It’s just expected that you show up.
And never leave.
“I’m gonna kill Sammy,” I grumble, adjusting the gun in the waistband of my pants.
“If he didn’t call me, it’d be your funeral. I don’t know why you needed to storm this shit show by yourself.”
Gabe doesn’t get it. But it’s not like I can make him understand. I know what people say about me. I know what they think.
This time, I wanted to tell a different story, one where I’m the one who took care of things, not just the one who carried out a fucking order.
I’m nobody’s goddamned errand boy, but that’s what they all see.
Because that’s the picture Nico paints.
My best friend. And my boss.
He claims he wants to help me rise through the ranks, to get me involved in the business end so people don’t just see me as a thug and start taking me seriously. But being his fucking peon isn’t gonna erase that image.
I may not be Mr. CEO, but I do know how these jerkoffs operate. Nico can barely hold a fucking gun, much less fire one. If I told him about this, he’d have gathered all the guys together, had a fucking brutally long meeting about pros and cons of how and when we should attack, blah, blah, fucking blah. This isn’t the time to play around with our dicks. And now is the time for me to make my move and prove myself to those assholes who talk shit behind my back, betting on how long it’ll take before one of our enemies finally pops me.
Sorry, to disappoint you, dickheads. It ain’t happening.
Not tonight, anyway.
But still, a nagging voice needles me.
Grandpa Vito wouldn’t be happy about this.
I grit my teeth as Gabe cocks his gun. Vito was the head of the Salesi family. The big guy. The one who oversaw everything. He’d always been my champion, even after the divorce. That’s what we call the falling out between my dad and Nico’s. A lot of shit went down back then, but Vito always supported me, even when nobody else did.
Now he’s gone. It’s been almost a year since he died of a heart attack, and sometimes I feel like nobody has my back anymore. I’m a liability. They don’t want to take the risk on me since I’m such a loose cannon.
At least, that’s what I hear.
The mental taunting continues.
Is that why Grandpa Vito got Nico to give you a job? Or was it because he didn’t trust you either and needed to get you a babysitter?
Shut the fuck up, voice!
I clench and unclench my fists, the memory of Layla’s whimpering making my chest tighten. “Are you ready yet, for Christ’s sake?”
Gabe tucks the gun back into his jeans and nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I put a hand on his chest before he takes another step closer to the door. “Wait. You didn’t need to come here tonight. But I want you to know I appreciate it. And I’ll make sure her father knows you showed up, too. Now keep your eyes open. I don’t need any more blood on my hands, got it?”
Gabe lets out a snort. “Fuck off, bitch. Worry about yourself.”
I roll my eyes and shove him aside, inching closer to the dingy metal door. With a throbbing pulse, I pull open the door; the stench of stale cigarette smoke tinged with scotch assaults my nostrils. I nod toward Gabe, and he covers the other side of the door. I creep inside. A few lights hang over beaten up pool tables, marijuana smoke swirling through the air. A jukebox sits silent in a far corner.
The silence is deafening.
And fucking excruciating, if I’m being honest.
A piercing scream shatters the eerie stillness, and I dart in the direction of the desperate pleas.
It’s Layla.
I pull out my gun and point to Gabe, directing him to cover me as I run toward a back room. I have no fucking clue what waits for me beyond that door, but my friend is in trouble. Serious fucking trouble.
Her father, Antonio deVincenzo, was the only one who’d believed that I had more to offer the family than smashed up skulls. He was the only one who gave me a real shot at my own business, until that asshole Rocco Lucchese fucked us both, leaving me with nothing but this dead-end job under Nico’s watchful eye.
I never forgot what Antonio did for me.
And I owe him plenty, even in death. Lung cancer drained the life out of him last spring, but I’m still paying back the debt.
Gabe does a quick check and waves me toward the door a minute later. “All clear,” he mouths.
I don’t like this one bit.
This place looks like a fucking bloodbath waiting to happen. Something is wrong…very wrong. Why isn’t this place crawling with thugs? Where the fuck is everyone?
Napping because they ate too much fucking turkey?
Doubtful…
I inch closer to the door, shooting out a hand and shoving it open to find Layla squirming under some beefy dipshit who didn’t have the foresight to lock the fucking front door. He has one hand under her skirt and one hand slapped over her mouth. He turns around, his eyes red and bloodshot, face dripping with sweat. He drags himself to his feet, a shit-eating grin on his pock-marked face. His belt is undone, jeans hanging around his ass. Layla scrambles into a corner. Her face is streaked with black eye makeup, her teeth chattering so violently, she can’t even speak. Her eyes are filled with terror, her body shaking uncontrollably.
I swallow hard, breathing deep to control my heartbeat. My hand is steady, trained on the bastard who’d just dry humped his last victim. He should be thanking his lucky stars that his dick is still inside of his pants.
Otherwise, I’d have shot off the head in his pants before blowing off the one on his shoulders.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Blood and bits of brain and bone splatter all over the wall before his body crashes to the floor with a loud thump. A shriek that can shatter glass follows, and I sideswipe Layla’s attacker, holding out a hand to pull her up.
But she continues to cower in the corner.
“Layla, babe. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Let me help you up.”
Still, she just shakes her head, stuttering something I can’t make out, shivering and huddling closer to the wall.
“Layla,” I say again, louder this time. “I need you to come with me. Is there anyone else—?”
Crack!
A single gunshot explodes from behind me.
“Gabe!” I shout, jumping to my feet and twisting around…
Two seconds too late.
A thick hand grasps my neck, dragging me to my feet. Layla’s weeping turns into full-fledges screeches as my back is slammed against the wall, the fucking bloody, brainy wall of horrors.
Mikey Bonnaro. Sonofabitch. He’d been one of Frank Cappodamo’s soldiers, but his ‘career’ came to a screeching halt last New Year’s Eve when Frank had kidnapped my sister Shaye. That was a fucking brutal night. It didn’t end well for any of Cappodamo’s men, including Frank himself. Before that bloodbath, Mikey had been positioned as a captain, and Frank was about to give him the drug distribution business for all of his territories. But shit went sideways for Cappodamo’s whole crew once we stormed the deserted warehouse where they’d taken Shaye. Some of Frank’s crew, including Mikey, were able to get away. But Mikey’s brother Gianni wasn’t so lucky. I slashed his tires and dropped about fifty grams of heroin into the passenger seat of his car before we busted out of the parking lot. He’s been behind bars since that night, and it looks like Mikey is still pissed off that his promotion never went through.
“Shut up, bitch!” Mikey shouts at Layla before he turns back to me with an evil grimace. “Happy fucking Thanksgiving, Oriani. It’s not very polite to crash someone’s party. Didn’t that cunt mother of yours teach you any manners?”
“Is this your plan, Mikey? You think kidnapping her is gonna win you points with those dipshits you work with?” I wheeze, trying to pry his fingers away from my throat. “You think it’ll give you power over them? You think they’ll follow you now because you got o
ne of ours?”
“Loyalty doesn’t come cheap. They know what I can get them.” He shrugs. “It’s all about what you can deliver, right Maximo? What have you delivered? Oh, right. Nothing. That’s why you’re Nico’s bitch now. He needs to keep tabs on the weak link, right?” He lets go, and my body crashes to the floor like a lead pipe.
Speaking of lead pipes, I’d love to have one in my hand right about now.
My hand flies to my neck, and I choke, trying to swallow as much air as my lungs can handle.
Mikey crouches down next to me and ruffles my hair. “Did you think I was gonna kill you, Max? Were you scared?”
My eyes dart behind him to where Gabe lies in a pool of blood right outside the back room.
More blood on my hands.
So much blood.
There doesn’t ever seem to be a shortage of it, that’s for shit sure. Gabe was a good guy. He showed up, and because of me, now he’s fucking dead.
On Thanks-fucking-giving.
Mikey follows my gaze and shrugs. “Collateral damage. You know how it is. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I only wanted to give you a message.” He waves over at Gabe, barely acknowledging his limp and lifeless body sprawled on the floor. “That’s your fault for being too big of a pussy to show up alone.” He taps my temple with the barrel of his gun. “You’re getting soft doing all this businessy shit, aren’t you? You’d have come in here shooting the place up back in the day. You would never have dropped your gun before popping off a round or two.” He points his piece to where mine hit the floor minutes earlier and then points it to Layla. “But maybe this will make you remember…keep you focused. For next time. Because lucky for you, there will be one.
Crack!
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The Mob Lust Series by Kristen Luciani
SCREWING THE MOB
BETRAYING THE MOB
SLAYING THE MOB
The Love Drunk Series by Kristen Luciani
YOU BELONG WITH ME
BOOK ONE OF THE LOVE DRUNK SERIES
NOT OVER YOU
BOOK TWO OF THE LOVE DRUNK SERIES
JUST SAY YES
BOOK THREE OF THE LOVE DRUNK SERIES
BEFORE YOU GO
BOOK FOUR OF THE LOVE DRUNK SERIES
Standalone Romance Titles by Kristen Luciani
PLOWED
FATAL LIES
DIRTY REVENGE
JUST LUST
LIGHT ME UP
WRAPPED IN LOVE
DONUT TEASE ME
Kristen Luciani is a USA Today bestselling romance author and momtrepreneur with a penchant for stilettos, Silicon Valley, plunging necklines and grapefruit martinis. As a deep-rooted romantic who prefers juicy drama to fill the lives of anyone other than her, she tried her hand at creating a world of enchantment, sensuality, and intrigue, finally uncovering her true passion. No pun intended…
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Screwing the Mob Page 37