Screwing the Mob

by Luciani, Kristen

  But she hasn’t made a sound, and I’m not entirely sure how much time has passed.

  And I somehow know that it’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice.

  I’ve traveled so far, although I can’t seem to fathom the distance, and she’s nowhere to be found.

  Am I too late?

  I collapse against the tall lifeguard stand, panting. Beads of sweat drip down the sides of my face as I scour the sand, looking for something, any clue that she’s still alive, a shred of hope to convince me that I can still save her, that I haven’t lost the most important person in my life because of the irrational choices I have made.

  Irreversible choices. Damning choices.

  My gaze falls down to the white sand and it’s speckled with bright red dots. I follow the path of dots until they become larger red splotches. My heart thuds as the stain spreads over the beach, blanketing the earth in a disturbing shade of blood red as far as my eyes can see.

  Blood. Death.

  I fall to the sand, clutching my temples. “Shaye, where are you? Please help me find you. Please come back to me!”

  But the words are no longer just in my head. They tumble from my mouth, my voice echoing in the still air. I squeeze my eyes shut and when I crack them open, dark, dank concrete walls close in on me. I creep around a corner, following a trail of large, fluffy marshmallows and somehow I know these ‘breadcrumbs’ that I’m following are significant, and not just some Willy Wonka type of bullshit that is fucking with my mind. I inch closer to a large doorway, toward the muffled cries that haunt my dreams. A thin stream of red liquid trickles out of the doorway, the marshmallows now floating toward me.

  Marshmallows. Shaye loves marshmallows. I need to find Shaye.

  I fall to my knees once again, next to Grandpa Vito’s motionless body, a devastating image that is forever burned into my memory.

  Don’t leave, Grandpa. Please. I still have so much more to learn…

  You have a lot of responsibilities now, Nico.

  My gut clenches, and I’m back on the staircase at my house, my hands finally free of the binding substance. I leap up the rest of the steps toward the landing and tear down the hallway to my bedroom. I slam open the door, out of breath but hopefully not out of time.

  “Shaye,” I gasp, dragging myself through the empty master suite. “I’m here.”

  But…she’s not.

  My body rockets to an upright position, sweat drizzling down the front of my heaving chest. My hand instinctively pats the mattress beside me, connecting with the cool, twelve-hundred thread count sheets that I’d bought when Shaye moved back from Miami four months ago. I’d wanted to make her feel comfortable here in my house, to give her a taste of the luxury I’d worked so hard to attain. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her, nothing I wouldn’t give to have her next to me for the rest of our lives.

  But I’m still trying to figure out how to give her the life she deserves. I thought I had it all figured out. I thought once I pulled the trigger and blew away Frank Cappodamo, I’d paved the way for our safe future. With one single trigger click I sent his family a message. I sent my own guys a message. Fuck with me or anyone I love, and you will die.

  It earned me respect and loyalty, which was great.

  It also put a bullseye dead center on my back.

  The nightmares started almost immediately after the warehouse massacre, and they’ve only gotten worse over time. I collapse onto Shaye’s pillow and breathe in her flowery scent. She should be here with me, but recently the nightmares have gotten so bad, I’ve made excuses about work keeping me out late and me not wanting her here by herself in the middle of the night. She’s much safer staying at her parents’ house, anyway.

  The truth is, I can’t control these damn dreams. And I hate like hell for her see me in a state of complete fucking weakness. I’ve tried drinking and drugging myself to sleep, and nothing works. Nothing can bring me peace, not even buried balls deep in Shaye.

  I let out a deep sigh and flip onto my back. I know I won’t sleep again until I take care of the enemy from beyond the grave.

  But this time, it’s not the memory of Frank I’m battling.

  He’s sent in a replacement, a crazier motherfucker than he ever was.

  And until I stop Cappodamo’s poison from leaking into my life, I’m pretty damn sure I won’t have a decent night’s sleep again.

  Shaye

  I flop down on a bench inside Washington Square Park after class and let out a deep sigh. Radio silence from Nico. Again.

  I lean my head back against the hard wood and stare at the blue sky. Rays of light peek through the lush green leaves of the trees, making me squint. The power and strength of the sun is guarded by those leaves and branches. Kind of like this whole thing with Nico, although he’s guarding me against something much more harmful than UV rays, I just know it. A shiver runs through me as memories of that fateful night come rushing over me. The hate spewed, the terror, the blood…God, all of the blood.

  I know exactly why Nico sent me home last night, why he makes up excuses to get me out of his bed most nights. But I’ve never let on. I swallow his bullshit stories and smile like it’s absolutely fine that he wants me to leave. But it kills me that he can only stand to be around me during daylight hours because the horror of what comes over him when he sleeps is too much for him to bear with an audience laying right next to him.

  I rub my temples, and flip open my journal. I start to write, watching the swirls of my words fill up page after page as I tell my notebook all of the things I can’t tell the man I love for fear of what he might do, say, or think. Writing has become my sole form of therapy. I can’t talk to my parents or Max, and even Sloane, my best friend, can’t help me with this.

  I’ve pieced together enough to know that trouble didn’t end that night. Nico slayed Cappodamo, but that’s not the end of the story. Nothing is ever that neat and tidy in the mob. There is more, so much more. Unfortunately, my knowledge is limited to what Nico mumbles in his sleep and what I can glean from heated, closed-door conversations between my dad and Max.

  “You might want to give that pen a break. I think you’re working it too hard.”

  I gasp, flinging the pen into the air and twisting in the direction of the intruding voice. “Professor!”

  Jason Gary, my Psychology of the Human Mind instructor, grins down at me. That lopsided grin is famous among the female co-eds. It was one of the first things I’d learned when I transferred to NYU for the fall semester. His single dimple, thick, dark hair, and sparkling blue-green eyes have students camping out at Student Services to plead their case for an open spot in any one of his classes.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just haven’t seen that kind of focus from a student in a while. It’s refreshing.”

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, well, thanks. I guess I just have a lot on my mind these days. Journaling helps me get it out.” What I neglect to mention is that whatever ends up on these pages normally scares the shit out of me and makes me sometimes wish I’d taken up a different major.

  He points to the bench. “Okay if I sit?”

  “Sure.” I swallow hard and scoot over a bit to give him more room. And also because I know I’m way too close when the scent of his cologne permeates the air I breathe. I need my own air. My fingertips turn white as they clench the pen, a shiver slithering down my spine. Something about this just feels wrong. Professor Gary sitting next to me with that curious look on his face, all of my conflicted emotions about Nico spilled out onto the page in my lap…everything is way too close for comfort, and I feel very freaking exposed right now.

  “You know, journaling is a good way to help you make sense of different feelings and emotions. The exercise of writing can help you figure out the why behind those feelings and process them.”

  I nod and stare at my notebook. If I make eye contact, what will I see? And do I really want to know? “Yes.”
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  “But sometimes it helps to talk to someone else. You won’t always have the answers, and you can write for days, months, and years without coming to any conclusions. A fresh perspective might help you find the answers you’re looking for.”

  My head pops up. “You mean therapy? I don’t need a therapist!”

  He chuckles. “I wasn’t implying that you did. I was just saying that an unbiased, uninvolved person can help you work through things better than you doing it on your own.”

  I manage a weak smile. “That makes sense.” Except I could never in a million years share any of this with another living, breathing person. It would be the utter betrayal of so many people. Letting some ‘fresh perspective’ in on my family’s illegal business dealings, talking to a random stranger about my conflicting feelings I have for Nico…if that information got into the wrong hands, I have no idea the extent of the damage it would most certainly do.

  “I’m always here to talk if you need to hash anything out.”

  I have to keep my jaw from dropping because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d ever speak a word of this to him. “Thank you very much, Professor. I appreciate it.”

  “You put a lot of time into your work, Shaye, and you’ve demonstrated a very keen ability to see into the minds of others. But it’s not always easy to turn that introspective lens in on ourselves.”

  I feel a hot flush creeping up the sides of my face. Is it only because he’s complimenting my work? Or is it more about the dreamy smile that makes me want to bite my lower lip?

  Or, maybe it’s not about the smile after all. Maybe it’s because he’s so incredibly uncomplicated and transparent. Here is a guy who makes a living out of fleshing out feelings and emotions. Forget the way he looks. He doesn’t bottle things up so that the unspoken words become a huge elephant in a room. He’s a fan of talking. I’m a fan of talking, too…except, I can’t. Not now. And as far as that introspective lens goes, mine is pretty damn fogged up right about now. “I’ll keep working on it.” I force my lips to curl upward into a more convincing smile. “I should, ah, get going now. I have another class in a few minutes.”

  He winks and relaxes back against the bench because he is obviously not overburdened with unresolved feelings of angst. Lucky him. “Have a great afternoon. I’ll see you in class, Shaye.”

  “Thanks…you, too, Professor.” My throat is so tight, I can barely squeak out the words. I stuff my journal into my backpack and hoist it over my shoulder. “Have a good day.” My feet can’t work fast enough to put as much space between us as possible. I feel like I’ve just been stripped bare, like he could sense exactly what is going on in my mind and in my heart. A tiny part of me wanted him to see it all so I wouldn’t have to say anything.

  I need help, but I can’t get help.

  I’m on my own.

  And somehow, I feel more alone now in New York, now that I’m actually in a relationship, than I ever was when I was in Florida by myself.

  Nico

  Dark, menacing glare. Fists clenched at his sides. Body stiff as a cock in the Playboy fucking mansion. The tall, hulking guy in the newspaper clippings shows no signs of grief, only ones of rage and anger.

  Things I’ve seen firsthand.

  I know he remembers.

  And damn, how I wish I could forget.

  I stare at the pieces of newsprint scattered across my desk and rake a hand through my hair. A knot at the base of my skull screams at me when I dip my head lower to read one of the articles about Cappodamo’s memorial service. I don’t think I slept more than an hour at a stretch last night.

  These days, I wonder if it’s worse for me to be awake or asleep, to be honest.

  My index finger pokes at Luca Cappodamo’s face in the picture. He got back from his overseas tour about four months ago, long after I’d plugged his dad. It wasn’t surprising since he’d never been close with his father. They were always battling about Luca’s choice to become an MMA fighter instead of the obligatory take over the family business that was expected of him. His dad wanted to groom him as his protégé so he could eventually hand over the reins to him, but Luca wanted nothing more than to bludgeon and maim on his own terms without anyone looking over his shoulder and critiquing his methods. So, he threw his hat into the MMA ring, beating anyone to a pulp who got in his way; he also spent years all over the world fucking anything with legs and a short skirt in his downtime.

  There was no love lost between those two, that’s for sure. But that doesn’t mean Luca won’t do the honorable thing and avenge his father’s murder, if not for himself, than for his gin-soaked drunk of a mother who fled to Sicily after all the shit went down.

  And if you would have known his parents like I did when Luca was growing up, it wasn’t such a stretch to figure out how Luca got so fucked up in the first place. Years ago, before he left the country, we ran in the same circles, when the New York families respected the boundaries of the New Jersey families, and vice versa. Yeah, back in the day, I’d seen plenty, been witness to the casualties of Luca’s wrath. Shit that’s burned into my memory forever. Things that keep me up at night because I know that the bastard is a certifiable lunatic with a get out of jail free card in his back pocket.

  A groan tumbles from my lips. I remember when things used to be civil between the families. We traded favors, struck deals, and got rich. Sure, there were always shitheads on both sides who thought they knew best and tried to muscle their way into places they didn’t belong—but they were always taken care of…with a silencer and a single bullet. Maintaining the status quo meant keeping your mattresses stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. But it never lasted. There was always some jerkoff who got too greedy. Case in point—Tony Oriani, Shaye and Max’s dad. Shit between the families didn’t get tense until that asshole dipped his wick into the wrong pool.

  I rub the back of my neck. Months have passed, and I haven’t seen or heard a goddamn thing from the Cappodamo side of the bridge. That only means they’re getting closer to making a move. Every night when I go to bed, the fear of the unknown consumes me. And every morning when I wake up—if you even want to call what I’m doing sleeping—I wonder if it will be the day they launch their retaliation.

  Shaye needs to stay as far away from me as possible, but without her, I don’t know how I’d make it from one day to the next. So, I fool myself into thinking if she sleeps at her parents’ house a few nights a week, I’m protecting her.

  Knowing what I do about Luca, she’d be safer juggling a dozen flaming batons than being within one-hundred yards of me.

  A knock at the door jolts me back to reality, and I swallow a groan when my head pops up from the newspaper . The sharp pain zaps the base of my skull and shoots down my spine. Christ, I need a fucking adjustment so badly. Just one more thing that keeps me awake at night. I open the top drawer and sweep the clippings into it before slamming it shut. “Yeah?”

  Viktor Ivanov, one of my business associates and a top Russian crime boss, pushes open the door and drops into the chair in front of my desk with a smirk on his stubbled face. “Nico, this had better be good. You dragged me away from a very tight pussy.”

  I drum my fingertips on the top of my desk. “How do you feel about horses?”

  Viktor shrugs. “I don’t ride them, and I don’t bet on them.”

  “You don’t have to do either.”

  “So why should I care? And make it fast. That pussy is calling to me.”

  I grin and ease myself back into the chair. “I’m in the process of buying a stable up in northern Jersey.”

  “And you want me to be horse racing buddy?”

  “Not quite. Salesi Associates just bought properties in Manhattan that we’ll be developing as part of our ‘entertainment’ business portfolio. We want you to be our main drug supplier, but there will be too much money passing through hands to keep it off the radar of the feds.”

  “So you want to pass it through stable?”


  “Exactly. That’s how we’ll keep it clean.”

  “With all of the horse shit?” Viktor pulls out a skinny black cigarette and lights it, inhaling sharply. A minute later, he nods. “I like that. Clean, but dirty. Just like that pussy you made me leave.”

  “So you’re in?”

  “I was in, until you pulled me out. Fucking Americans. So impatient. Couldn’t even let me come before you drag my ass down here.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be balls-deep soon enough.” I push back my chair and struggle to my feet, trying to ignore the searing pain zapping every nerve ending in my back and legs. “We’re done.”

  Viktor blows a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Just remember, I’m not your bitch, Nico. Next time, I fuck first, you hear me?”

  I snicker. Bad ass Russian drug lord. Head of the bratva. Paralyzed by pussy. We’ve worked together long enough for me to know his real addiction. “Stop by later this week. I’ll take care of you.”

  Viktor grunts his reply and reaches for the door handle. Just as he’s about to pull it open, he turns around, an evil smirk on his face. “By the way, I hear our friend Luca Cappodamo is back in town. We should go out for a drink, welcome him home, don’t you think?”

  My lips stretch into a thin line. “Yeah, we’re gonna give him the time of his fucking life.”

  Shaye

  I run my fingers through the long, dark waves that cascade over my bare shoulders. My eyes are shadowed and thickly lined, and my puckered, dark red lips pop against my skin. I take a deep breath and smooth down the front of my dress. Okay, dress is an understatement. It looks more like a long bathing suit that definitely won’t cover my ass if I bend over. Actually, I’m not sure it covers it when I’m standing, either.