Devil's Advocate: A Dark Mafia Romance (Devil's Playground Book 1)

by Vivi Paige

  I got to the bowling alley and went inside. There were a few bowlers about, rolling a few frames here and there. I counted my blessings. If it had been a league night, the place would have been packed with drunken yahoos all wanting to prove how tough they were while they drank their Miller High Life.

  I nodded to the bouncer at the door to the basement. He cocked his head at me.

  “Indro? That you? Haven’t seen you in an age.”

  “Yeah, well. What can I say? Been keeping busy. Idle hands and all that.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, giving me a suspicious look. “Ain’t you about to be tried for murder too? That’s the word on the street.”

  I flashed a winning smile.

  “Can’t believe everything you hear. You know that.”

  “Sure thing. Well. In any event, hope you beat the rap.”

  “Thanks. Can I get into the game?”

  “Gotta frisk you first, Indro. You know the rules.”

  I did indeed. I raised my arms above my head and let him pat me down. I wasn’t carrying. It would’ve been stupid to bring a piece here.

  “All right. You’re good. Got something for the buy-in? Minimum is five large.”

  “Hey,” I said, spreading my hands out wide. “I look like a rookie to you?”

  He chuckled at that and opened the door for me, stepping aside. I clapped him on the shoulder and stepped in.

  It was like entering a different world. There were five tables going, each with about eight guys, complete with official dealers and a pretty girl behind the makeshift bar, making drinks to order.

  A couple of waitresses with short skirts and high heels brought the drinks to the tables, refilled the snacks and tried to avoid all the grabby hands coming at them all night. I imagined it was like trying to play tag with a bunch of octopuses. Not an easy gig, that’s for sure.

  I scanned the room through a haze of cigarette smoke, looking for Enzio. There was a crash as another set of pins went down above us. No one even looked up at me as I entered the room.

  Leaning on a corner of the bar, his back to me, I saw him. He had a drink in his hand and as he brought it up to his mouth, I spotted the scorpion tat. Enzio.

  I walked over to him, offering some greetings to the few that looked up long enough from their cards to notice me.

  Sitting down on the bar stool next to him, I tapped his shoulder. Enzio turned to look at me.

  “Yeah?” he said, sounding bored. Then his eyes grew wide when he saw it was me.

  “Indro…. uh… hey, man. What brings you by? Looking to make some scratch?”

  “Nah, I don’t like to gamble. Hard as that may be to believe. I like a sure thing. Know what I mean, Enzio?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

  “I actually came here looking for you.”

  He flinched a little at that. Not much, but I saw it. He was worried.

  “What for?”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Enz, between you and me… I been spending some time with a new lady… my defense attorney, if you can believe that.”

  “Indro—” he began, but I cut him off.

  “I know that’s a dumb play, but what can I tell you, she’s a looker. Smart as a whip and tough as nails. Still, even with all of that, she’s a dame, know what I’m saying? You push her too hard and she’ll crack. I mean, you get that. Anyone would, am I right?”

  Enzio took a sip from his drink, eyes darting around the room, hoping that someone would be able to help him. No one was paying attention.

  “Yeah. I hear you. You know, Indro? I actually gotta get going.”

  He started to move but I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back.

  “Nah, you got nowhere to be until I’m done talking to you. And I’m almost done, Enz, I’m almost done.”

  He settled back uneasily against the bar.

  “Here’s the thing: she told me she got picked up against her will recently. Thrown in a van and taken out to a shallow grave. She said that they told her that if she didn’t drop my case, that’s where she’d end up. Know anything about that?”

  He shook his head, sweat starting to bead on his forehead.

  “I don’t know nothing about that, Indro. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “Your mother’s still alive, you dumb fuck. So you’re telling me you weren’t there? That what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Right. So when my attorney told me she saw a guy with a scorpion tat… just like that one,” I said, pointing to his hand, “you’re telling me it wasn’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m saying to you.”

  I looked at him for a minute, nodded and then suddenly grabbed his drink and smashed the glass against his forehead, sending him down to the ground in a heap.

  I kicked him in the ribs repeatedly while he groaned and curled into a ball.

  Leaning down, I whispered in his ear.

  “Listen to me, you fucking idiot. Next time I hear that you or any of the Loggias messed with Sophie, I’m gonna come back here and burn this fucking place to the ground, with you inside it. You understand me, you piece of shit?”

  Enzio nodded weakly. For good measure I kicked him right across the jaw, knocking out a couple of teeth, just as another crash from the bowling alley above hit in unison.

  “How about that?” I said. “Another strike.”

  I wiped off my hands on a cocktail napkin and headed out the way I’d come.

  “Enjoy your game, gentlemen. May fortune smile upon you,” I said to the staring faces as I walked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sophie

  Bad habits die hard.

  That’s something my pop used to tell me. Indro was on his way to becoming a very bad habit indeed. I only saw one way out of the mess I’d gotten myself into.

  Indro Lastra had to walk out of the courtroom as a free man. Only then would I be able to continue on with my life. Maybe even then I’d figured out Indro had tangled his tendrils all through me, body and soul, but I wasn’t ready to admit it. I was still looking for a way to come out of that mess smelling like roses.

  When the prosecution’s case hinges on an eyewitness, it’s law 101 to discredit said witness. It’s a lot riskier than you might think and can backfire and blow up in your face. The best-case scenario is when the witness is kind of a piece of work themself. Nobody wants to believe a scumbag, for obvious reasons.

  The problem was, our eyewitness, Glen Gilberti, was a friggin’ Catholic priest. You don’t get much more trustworthy than that in Chicago. Between the strong Polish streak and old-school mentality of the Windy City, I’d have to find something really dirty to cast doubt on Father Gilberti’s testimony.

  I’d been bothered by the fact Gilberti had just seemed to spring up from the earth about a year and a half ago. No family history, no credit score, no electronic footprint whatsoever, other than his lame ass Facebook page—which mostly consisted of re-posts of the St. Patrick’s Church official page.

  Being as Gilberti was cooling his heels in witness protection, I had few options available to me. I wouldn’t get to see him until he came in for his testimony, and by then it might be too late.

  What was a gal to do but dig out the nun’s habit she got for a goof back in high school? I think I wore it for Halloween after my ‘sexy nun’ costume got nixed by my pop. Anyway, it still fit, and looked legit enough to pass muster.

  An added plus to the ankle-length habit: it was plenty warm. That little facet came in handy when I stepped out onto the street into the biting wind. Even my neck stayed warm, though by the time I made it into old St. Patrick’s Church my cheeks had turned bright red.

  I timed my visit to coincide with Wednesday Mass. Parishioners packed the pews in neat little rows as altar boys strode past with incense. I made sure to make the sign of the cross as I stepped over the threshold. Some folks smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  Rule number one f
or snooping around where you don’t belong is act like you do belong. I imagined my pop was rolling over in his grave on account of me cosplaying a nun, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I wanted Indro out of my life before things got too deep. Unexpected van rides and death threats are not the reasons I got into law. Exactly why I never took on mafia clients before Indro blackmailed me.

  When you see the outside of St. Patrick’s, it looks like a friggin’ medieval castle. Ominous stone towers, thick walls, and a sense of ancient history. Inside it’s a lot more modern than you might expect, particularly the rectory.

  I strode through a set of doors, nodding curtly at an elderly priest as he swished by in his vestments. I had no idea where I was going in this part of the rectory, and I couldn’t exactly ask for directions.

  I found myself in the kitchen area, and a nice one at that. Modern white cabinetry, black marble countertops, and a floating island to boot.

  “They have an espresso machine?” I blurted out loud, then covered my mouth with my hand. Damn. Nice to know where all those collection plate tithes were going. I continued on and found an office area. The old-fashioned PC with its gigantic monitor proved to be no help at all. Access was password restricted, and I sure as hell wasn’t a hacker.

  Fortunately, it looked like all the mail for the rectory got routed through the office. I dug through the inbox and discovered a hand-printed list with Glen Gilberti’s name on it. Cell 4-B.

  “Sweet,” I said softly. Armed with my new knowledge, I plunged out of the kitchen and into the living quarters.

  I’d been expecting something like dorm rooms, and I wasn’t far off. Each priest was afforded a room of modest size big enough for a twin size bed and a writing desk. I carefully checked the faded labels on each until I found Cell 4-B.

  Unlike every single other door I’d seen, this one had a latch and a padlock. Odd, but not necessarily suspicious. After all, he probably knew he was going into witness protection. It’s only natural to want to protect your stuff.

  I stared at the lock. It was one of those little gold-colored types my pop used to call a ‘moon lock.’ Weak, and more intended to inform the owner if their things have been tampered with than to provide actual security or protection.

  They’re also very, very easy to pick. I unfolded a bobby pin and jammed it into the lock, moving it around until the hasp popped open.

  Glancing about nervously, I pushed the door open and entered Gilberti’s cell. It appeared pretty basic, much like the others. Bed, writing desk, lamp, wardrobe. Boring.

  Inside the wardrobe, I found a WWII-era ammo box. I flicked the lid open and my eyes widened. Sitting right on top was a porno mag. Not one of the classy ones, either. I fought down a wave of disgust and carefully lifted it out of my way by the binding. Some of the pages were stuck together, and I nearly retched.

  Under the skin mag, I discovered a vitamin bottle. A couple of silent shakes proved that while it didn’t have any capsules, it also wasn’t empty.

  “Gilberti, you naughty boy,” I whispered as I extracted a baggie of cocaine. I set that aside, and then my eyes widened with shock: a loaded .38 with a snub-nosed barrel.

  Now, what would a priest need with a Saturday Night Special?

  I snapped around in a panic as the door swung open. A scrawny little man in a dusty apron stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “What are you doing in Father Gilberti’s spot?” His eyes widened when he saw the gun in my hand. I grabbed him by the apron and dragged him into the cell, shutting the door behind him.

  “You’re not a nun,” he gasped.

  “Yeah, and you’re not a priest.” I checked him over. St. Patrick’s employed a lot of former homeless people in shit jobs for no pay other than room and board. This guy fit the bill. “I’ve got a couple questions about Glen Gilberti…”

  My voice trailed off when I saw he had a bobby pin in his hand. The little shit was going to break in himself, but I’d beat him to the punch.

  “Start talking,” I said, crossing my arms but keeping the gun in my hand. “And I’ll give you the bag of coke you’ve been pinching out of.”

  It was only a guess, but his eyes widened in surprise. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” I snapped. After breaking down hundreds of witnesses on the stand, I’d gotten pretty good at wringing the truth out of people. “What’s a priest doing with a gun and a bag of coke? Who is Glen Gilberti, really?”

  I think it was the coke more than the gun in my hand that made him snitch. Turns out, Glen Gilberti used to be Marco Loggia, an aging leg-breaker for the Loggia family. A donation to St. Jude’s was all it took for the church to cooperate in ‘retiring’ the old enforcer. I guess they figured Loggia would answer to a higher authority eventually.

  How much of a rampaging coincidence could it be that the sole eyewitness to Indro’s crime was also in the mob? No wonder I couldn’t find anything about Glen Gilberti. Glen Gilberti didn’t exist.

  Marco Loggia did, though, and I intended to save that bombshell for the trial. With any luck I could get a mistrial, or even have the charges dropped altogether.

  I tucked the info away, gave the little shit his cocaine, and strode out of St. Patrick’s with a swish of my habit. Not bad for a day’s work. I just hoped it was enough to get Indro to walk.

  Otherwise, I’d be getting fitted for an orange jumpsuit just like him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Indro

  I stepped out of the smoke shop and went to cut the end off my Fuente when who showed up to ruin my day but Guido and Nunzio.

  “Maloik wants to see you, Indro.” Guido didn’t have to say which Maloik, of course. I knew it was the Don.

  “Oh, hey, a Fuente.” Nunzio plucked it out of my hand and I sighed.

  “Come on, guys, I just bought the damn stogie.”

  “Don’t worry, Indro, we’ll enjoy it enough for you, too,” Nunzio said with a laugh. I grimaced as he tucked it into his pocket. I’m not above slugging a member of my family, but, under the circumstances, I figured discretion was the better part of valor, if you catch my drift.

  They didn’t have to ‘assist’ me into the car the second time around. I climbed into the back and we headed out to the ‘burbs. I guessed I was headed to the Don’s personal domicile, and I was right.

  We pulled up in front of the Don’s three-story mini-mansion to find a guy taking out the bird bath with a dolly. I arched a brow at this sight, and turned back to Guido.

  “How come they’re taking that fancy bird bath out? I thought that was a birthday present for the Don’s wife.”

  “Homeowner’s association,” grumbled Nunzio.

  “It violated the rules,” Guido added.

  I let out a bark of laughter as we traversed the sidewalk toward the front door.

  “Are you serious? The Don’s spooked by a bunch of Stepford wives with Karen haircuts?”

  “You ever mess with an HOA before?” Guido asked. “No? Didn’t think so. Otherwise you wouldn’t be spouting off such ignorant ass shit.”

  “The Don’s got to maintain his respectable image,” Nunzio added. “Sure, we could lean on the HOA but they’re not smart enough to know any better anyway. So the Don plays by the rules.”

  “Besides, the Don hated that ugly ass thing, am I right?”

  Guido and Nunzio gave me a courtesy chuckle as they rapped on the door. The Don appeared in the doorway a moment later, dressed in a casual button-up shirt and gray slacks. His dark eyes bored into me as he stood to the side so we could enter.

  “Come with me.” Don Maloik didn’t have to specify he wanted me, and me alone, to follow him. We headed up the carpeted staircase to his second floor, where he kept his study. The door closed behind us and he pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

  I sat. Maloik settled behind his desk and folded his gnarled hands, those black eyes promising nothing but pain and death if
I pissed him off.

  “Something tells me you know why I brought you here today, Indro.”

  I couldn’t help but notice my big bro Flavio was conspicuous by his absence. Nobody was going to bat for me this time. I was on my own.

  “I figure it has something to do with me crashing the poker game at the Loggia place the other day.”

  “You figured right.” Maloik’s eyes narrowed to slits. “We’ve got a delicate balance with the other families. They pay us tribute, but in turn we respect their territory and don’t muscle in. We especially don’t burst into their card games like a common street thug and start trashing the place.”

  “I’m aware of that, Don.”

  “Apparently not. Apparently you’re getting dumber by the day, Indro. Why you didn’t just fly to South America and leave all this rigamarole behind, I’ll never know.”

  “Because I can beat the rap, I know I can.”

  Maloik’s glare intensified. “Your little trial is shining a spotlight on the family business. You know what the lead piece of the WBBN was? Us. Brad Edward’s smug little face telling everybody about your stupidity. I was already at the end of my patience with you, Indro, before you went and got the Loggia family riled up.”

  “Give me a chance to explain why I riled them up, and you’ll be glad I did.”

  Maloik sat up straighter, his glower turning into a puzzled frown. “Start talking.”

  “Enzio Loggia is not only the one who took a shot at me, he also kidnapped my lawyer the other day and told her to drop the case.”

  Maloik arched his eyebrow high on his forehead. “You’re sure it was Enzio?”

  “Yeah, pretty damn sure. You know that scorpion tat he’s got on his hand, right? He was wearing a mask but wasn’t smart enough to cover it up with a glove.”

  Don Maloik stroked his chin and considered me for a long moment. “Don Loggia is pissed. He wants me to make an example out of you.”

  I repressed a shudder and kept my face neutral. “What did you say to that?”

  “I told him I would take it under consideration.”