HIS
Penelope Bloom
Contents
1. Vincent
2. Aubriella
3. Vincent
4. Aubriella
5. Vincent
6. Aubriella
7. Vince
8. Aubriella
9. Vince
10. Aubriella
11. Vincent
12. Aubriella
13. Vincent
14. Aubriella
15. Vincent
16. Aubriella
17. Vince
18. Aubriella
19. Vincent
20. Aubriella
21. Vince
22. Aubriella
23. Vince
24. Aubriella
25. Vincent
26. Aubriella
27. Vince
28. Aubriella
29. Vince
30. Aubriella
Epilogue
31. Thank you
32. Join My Dirty List
Copyright © 2016 by Penelope Bloom
All rights reserved.
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1
Vincent
I step into the Jets’ locker room like I own the place. Hell, I might as well. Players and coaching staff glance up at me and quickly look away. They should all know better than to take a loan from me by now. They’ve seen the broken fingers, black eyes, and the limps that follow missed payments. But the bank doesn’t exactly hand out forty grand loans in cash and on short notice. So they keep coming to me, week after week, day after day. And me? I keep getting paid.
I find who I’m looking for at the back of the room. He’s getting his shoulder worked on by one of the athletic trainers. Ronnie White. The highest paid player on the team and the NFL’s favorite new playboy. He also owes me close to 150 G’s, and he knows it. When he sees me, he does a double take, stopping his conversation mid-sentence.
I don’t need to glare at him, drag my finger across my throat, or flash the piece tucked into my waistband. None of that gangster shit you see in movies. That would be bad for business. No, I just keep moving through the locker room while I turn my head and wink at him. He swallows hard, wide eyes watching me as I step into the hallway outside.
Fuck, I love what I do. The Jets play in less than an hour and I still need to bring Ronnie in for a firm reminder before he hits the field. I’ve got other shit on my mind tonight, though. I look at the text for what must be the 10th time in the last thirty minutes. Caught a ten-footer. It’s from Jimmy, my right-hand man. The text is code. It means he’s got someone with information on my little brother’s killers. I’m surprised he still remembers the code. It has been nearly a year since we set it up, and I haven’t heard shit since.
I move through the underbelly of MetLife stadium quickly, feeling pissed that I had to waste time detouring to keep Ronnie in check when I just want to be going after what really matters: the fuckers who killed Jackie.
Almost everyone knows to stay out of my way, and the ones who don’t quickly get yanked back by those who do. If they’re fish, I’m the shark, and nobody wants to draw my attention. The cops leave me alone because I pad their pockets. The coaches know not to get on my bad side because I have half their players by the fuckin’ balls. The administration stays out of my way because I’ve got more dirt on them than I know what to do with. Basically, I’m untouchable as long as I keep the feds away—those fuckers don’t know how to take a bribe.
I find the administrative hallway that stadium officials and coaches use for player meetings or schmoozing. It’s my unofficial office, and when I’m in the building, everyone knows to clear the fuck out. So I’m not surprised when I open the double doors to the hallway and find no staff mulling around. I enter the small film room near the front of the hallway where a small door leads out to the field. Inside, I see Jimmy, Frankie, and my two newest soldiers, Dino and Vito. They all surround a fat Italian man in his forties who is tied to a chair. He looks a little scuffed up already but largely untouched.
“This the fish?” I ask.
Jimmy nods. He’s got an underbite like a bulldog but is otherwise unremarkable with thin eyebrows, plain features, and a habit of wearing clothes that are a few sizes too big for him. We call him Fingers because he wears his sleeves so long that you can only see the tips of his fingers hanging out of the sleeves. I can actually see his knuckles tonight, which is an improvement for him.
“Who is he?” I ask, moving to get a better look at the man. Everyone clears out of my way, careful not to draw my quick temper.
Frankie answers. “Tony Anastasio. One of their capos.” Frankie is my older brother. He’s a meathead and has an ever hotter temper than me. Pops never explicitly said so, but when he passes, control of the family is skipping Frankie and coming to me. We all know Frankie doesn’t have the brains to run the operation, Frankie included, but it hasn’t stopped him from holding a grudge.
I move to Tony, who squints up at me. “You know who I am?”
He has the nerve to grin at me, so I punch him three times in the face, putting my whole body into each swing. His head whips to the side, snapping back just in time for me to knock it away again like a fuckin’ punching bag. The sound is meaty, not like what you hear in movies. He winces, swears, and slowly turns to meet my eyes again. No grin this time.
Jimmy strolls forward, pulling the slack out of his pants and kneeling so he’s eye to eye with Tony. “You may not know us, but we know you. Here’s a little friendly advice. Take a good look at the guy using you as a punching bag. Know who that is?”
Tony looks toward me, unsure.
“That, my friend, is the top capo for the Citrione family. Remember Jackie Citrione from a few years back?”
I appreciate Jimmy handling this part for me. Just hearing my little brother’s name makes my throat close up. It makes me want to hit something, more than usual, at least. I wouldn’t be able to even explain what I wanted to know without mauling the guy.
“Yeah. That was his kid brother. The one your family murdered in cold blood. You might want to ask yourself how far you really want to push him.”
For the first time, Tony looks scared. His eyes dart to me and then back to the ground. “I don’t know anything,” he says quietly. I’ve heard the tone before. He’s going to talk. His pride just isn’t ready to let him yet. He’s from our world, and he has to know he’s on borrowed time now. No one is going to believe he made it out of a session with me and didn’t rat. He’s going to have a target on his back the size of a cow. He’s a dead man.
Tony s
pits on the concrete floor. We’re beneath MetLife stadium only a few minutes before kickoff. The roar of fans above nearly drowns out his mumbled response. “Don’t know shit,” he says again, more quietly than before.
I lean closer. “You had better start thinking real hard, asshole.”
He stares at me defiantly. I grin and then slam my knuckles into his gut He tries to double over, but the ropes only let his chin sag to his chest. His face scrunches up and he sucks in a deep breath. Just beneath the tough exterior, I see the first signs of something beneath cracking.
“I’ve got punching bags a lot harder than your flabby ass, Tony. I can do this all fuckin’ day. Can you?”
“Just ice me then. I’m dead if I talk and I’m dead if I don’t. So fuck you.”
“I’m not lookin’ to talk to anybody, Tony. You give me names, I make bodies. It’s that simple. Anybody who cares about you snitching is going to be too dead to do a fuckin’ thing about it.” It’s probably a lie, but that’s not my problem.
“I don’t know who killed Jackie. It…” He swallows and then stops speaking.
Hearing him say Jackie’s name pisses me off. A lot. “Listen good, you fat fuck. Jackie was my littlest brother. He was my fuckin’ guy. He was makin’ something of himself. He was going to school, on track to get a real good job and he had a girl he was sweet on. He was a good fuckin’ kid. I’m not going to stop until I find the motherfucker who thought they could kill him and get away with it.
Tony shakes his head slowly. “And if you start knockin’ down the right doors who do you think they will come after?”
“Not my problem. You’ve got a simple choice. Stay here with me and refuse to talk, and maybe you’ll die in ten minutes or maybe it’ll be hours. Hell, maybe I’ll leave you here and come back to do a little bit at a time. Either way, you don’t talk, you die. That’s a fact.” I move to the table nearby and heft the splintered baseball bat, taking a few practice swings. Tony flinches. “Or,” I say. “You tell me what you know, I let you walk, and maybe you can hit the mattress before any of this heat catches up with you. Lie low somewhere. Maybe Jersey.”
“You’re going to kill me either way.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m definitely going to kill you if you don’t start talking.”
He shakes his head and spits a mouthful of blood to the ground. “Give me your word that you’ll let me walk.”
“I’m not giving shit, you fat fuck. Tell me or die. It’s that simple.”
He takes a deep breath and then shakes his head. “It was Lucky, okay? He was the gun that took down your brother. That’s all I fuckin’ know.”
My eyes widen. I grab him and lift him again, slamming his head against the wall. “Lucky who?” My blood is boiling and my heart’s racing. It’s the first lead I’ve had in months, and if he’s talking about Lucky of the Anastasio’s, it would make a lot of sense. A lot of sense.
“Lucky!” he grunts through gritted teeth. “Lucky fuckin’ Anastasio.”
I drop him, smiling. The look on my face must scare him, because Tony flinches. “What?” I ask. “Get the fuck outta here. You think I’m going to spend the money on a cleanup crew just to ice your fat ass?” I jab him with the bat. “Get outta here!”
He runs, not needing another warning. I snap my fingers and Dino brings my jacket back to me. “Careful you fuckwit. That jacket is worth more than you are.” Dino is a young pup looking to make his way up in our world. He’s a half-blooded Italian, so he’ll never be more than an associate. Only full-bloods can get made and initiated into the family.
Dino pauses and then moves more slowly toward me, like I’m a snake. Good. I don’t particularly enjoy being a prick, but it’s the job. I watch from the corner of my eye as he slinks back to where Frankie and Vito are waiting. Frankie pops him on the back of his head and I hear him murmur in a low voice. “Vince is a fuckin’ Capo, numbnuts. He’s God as far as you’re concerned, so shape the fuck up.” Dino nods his head and takes a deep breath. I remember being his age, trying to work my way up in the familia and always worrying that the smallest mistake was going to get me waxed.
I run my hands through my hair and check my watch. It’s a Jaeger-LeCoultre and cost more than most cars. I don’t really give a shit about how many gears or parts the thing has, but it’s part of the package. I make a metric fuck ton of money and the more obvious I can make that, the quicker people realize they shouldn’t cross me. “Hey,” I shout, whirling my hand above my head. “Wrap it up, boys. We’ve still got one more visit to take care of before the game starts.”
I shove my hands in my pockets as we walk. I’m supposed to meet Maria tonight for drinks, but fuck she’s boring. She looks good enough with those tits and the fuck-me lips. It’s just that she has no fuckin’ backbone. Ma says I need to find a girl to settle down with, but that’s not happening.
I look up as a deep rumble hums through the stadium above me. The game must be starting soon. Shit. I need to hurry.
2
Aubriella
I run my fingers through my hair, trying in vain to make it look more manageable before Eric turns the camera on. No big deal, Aubriella. It’s just a hundred thousand sports fans that are going to be staring at you in a few seconds. I take a deep, shuddering breath and blow it out. You would think I’d be used to this by now, but the truth is, I never wanted to be in front of the camera.
I’m more than a little self-conscious of my outfit. Rachel and Denise never wear an outfit on-air more than once. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the fact that I’ve worn this same bargain basket Target dress three times now, or the way the two of them keep trying to give me their hand-me-downs. My money troubles are that obvious, apparently.
There’s no time to think about that, though. Eric holds up his meaty fingers behind the camera and gives me a silent count until we’re live.
Three fingers.
MetLife stadium is full to capacity. The roar of the crowd washes over me like a physical thing, the sounds are so loud that they vibrate through my chest.
Two fingers.
The football players from the Jets are leaving the tunnel now, running out in their full pads, arms wide as they scissor the sky, begging the crowd to get louder.
One finger.
I block as much out as I can, until the only sound I hear is my own breath and my hammering heart.
Action.
I smile toward the camera, gripping the microphone in front of my mouth like it’s a lifeline. “Expectations are high in this season opener for the New York Jets. Jets fans have never been known for their patience, and Coach Todd Bowles will certainly be in the hotseat if they have yet another disappointing season.”
A voice buzzes in my earpiece. “It looks like a full house there, Aubriella.” It’s Jerry Washington on the other end. Viewers will be seeing a split screen of my face and his right now. He’s the face of the station, and his voice drips with condescension, as if having to even talk to a sports reporter is degrading for him. “Are your feet hurting from those heels yet?” he asks. I just picture his wrinkled face crinkling as he asks. I can practically see him grinning at the camera like he and the audience are in on some joke together.
Fucking Jerry. I want to spit something venomous back at him, but I’m live. And I need the money way too much to risk losing this job. I throw on my best fake smile, dipping my chin slightly to the side. It’s a habit I have when I’m pissed, like I have to suck in a big breath and swallow it to keep from losing it. “My feet are good so far, Jerry. And yes, it’s absolutely packed here. According to my contact in the ticketing department, seats haven’t sold this quickly since the 1998 season.”
I try not to look smug. Yes, I did some of my own research, fuck you very much. Female field reporters are expected to just look good and say what we’re told, but I’m not interested in being a doormat. I always do a little of my own research so I can add to the conversation instead of just nodding a
nd smiling. Maybe part of it is my small attempt to scratch the investigative journalism itch that never really goes away. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but I’ve got my bills and dad’s bills to pay. At the end of the day, this job pays better than investigative journalism, even if it’s not what I wanted to do with my life.
There’s a slight pause in my earpiece before Jerry speaks. “Thanks, Aubriella. Very interesting.” The tone of his voice makes it abundantly clear that he doesn’t mean a word he’s saying. “We’ll check back in at half-time for a score update.”
I hold my smile for three seconds until Eric lets the camera lens aim down and nods to me. I blow out an angry breath, wanting to throw the microphone, stomp my foot, or something to satisfy the urge I have right now to throw a full-on tantrum. Sometimes it’s just too much. The bills, the work I hate, the slimebag colleagues…all of it. It makes me want to scream. I don’t though. I do what I’ve always done. I bottle it up, swallow it down, and put on my best calm face.
“Hey,” says Eric. “I’m going to go grab a hotdog from concessions. Want anything?”
“How about a ten-dollar beer?” I ask wryly.
He chuckles. Eric has a receding hairline and is very loose around the waist, but he has a gentle kindness about him that makes him easily my favorite person at the news station. After all my talk of counting pennies and saving money, he knows I’m joking and walks off to get his hotdog. If it wasn’t for dad? Yeah, I could afford a lot of nice things. All things considered, I’m paid very well. I’m a single, twenty-six-year-old woman with no children and my rent is reasonable for a New York apartment. I’m just not paid well enough to handle his baggage. And the only sort of guy I ever seem to attract are the sort who wants to split dinner or forgets his wallet every other date. It’s not that I mind splitting the responsibility, but I can’t lie; it would be nice to date a guy who had deeper pockets for once.
His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family) Page 1