’m not vengeful anymore, I’ll also have to show that I’m useful too. Uncle Franco is a simple man. It all comes down to dollars and cents for him.
I’m tired of thinking about it, and need to refocus. I fire up my monitor, and spy on Molly, my tasty little tenant. I paid an IT guy under the table to install the same software that big companies use to spy on their employees, so I could do the same to my tenants.
I glance over Molly’s internet history. She’s been on Tinder, but hasn’t made any matches yet. Good.
I log into her email account. Immediately, I see a message informing her the funding to her nonprofit will be cut. I learned from her renter’s application that she’s barely skating by on a counselor’s salary. My brain lights up. Financial problems are always easy to exploit. A part of me wishes that Molly was my main target instead of the Mariano’s.
I click through a few more emails, until I see a long chain between Molly and someone named Greg Freely. They’re discussing the changes in their budget. It looks like Molly’s salary is going to take a hit.
I do quick math in my head. That will put Molly below the income requirements for the building. My mind makes quick connections between Molly’s dilemma and my own.
It all clicks together.
I take a new cigar out of the humidor, and roll it between my fingers. The paper is dry and stiff, hiding the aromatic, moist tobacco within. I light it, savoring the taste, while I plot my revenge.
Chapter Five
Molly
I breathe a sigh of relief as I lock up the center that evening, happy to put this day behind me. Greg and I finally broke the news about the funding to our counselors. We successfully assured them that their salaries are safe, though, for now, we’ll have to live with the old, ratty carpet that’s at least two decades old, the air conditioner that’s constantly on the fritz, and no one is getting a new chair anytime soon. There were a few grumbles about these discomforts, but everyone took it well. We have a passionate group. They have to be, or they wouldn’t work for such low pay. We all agree that the most important thing is the clients. As long as they’re being served, it’s all okay.
Shoving the keys into my purse, I begin my walk home. No one walks in this city. While the streets are jammed with traffic, the sidewalks are free and open. I love walking, and cherish these jaunts to and from work. I find it meditative. I can let my mind wander. Sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes it’s bad, depending on my mood.
Today, I’m cursing the fact that I have to worry about money. I’m not in this game to get rich. I just want to help people, while providing a stable life for my counselors, who put their whole hearts into their jobs. I hate that my self worth is measured by numbers on a spreadsheet, and not the number of people I’ve helped over the years.
I cross the street, approaching the corner where I usually see the group of homeless people rifling through trashcans. There’s usually four or five of them, but today, it’s only one man. He wears a heavy black coat despite the dry heat. It’s hard to discern his age, but he’s probably not over fifty. There are only a few gray hairs on his head.
The group usually doesn’t give me the time of day. I approached them when I moved to this neighborhood, letting them know that we’re just down the street and willing to help if they desire it. They nodded and thanked me for the information, though none of them ever walked through our doors. I decided not to push it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my brother’s situation, it’s that you can’t help people who don’t want it.
I don’t expect this man to speak to me, but as I cross the street, he looks up and makes eye contact. As I step onto the sidewalk, I meet his eyes and give him a friendly smile. He doesn’t say anything, so I keep walking. When my back is to him, I feel sharp finger
s grab my arm. I look down in confusion and see his dirty hand gripping my cardigan.
“Hey, lady,” the mans says, leering at me. “Where you going?”
He has that far off, vacant look that I often see with drug users. I worry that he’s taken something that could give him violent, psychotic episodes. If that’s the case, I need to stay calm, and not do anything to alarm him.
“I’m just going home,” I say, smiling sweetly. I gently pull my arm away, but his grip is relentless.
“Is that right?” He smiles, revealing a dark gap where his two front teeth are missing. “Sounds nice. Can I come?”
I try to stay calm, despite my heart beating rapidly in my throat.
“I don’t think so,” I say, casually. “But I’m just down the street if you ever want to talk.”
I search his face to see if he recognizes me, and find nothing.
“Don’t want to talk,” he says, in a sing-song way. He reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls something out. My blood drains to my feet as I hear a pocket knife flick open. The man pulls me closer, and laughs deliriously into my face. I’m paralyzed by shock. Is this how it ends, knifed in the street?
“You don’t want to hurt me,” I say. “They’ll arrest you. You’ll go to prison, and never get the help you need.”
He smiles frightfully, but his eyes are blank. It dawns on me that I won’t be able to talk my way out of this one. I eye his body, calculating where I could kick him without getting myself cut in the process. I grit my teeth, preparing to jab my foot into his shin, when I hear someone call, “Hey!”
Thank God, I think, as relief floods over me. It’s a male voice, maybe a police officer. When I turn to see who it is, my blood runs cold. Salvatore Mariano is walking towards us from the other end of the block. He’s wearing a black suit, making his legs look even longer and more elegant as he rushes towards us. The look on his face chills my bones. It’s hardened, determined, cold.
He doesn’t even look at the knife when he approaches us. He grabs the man by the back of his collar, forcefully pushing him away from me. The man frees my arm when Salvatore throws him against the stucco wall of an apartment building. Salvatore bends down, his face inches away from the man.
Beware the Devil (Mafia Soldiers Book 3) Page 2