Claudio: A Dark Mafia Hate Story (Chicago Crime Family Book 2)

by Ginger Talbot

  “Thanks for helping back there,” I say to Carmelo as the elevator sinks to the next floor.

  “Of course. You’re family. We have each other’s backs,” he says.

  “I’m family?”

  “As long as you don’t do anything to mess with Claudio.” We step out of the elevator, and Carmelo pauses, and gives me a serious look. “You’re good for him.”

  I shrug. “Am I, though? I mean, am I better for him than any other woman that he might have snatched off the street?”

  He scowls at me. “If you think that, you don’t know him as well as I thought you did.” I shake my head in frustration. Turning my back on him, I grab my cell phone, and call my father’s home phone. It goes to voicemail, and I hang up.

  I am about to go into my brother’s room when Carmelo puts his hand on my arm. “Look. I’ve known Claudio for a long time, since we were teenagers. He acts differently with you than he does with anybody I’ve ever seen. I mean, night and day. I’ve never seen him spend more than an hour or two with a woman, and once he’s finished, he -”

  The thought of Claudio with another woman, even for an hour, even for a minute, makes me want to punch a wall. I hold up my hand. “Stop!” I interrupt quickly. “Too much information.”

  “See,” Carmelo says smugly. “You do care about him.”

  “Did you do that on purpose?” I demand.

  “Maybe.” There’s a glint of humor in his brown eyes.

  “Asshole.” I shake my head as I go into my brother’s room. It’s been one week since his accident. He’s asleep, snoring gently. The swelling in his face has gone down a little, and his bruises are turning green and yellow. As I set down next to him, I see there’s a huge vase of fresh flowers by his bed-side.

  Just like there used to be on my dad’s night-stand. Goose-bumps pebble my arms. I am everywhere you are. Don’t screw up, Claudio is saying, in his not at all subtle way.

  I pull up a chair and sit down next to my brother, and he wakes with a start and turns to look at me.

  “Hey, Jimbo.”

  “Hey, Feather-brain. You look upset. What’s up?” he says, his voice raspy.

  “Dad’s gone,” I tell him. “He checked himself out, against medical advice. I tried to call him at home and he didn’t answer. Who knows if he even went there.”

  James scowls, and then winces in pain from the effort. “Seriously? Fucking loser,” he mutters resentfully.

  “Yeah,” I say, but I’m still blotting tears from my cheeks with my sleeve.

  “He was always gone, wasn’t he? He was never there for us,” James says sullenly.

  “I know. But it still sucks.” I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. “You look better. Well, less awful, anyway.”

  He holds up my hand and squints at my finger. “Is that a wedding ring?”

  I snatch my hand away. Oh, hell. I forgot to take it off.

  Well, I was going to have to tell him some time. Might as well be now.

  “I’m married to Claudio Abruzzi,” I say

  “Stop messing with me.” He grimaces and struggles into a sitting position. “The leg-breaker for Diego Costa? The guy who they sent after me when I took the money? You can’t be.”

  “City records say otherwise. I am no longer Heather Jenkins. I am Mrs. Heather Abruzzi.” Damn, that sounds weird when I say it aloud. I don’t hate the sound of it, but I should.

  James groans aloud. “Heather, no. Why would you do that? You were the one who told me to stay away from the Family! For God’s sake, Claudio’s one of the worst of them. That guy’s a stone cold psycho. He genuinely gets off on causing pain.”

  “Yeah, well, when you ran off you didn’t leave me much choice,” I say with a flare of heat.

  He looks stricken.

  “You had to marry him because of me?”

  “It’s...kind of a business arrangement,” I say vaguely. “He needed a wife, and in exchange, he forgave your debt.”

  James’ puffy, bruised face twists into a look of utter horror. “Jesus, Heather. What have I done to you? Hell. I should have just stared here and taken what was coming to me.”

  “No, it’s actually fine. You don’t have to worry about me. We’re getting along really well,” I say. “The mafia guys tend to treat their wives pretty well. I’m living in a beautiful town-home, I’ve got a closet full of designer clothes, and we’ve been talking about me going back to college next September.” Well, I talked about it, Claudio brushed me off.

  He looks at me suspiciously. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “No, I swear to you, I’m telling the truth.” Well, part of the truth. There’s no point in telling James everything right now, though, because then I’d have to go into far too much detail about my life right now, and he’d freak out.

  When he’s able to walk on his own, then I can tell him. And we can figure out where we want to hide out – for the rest of our lives.

  “You’re married to the organization that put me here,” James says, his voice sullen. He shifts in his bed and grimaces again. “That’ll make for kind of awkward family dinners at Thanksgiving, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re lucky you’re still more or less in one piece,” I say. “Claudio went easy on you for my sake. And yes, this...” I gesture at his bruised, battered, body. “This is him going easy on you. You’re lucky you’re still wearing your skin.”

  His eyes drop. “I know,” he says very quietly. “I got what I deserved. You were right, I was wrong. Happy?”

  “Are you serious?” I lean in and hug him very gently, and he grunts in pain. “Of course I’m not happy. My baby brother’s lying in a hospital bed. When you get out of here, you’re going to go to school. College, trade school, I don’t care.” I don’t tell him that it’s going to be in another city, under a fake name. We’ll figure that out later.

  “What about dad? I need to work. He can’t support himself.”

  I shake my head wearily. “James, we’re done putting our lives on hold for him. He did this to himself. Claudio’s actually paid dad’s rent for the next few months, but even if he didn’t, dad made his bed and he can lie in it.” My words taste bitter in my mouth, but they have to be said. “I should have put my foot down a long time ago and stopped enabling him. We’d lost mom, and I didn’t want to lose him too, but the truth is, we already had. I made you feel as if it was our job to support him, and that was wrong.”

  “Wow.” He looks at me in surprise. I used to be dad’s biggest defender. Whenever James started complaining about him, I’d shut him down. “Kind of harsh.”

  “Kind of real,” I say. I kiss him on the forehead. He winces.

  I stay and chat for a little while longer before I leave. As Carmelo is driving me home, I call my father’s number again, and to my surprise, he answers.

  “Princess? Everything all right?” His voice is tired and raspy.

  “You tell me,” I say bitterly. “What the hell is going on? Did you have a drink at the hospital?”

  The silence drags on for several very long seconds. I hear his labored breathing. “What’s the big deal? All those drinks I’ve had in my life, what’s one little nip going to hurt?”

  “Dad,” I say. “I can’t do this any more. I just freaking can’t.”

  His voice goes sullen and defensive. “I’ve probably got months to live. Maybe weeks. What does it matter if I drink or not?”

  I’m so tired of this. So very tired. “Well, you have two children who have been in your corner every step of the way, but if that’s not reason enough to take care of yourself , then by all means, drink away.” Hating myself, hating him for making me into this cruel witch, I slam down the phone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Claudio

  I’ve been summoned to Tovarish, at 9 a.m. Monday morning. Kostya is in his office, sitting behind his desk, and Makar stands to his side on the right.

  They glare at me as I walk through the
door. There are two body-guards standing up against the wall, and their dull eyes drill into me. Kostya points angrily at the chair that faces his desk, but I shake my head. He’s arranged the room so that his desk and chair are several inches higher than the rest of the room, so he can look down on whoever is sitting in front of him. I’m not in the mood for his power play.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  Kostya rises to his feet, meaty fists clenched. Idly, I wonder how many people those hands have strangled. “Did you have fun following me yesterday?” I ask Makar. “Because that was not what we agreed on.”

  The bastard did a crap job of it. He followed me so closely that he almost rear-ended me. I led him all over town before I finally ditched him. He just stands there, arms folded across his chest, smirking, and doesn’t even try to deny it.

  “Did you see the news?” Kostya snaps. “The exhibit closed early and the paintings were moved, for security reasons. My stepfather is already aware, and I look like a fool because of you.”

  “Perhaps we expected too much of him,” Makar says to his boss. He favors me with an oily smile. My hands itch with the need to close around his throat. I physically hunger for the sensation of his windpipe collapsing under my fingers. Heather was right; there’s something about Makar that unhinges me.

  “Can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now?” Kostya demands.

  “Is that why you bought back-up?” I glance at his two body-guards.

  “I don’t need back up!” He swivels to the two men who are standing against the wall. “Get out.” They hurry to obey, shooting me angry scowls. Ha. Hit a Bratva in his pride, and they always jerk the way you want them to.

  “But, sir!” Makar protests.

  That earns him Kostya’s wrath. Makar’s implying that Kostya is weak, that he needs protection. Kostya spits the words out. “You, too. Out”

  “Sir, I...” Kostya moves so fast he’s a blur. He hits Makar in the stomach with his sledgehammer fist, and Makar doubles over. I could see Kostya pulling his punch. If he hadn’t, he’d have ruptured Makar’s internal organs.

  “You don’t question my orders! Get out!” Kostya bellows. “And shut the fucking door behind you!”

  Makar staggers out of the room, white-faced and clutching his stomach. He slams the door shut, and now Kostya and I are alone. Kostya walks over from behind the desk until he’s standing a few feet away from me. He’s a couple inches taller than me, which is unusual. I tower over most men.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” he says in his thickly accented voice.

  I look into his eyes and see a dark, swirling void. It’s like gazing into a mirror. I shouldn’t provoke him, but there’s something mad inside me, howling for violence, and I can’t stop myself.

  “Do you think you’re capable?” I challenge. “Truly. Do you? I want to know. It’s just you and me in here.”

  Kostya stares at me, and there’s no more anger in his gaze, just a clinical curiosity. He tilts his head to the side slightly, as if considering where he’ll throw the first blow.

  A glacial calm descends on me. This could go either way, and I’m prepared for anything. “You deliberately handed me a near impossible task,” I say. “And then, your man followed me all day yesterday, in violation of our agreement. Do you even have control of your men? Because from what I just saw today, and yesterday, you do not.”

  I see a flicker in Kostya’s eye that gives it away. “Ah. Makar didn’t disobey you yesterday. You ordered him to follow me. After you gave me your word that we would do things my way.” I shake my head in disappointment. “I thought your word was worth more than that.” I really had, actually. The word of a boss should be gold. If he can’t be trusted, there’s no point in doing business with him, because sooner or later, you’ll find a knife in your back.

  My words stoke a bonfire of rage in his eyes.

  I slide my hand into my pocket, and he tenses. “Relax. I’m not going for a weapon. If I ever fight you, it will be like a man. With my fists.” I pull out a key, and hand it to him. “The key to the storage unit where the paintings are being held.” I rattle off an address.

  “What the fuck?” he demands, glaring at the key and then at me. “Why didn’t you just start with that?”

  “Why didn’t you keep your word to me?” I meet his glare with one of my own. “This was the only way I could get the paintings. I had someone notify the museum that the paintings were going to be stolen, so the museum shut down the exhibit moved them for safekeeping. While they were on the transport van, they were switched out by my men. I did that because I suspected that Makar was up to something, and would find a way to botch the heist for me. I didn’t anticipate that it would be you who’d try to wreck things.”

  “Why would I do that?” Kostya snarled.

  “Because you’re bored. Because you’re looking for a fight, and you need a reason,” I say coolly. “You had to have known that sending him to follow me risked screwing up the whole deal, and yet you did it anyway.”

  He just stares at me for a long moment, and finally the anger fades, replaced by resignation. Something is bothering him, something is under his skin. I know the feeling.

  He heaves a sigh. “Makar suggested that he follow you, and I gave him the go-ahead, despite my agreement with you. That is not like me. I should have kept my word. I don’t need anything else from you. I will wire the payment for the paintings to Diego, and tell him that you performed admirably and your work is done here.”

  I turn to go, and then hesitate. “What do you know about Makar?” I ask Kostya.

  He looks at me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he’s got a weird hostility towards me, and I want to know why. Because I’ve done some checking up on him, and I think his identity papers are fake. The best that I’ve been able to come up with is a man who is suspected by Moscow police in the murder of at least two prostitutes, who looks a great deal like Makar, but they don’t have a name or i.d. on him either. Just some security footage of a man who looks an awful lot like Makar.”

  Kostya stiffens. “If his papers are fake, that’s my concern,” Kostya says. “Any number of my men – and yours, for that matter – might be forced to relocate and use a new identity, if things got too hot for them back home. I can assure you that I know who he really is, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I know that Makar’s got it in for me,” I say to Kostya. “But I don’t necessarily think he’s got your best interests at heart either. Just something to keep in mind.”

  “Whatever. I’ll walk you out,” Kostya says.

  His men are all watching as we emerge from the office. They visibly relax when they see Kostya. When we get to the front door, he pauses.

  “I’m not the only one who’s acting against their own best interests here,” he says to me.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “That fight you nearly started with me. You must know, you had no chance. You wouldn’t have left the building alive. You’re a worthy opponent, you might have done some damage to me, but you don’t challenge a man on his home turf. You have no idea what kind of systems I have in place.” His laser gaze burns into me.

  “You’re right,” I admit. “That was reckless of me.” I step outside, into the sunlight.

  “It’s clear I’m not the only one who’s sabotaging himself. Our world is dangerous enough, you don’t have to go looking for trouble. Not when you have someone at home waiting for you. That wife of yours? I thought at first that you took her to spite me, but I can tell you really love her.” His smile is grim and resigned. “Take it from a man who isn’t capable of those emotions. That kind of thing is worth fighting for. Living for.” Then all trace of friendliness vanishes from his face. “And if you ever fuck with me or challenge me again like you did in my office, I’ll cut off your dick off slice by slide and feed it to my dogs.”

  And with those tender sentiments, he slams the door i
n my face.

  Chapter Twenty

  Heather

  It’s early afternoon, and even though it’s April, there’s a crisp chill in the air, so I hug a sweater around myself as Carmelo and I walk towards the café.

  Claudio and I have reached an uneasy truce. We eat meals together, we have furious, passionate sex, and I don’t expect more, even though I’m aching for it.

  I tried to bring up college, but the look he gave me shut me down. I haven’t asked again,

  Claudio is at some meeting with Diego, so Carmelo takes me to visit Mary. After I see her, we’re going to visit my brother at the rehab center. He’s almost ready to leave. I’ll have to find a place for him to stay; he’s so angry at our father that he won’t even speak to him. I’ve tried calling dad a couple of times and he hasn’t answered.

  I push those thoughts from my head when I see Mary’s big smile as she hurries towards me. She’s wearing the new summer dress I got her – or rather, that Claudio got her. He may be emotionally stingy, but he’s generous when it comes to shopping, and he had no problem with buying things for Mary. It’s the first new dress she’s ever owned. It’s white, with pictures of cats on it. It matches her pony-tail holders.

  Carmelo sits at a table outside while Mary and I catch up. He’s not one for girlish chit-chat.

  “Jake is so nice to me now!” Mary says happily. Yeah, I bet he is. He knows I’m married to Claudio and he’s bloody terrified of him. Then she leans forward. “I have a surprise for you,” she whispers loudly. “It’s a secret. You have to come in to the bathroom when I give it to you. He said.”

  “Jake said?” I say, puzzled.

  “No, not Jake. The other man. He talks funny.”

  Faint warning bells ring in my head. “Funny, like with an accent?” I ask.

  Her head bobs. “Yes. He was very nice, too. He gave me a hundred dollar tip.”

  Sounds like a Bratva thing to do. They love to flash that cash.

  “Well, that was a nice thing to do,” I agree. “What was his name?”