His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family)

by Penelope Bloom

  I surprise myself by storming to the front of the line. I guess saying “fuck you” to a mobster last night made me a little desensitized. I normally wouldn’t get involved in something like this, even if I knew I should.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  She spins toward me, eyes wide with anger and surprise.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing that you wanted an everything bagel…there’s actually a place a few blocks over that has the best bagels in town.”

  The woman frowns, clearly not quite ready to release her anger, but whatever fanatical need it is she has for everything bagels seems to overpower everything else. So she listens as I give her directions and thanks me before glaring one final time at the cashier and leaving, but not before angrily sweeping a handful of creamers to the floor where they pop open in a milky mess.

  The few people in line give me a weak round of applause. The girl behind the counter sighs and smiles gratefully toward me. “I didn’t know there was a bagel shop on 6th street, but thank you for telling her about it.”

  I smirk. “There’s not one there. I gave her directions to a mental hospital.”

  The woman behind me in line nearly chokes on her coffee laughing and the girl behind the register ends up thanking me by giving me breakfast free of charge. I honestly didn’t help her for a reward, but I’m about seven bills beyond letting my pride get in the way of a free meal.

  Once I sit down with my breakfast—bacon egg and cheese on an asiago bagel—I make the mistake of letting my mind wander. A slight pain in my core as I sit down is all the reminder I need. I fucked a complete stranger last night. No, that’s not entirely true. He fucked me. I’ve never had sex like that before. Ever. I don’t know if it was the thrill of how wrong and stupid it was or the mixture of fear and excitement, but I still get butterflies when I think about it. It doesn’t help when I remember our “deal”. He said he’d pick me up at seven tonight for dinner, but I never told him where I live.

  I had to buy a morning after pill on the way home last night. I could still feel his cum on the inside of my thighs as the girl at CVS gave me a judgmental look of disgust. It was like she knew what I did. Exactly what I did. I even felt like people were looking into my car as I drove down the highway, joking about what a slut I was. It’s completely irrational, of course, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts. Even now, I keep looking around Panera like I’m some wounded animal, thinking every glance toward me is predatory, like everyone is watching me, either trying to decide if I’m a slut or they are watching me to decide if I am going to talk about what I saw.

  The thought makes me feel suddenly cold. I’ve never been into slut-shaming, but it’s hard not to feel guilty about what I did. It wasn’t just morally irresponsible, it was stupid on so many other levels. I could have gotten pregnant. He could have had an STD. I sigh. No matter how many times I try to convince myself it was a terrible decision, I don’t know that I wouldn’t walk back down that same hallway if I could go back. Those moments alone with him will always be burned brightly into my memory, and if I never see him again, I know I’ll be revisiting them for the rest of my life.

  I remember walking back down that long hallway after he fucked me. I remember the tangle of emotions: fear, excitement, shame, even hope, as sad as that is. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. When I got back to the field, Eric barely had time to give me the score and a few talking points before I went live. It was like walking through a dream.

  I sip my coffee and run my hands through my hair, forgetting I had spent an hour getting it perfectly in place to be on camera after the Jet’s practice this morning. I cringe as I feel the slightly stiff wave of hair above my forehead and know I just ruined all my hard work. I’m dreading being out in the sun wearing this turtleneck too, but the hickey he left on my neck would be visible from the nosebleed seats. Still, it gives me a strange sense of pride to carry something so intimate from him, even if I don’t want anyone to see it.

  I’m about to get up and go inspect the damage to my hair when Aria comes through the front door. She’s wearing thick sunglasses that cover half of her face and my jaw nearly drops when I see who towers beside her. Ronnie fucking White. The same NFL wide receiver I saw getting bullied by those criminals last night. My head starts to spin. I barely manage a smile as they sit down across from me after ordering at the front counter.

  Ronnie is 6’4 and 240 pounds of lean muscle. I know because I had to do a piece on him during training camp. He’s only 23 years old and the talking heads are practically clearing a spot in the hall of fame for him already. He’s wearing a low-key outfit: a grey T-shirt, black sweats, and a black baseball cap with shades. Somehow he manages to make it look good. Not as good as Vince would make it look. My dirty criminal. The thought rises to the surface of my mind, as unwelcome as a belch. Vince is like poison. I’ve got him in my system and everything keeps bringing my thoughts back to him.

  It doesn’t help that I’m still sore down there from where he relentlessly pounded me. God. I can’t believe I didn’t even think to stop him from cumming inside me. I would say I can’t believe he had the nerve to assume he could, but I can totally believe it. One look at him and I knew he was the kind of guy who did whatever the fuck he wanted. If you had a problem with it, too bad. I wish that part of him didn’t turn me on so goddamn much.

  Aria leans across the table and snaps her fingers towards me. “Earth to Aubri…”

  I blink, shaking my head. Was I just staring at them? “S-sorry. Long night last night.”

  Ronnie smiles. He’s cute, but not my type. He’s muscular and athletic, there’s no doubt about that, but something in his features makes him seem too soft, too boyish. “I’m—”

  “Ronnie White,” I say, finishing his sentence. “I know. Aubriella Lightner. I interviewed you a few times during training camp for SportsCast.”

  He nods, smiling, but clearly not remembering.

  A girl stops at our table and drops the food down. Ronnie looks like he ordered for three. He has two steak and cheese bagels, a bowl of soup, and a full-size salad. Aria is eating light, as usual.

  I give Aria a look that says thanks for warning me that you were bringing a friend.

  She gives me a slightly shameful smile in return that makes me instantly suspect she slept with him and couldn’t find a way to get rid of him in the morning. She’s always too nice to cut a guy loose, though I doubt she’s trying to cut this particular one loose. Aria doesn’t stalk football players because she’s a gold-digger. She just loves the game and, well, the uniforms.

  “So,” says Aria quickly to cover the awkward looks we’re firing back and forth. “You said last night was weird? What’s up?”

  I really wish I could talk to her alone right now, but Mr. Superstar is glancing up at us between mouthfuls of his breakfast-for-three.

  Instead, I spend the next half-hour exchanging small talk with Aria and Ronnie, forcing myself to act interested so I don’t come off like a bitch. I nearly cry with relief when he excuses himself to go stop by his place before practice. I wait until the door closes behind him to give Aria an exasperated look.

  “Couldn’t you have at least texted? Hey, bringing an NFL player along for breakfast, hope you don’t mind.”

  Aria looks down and plays with her fingers. “Sorry. He took me out after the game last night and we had a little too much to drink. His place is so big that I had no idea where I left my phone and I was too embarrassed to ask about it.”

  “You just left your phone at his house?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. It’s not like I planned it.”

  The mom in me wants to come out and scold her for being irresponsible. Not that I’ve ever had kids, but my mom died when I was just a little girl, and I grew up watching other moms, wishing I had someone to fuss over me and protect me like that. God knew my dad wasn’t up for the job. If it wasn’t higher than two percent alcohol content, he wasn’t interested. Well, unless it involv
ed gambling. That always got him out of bed in the morning and it was the booze that put him back down at night.

  Who am I kidding? I just let a guy who was probably a mobster use me like a fuck doll last night. I’m the last person who should be lecturing her about making good decisions, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “He’s cute,” I say after a brief pause.

  She smirks. “I know. Soooo, tell me. You totally dodged my question about last night when Ronnie was here. You seemed fine when I talked to you before the game last night. Nervous, maybe, but you’re always like that before you go on the air. What really happened? You ran off after those goons and never came back. I even tried to find you but you were nowhere.”

  I run my finger through the ring of water left by my drink on the table, unable to meet her eye. “I slept with a guy.”

  Aria sputters on her drink, cupping her hand to catch the coffee that runs from her chin. When she finally gets control and swallows, she lifts her sunglasses to bulge her eyes at me. “When? At the game?”

  I nod my head slowly, cheeks burning. “It might be more accurate to say we fucked.” Admitting it to her feels at least a little good, like a slight weight off my chest.

  “So when you told me you weren’t attracted to the football types, you were just full of it?”

  “It’s not that. I mean, it wasn’t that. He wasn’t a player.”

  She quirks an eyebrow.

  I suddenly regret telling her anything. Vince’s hard voice and eyes flash in my memory. He told me not to talk to anyone, about anything. Then my eye catches movement. I see a man in a long jacket sitting in the corner of the Panera. He’s talking on a cell phone not far from my table, and he keeps looking toward us as he talks. When he sees that I notice him, he unfolds a newspaper. A newspaper? Who the hell still reads newspapers?

  My skin prickles.

  “Aubs? You were just about to get to the juicy bit, you can’t just start staring off into…what’s wrong?” She looks over her shoulder in the direction I was looking.

  The man with the newspaper looks up again and sees us both looking. He says something into his phone, hangs up, and then leaves, but not before giving me a really fucking scary glare.

  I run my hand through my hair, doing even more damage to the work I put in this morning, but I’m so far from caring about my hair right now that it barely registers. “Aria, I don’t think I should involve you.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe I can tell you more if it’s—when it’s safe. Just…right now is a bad time. I-I really have to go. I’m sorry.”

  I’m about to leave when the door to Panera opens. I see the reactions of the girls behind the counter first. All four of them suddenly check their hair, eyes locked toward the entrance of the restaurant. I follow their gaze as Aria turns in her chair to look, too.

  He walks in the glass entryway looking so incredible that it’s almost comical. The rising morning sun silhouettes him in his impeccable black suit with a red shirt. He takes his sunglasses off and runs a hand through his thick hair, pushing some back, but a few stubborn strands still fall over his forehead. He walks straight toward me, his eyes never leaving me, never noticing that every woman in the store is staring like Brad Pitt just strolled in.

  I can’t move. When he gets closer, Aria turns around quickly, bulging her eyes at me and mouthing holy shit and biting her lip.

  Vince stops at our table, pulling up a chair and sitting in it backwards. He casually puts his foot on my chair, resting his elbow on his raised knee. I swallow hard. I’ve had enough time to think about this. I didn’t expect to see him here. I had also convinced myself that he couldn’t possibly be as good looking as I remembered. I was right. He’s better looking.

  “Hey,” he says, making the word sound somehow obscene, like it has fingers and they are sliding under my clothes and caressing me.

  Aria is completely motionless, except for her eyes, which are raised to look at him.

  “Please leave,” I say.

  “We had a deal. Dinner. Remember?”

  I purse my lips. “I changed my mind.”

  Something dark flashes behind his eyes, but he covers it quickly with a smile. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  He leans a little closer, lowering his voice a little. I distantly notice that the entire store is unusually quiet, everyone seems distracted by him. “I don’t give up that easily.”

  I don’t break his gaze. My dad always said I was stubborn. I’m not proud of it, but his challenge brings it out of me. “Then this will be hard for you.” I look away from him, taking a slow sip from my coffee and sparing a glance for Aria, who looks like her eyes might actually pop out of her head. If I was anywhere else, I would burst out laughing.

  He taps his skinned knuckles on the table twice, nodding and pushing his beautiful lips out thoughtfully. “We’ll talk soon.” He stands, giving the chair a quick twist with his wrist so that it spins perfectly back into place where he found it. He leaves without looking back, and conversation hesitantly begins again once he’s gone.

  9

  Vince

  “Ma, come on,” I say with a chuckle. “I can’t eat another fuckin’ bite so stop askin’!”

  “Vinnie, watch your fuckin’ mouth!” she shouts at me while waving a big metal serving spoon.

  I raise my eyebrows. “It’s your fault Ma, you’ve got the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard. You’re lucky I can even complete a sentence without swearing.”

  She leans down and pinches my cheeks. She’s the only one who can get away with that. Anybody else touches me without my permission gets a bullet or a broken nose at the least. With her, I just smirk and shake my head. She’s the classic Italian mom—pleasantly plump, red cheeked, quick to anger and even quicker to protect the people she cares about. She’s a real fire-cracker, and I love her for it. The boys just call her Mrs. Citrione.

  Then there’s Pops. He doesn’t get his hands too dirty with the business end of things anymore. My brothers and I do that. He’s got my older brother, Frankie “The Mouth” running the muscle. Someone steps out of line, Frankie is the one you go to. The whole mouth bit is kind of a joke. Frankie is a man of few words, and you’re lucky if you hear more than a sentence out of him all day. Right now he’s stuffing his face full of dinner rolls, completely absorbed in what he’s doing.

  As far as I’m concerned, everyone else is wasting their lives in the system, playing by the rules. Not me. Currently, I’m pulling in some of the biggest scores I’ve ever landed by working with NFL players. I loan them money, and when they can’t pay back, I use them to help fix games. When the players cooperate, it’s easy cash. I tip off clients, place their bets, and get a generous cut of their winnings. It’s a good racket, but when players like Ronnie White don’t keep up their end of the bargain, I stand to lose a lot of cash and client trust.

  “Vinnie, we’re at dinner,” says Pops. He leans forward and points to my head. “You’re thinking business. I can see it in your face.” He pours me a generous glass of some 1954 Cabernet and pushes it under my nose. “Drink.”

  It’s not a request. Pops may have taken a step back from the business, but make no mistake. He’s still the fuckin’ boss. I tilt the glass back and take a deep drink. The truth is that I didn’t look pissed because of the money. It was the girl. Aubriella. Just thinking her name gives me a fuckin’ hard-on. I palm it beneath the table and shift until it’s not pressing so hard against my slacks. I used to get songs stuck in my head when I was a kid, and Ma always said the best way to cure it was to just listen to the song. Well, I got this fuckin’ girl in my head worse than any song, and I’m thinking Ma had the right of it. The only way I’m going to get her out of my head is to fuck her again. I planned to be doing that tonight after dinner, but she’s suddenly too good for me? Fuck that. It’s only a matter of time before I get between her legs again.

  After dinner, the wives and the women all move to the kitchen to c
lean up. The men move to the den in Pops’ basement where a somewhat big-name crowd waits. The den is all dark wood, deep red, leather furniture, and everything smells like aged smoke. Pops takes his seat at the poker table and puffs on a cigar while Frankie pours him a scotch. I get a good look around the room and feel suddenly on edge. That’s “No Face” Sanatore talking to Vito Satrielli by the mini-bar. My fists tighten when I see Geo Anastasio leaning against the far wall, smoking a cigar and laughing with two men in suspenders I don’t recognize. Anastasio. What is one of those no-dick assholes doing in my family’s house? Nothing is going to stop me from getting revenge for my little brother, Jackie. But starting a war, getting myself killed, and getting my family killed in the process is not the way to get to him.

  I’m pissed as all hell, but I’m not stupid.

  This is not the time to pick a fight. There are channels and traditions for starting beefs and wars within the crime families. The Anastasios are old blood, just like my family. Roughing up Tony was a risk, but not suicide. He wasn’t a made guy, so if anyone caught wind of what happened, it would only come back to bite me. If I go after someone who’s a full-blown member of the Anastasio familia without permission? That would put the mark on every last Citrione. I squeeze my fists until my knuckles crack, but swallow my rage. For now.

  As much as I want revenge, she keeps pulsing in my mind, refusing to let me focus on anything for too long before I see the smooth skin of her long legs and the beckoning darkness between her thighs. I keep remembering how fuckin’ good she tasted, how good her cunt felt around my cock.

  The back door to the basement opens and Jimmy Fingers lets himself in. He’s wearing a plain brown coat and some faded jeans. He makes his way to me, noticing the unusually high-profile crowd and frowning as he approaches.

  “What did you find?” I ask him quietly.

  He shakes his head. “I followed her to work. She watched the Jets practice, asked some players a few questions, and then she went home. Look, I think before you showed up earlier, she was about to start talking to that friends of hers. It’s not my call, Vince, but if she had dirt on me? I’d put her down.”