Single Daddy Dom

by Sophia Gray

  Brock snorted derisively. “Hammer, by the time I'm done with this pasta-munching motherfucker, a quarter mil is going to seem like loose change to you.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” said Brock. “Here, hang on for a second.”

  He walked over to his table again, just in time to watch Greg shove the last few bites of prime rib and potatoes into his mouth.

  “Change of plans. We're heading to Louisiana to run a classic Spanish Prisoner con.” He handed the notepad to Greg. “These are the guys we'll need to pull it off. Go grab them, and don't take no for an answer. Let them know this is going to be a massive payday. I'm talking high six figures for each person involved.”

  Greg looked at the list dubiously. “Should I tell them you're the one running this thing?”

  “Sure,” Brock said. He thought for a moment, then added, “Well, you can tell Franny, anyway. Maybe it'd be best if Ben didn't know I was involved, at least not right away.”

  “Why?” Greg asked. “You fuck his sister or something?”

  “No!” Brock replied defensively. The truth was, he actually had, but that wasn't why Ben didn't much care for him anymore. Still, he was fairly certain Ben would be onboard once he found out how much money they could all make from this score. “Once you've got them,” Brock continued, “meet me in New Orleans in three days.”

  “You got it,” Greg said. “Can I get dessert first?”

  “Fuck dessert,” Brock answered. “You hit the road now, and when this thing pays off in a few weeks, you can buy your own chocolate factory and spend the rest of your life playing Willie Wonka with it. Now go.”

  Greg nodded and got up, heading for the door.

  “Did I hear you say you'd be here in three days?” Hammer asked. “I'll be honest, I was really hoping we could kick this off sooner.”

  “Trust me, it'll be worth the wait,” said Brock. “I need to make a stop first, to talk to someone whose help we'll need if we're going to pull this off. Meanwhile, give me everything you know about Ricci.”

  “Well, mostly I just know what everyone knows about him,” Hammer said, thinking it over. “I mean, he's the undisputed boss of New Orleans, and he controls most of the heroin trade in the state. He likes to make a big show of how old-school he is...you know, the whole 'Sicilian man of honor' act, and all his fancy talk. But the truth is, he's just a selfish thug, a big fish in a small pond.”

  “Good, good,” Brock murmured. “We can use that. But does he have any weaknesses?”

  “What, like kryptonite?”

  Brock chuckled. “Like personal stuff, dummy. His habits, his fetishes, his friends and family...”

  “Well, I don't know much about his private life,” said Hammer. “I ain't even sure he's got one. But since you mentioned family, I've heard some stuff about how he's trying to marry off his daughter.”

  Brock grinned. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 2

  Maggie

  Margherita Ricci impatiently drummed her fingers on the dining room table, ignoring the meal in front of her and wishing the minutes would pass more quickly.

  At the other end of the long table, her father, Turo, and her mother, Amelia, were eating spaghetti in heavy red sauce, with spicy sausage and meatballs on the side. Turo mopped his plate with a hunk of bread, slathering it with butter and stuffing it into his mouth.

  By contrast, Maggie's plate looked like a minimalist art project. A small pile of wilted greens, a slice of dry-looking turkey breast, and a dollop of plain yogurt. With a whole lot of empty space in between.

  “Maggie, sit up straight and take your elbows off the table,” her mother said curtly. “No one's going to want to marry a hunchback, especially one with bad manners.”

  Maggie sighed, straightening up and putting her arms down at the sides of her chair. Of all the things she hated about living with her parents, she had come to despise meal times most of all. She loathed the unappetizing food her mother prepared for her, always based on the latest—and most vile—health trends Amelia read about online. Even when she could force herself to eat everything on her plate, she still felt hungry and miserable all the time.

  More than that, she couldn't stand the constant scrutiny and criticism. Most of the time, she could spend the rest of the day in her room, reading or watching TV. But when it was time to eat, she felt like she was being studied under a microscope.

  “She's wearing too much makeup,” her father commented, shoving a forkful of sausage into his mouth. “Amelia, ask her why she's wearing so much makeup.”

  “Sweetie, we've been over this and over this,” Amelia said to Maggie in her most frustrated and long-suffering tone. “When you put on makeup, you need to go slow and use the techniques I've taught you. Otherwise, you look like a puttana or something from the circus.”

  Maggie felt a volcanic flash of rage run through her, but she did her best to keep it under control. Ever since she'd turned twenty-one last year, her parents had taken control of every aspect of her life—trying to turn her into the perfect prospective bride for a seemingly never-ending parade of male heirs from other Mafia families. They kept a close watch over how she dressed, where she went, and who she spent time with. She had almost no friends, and she was strictly forbidden from interacting with any boys who her father hadn’t introduced her to. The way her father saw things, it would be harder for her to attract a respectable mate if she got a reputation as a slut.

  When Maggie asked her parents why things had to be this way now, Turo had told her he was getting older, and it was time to start thinking about who would take over his businesses if anything happened to him. Since he'd never had any sons, old-world traditions dictated that his daughter marry a man who could fill this role. Maggie had tried to protest, but Turo had made it very clear that as long as she was living under her roof, she'd obey him.

  So far, Maggie had met almost a dozen boys from different crime families across the country, and she'd refused each of their proposals. But she knew she couldn't keep refusing them for much longer, or else she'd tempt her father's wrath and he'd punish her by taking away the few privileges she had left.

  But then she'd met Daniel.

  To be fair, she'd never actually “met” Daniel. She'd connected with him via her social media account—one of the few ways in which she was allowed to communicate with the outside world unsupervised. He was good-looking and had a perfect smile, and they enjoyed a lot of the same books and movies. They'd chatted for hours, and last night, Maggie had finally summoned the courage to suggest they meet in person. She made arrangements for her friend Penny to say she'd be spending a few hours at her place, but once she was there, Maggie planned to sneak out the back and have ice cream with Daniel at a nearby diner.

  And her parents would never have to know.

  All Maggie had to do was survive a few more minutes of torture at the dinner table, and then she'd be on the first date she'd truly planned for herself in over a year. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, thinking of Daniel's blue eyes and straight white teeth. She wondered what it would be like to get a goodnight kiss from him.

  “Make sure you wash some of that greasepaint off your face after dinner,” her father said, dabbing at the corners of his lips with his napkin. “And pick out something nicer to wear. Tonight, I'm going to introduce you to Lucio Rusconi. His father runs the unions in Philly.”

  “I can't tonight, Dad,” Maggie reminded him uneasily. “I'm going over to Penny's place, remember?”

  Turo reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photograph, sliding it across the table to her. “I wouldn't worry too much about those plans. They've been canceled.”

  Maggie looked down at the photo, and her breath caught in her throat like shards of broken glass. In it, Daniel was lying on the floor of a basement, bruised and bleeding. Three men in ski masks stood over him, holding baseball bats.

  Her father looked at her with raised eyebrow
s. Her mother stared down at her empty plate, her lips pursed.

  “How could you do this to him?” Maggie hissed. She could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes, making the gory image double and triple before her.

  “I didn't do this to him,” Turo countered, pointing his fork in Maggie's direction. “You did it when you made plans to see him behind my back. From now on, you'll have no more computer, no more access to the internet. And you won't be allowed to see Penny anymore, either. She's lucky I don't have my guys work her over, too.”

  “Why do you have to treat me like this?” Maggie yelled, standing up from the table and throwing the photo in Turo's face. “Why are you so cruel?”

  “Every child asks that of their parent sooner or later,” her father said, trying to sound soothing and reasonable. His tone only made Maggie more furious. “'Why do I have to do what you say? Why can't I do what I want?' But that's because even at twenty-one, you're still a child, Maggie. You still don't see that everything I do, I do because it's what's best for you, and for this family. One day, when you have children of your own, maybe you'll understand.”

  “I hate you!” Maggie shrieked, storming out of the room.

  “You can hate me all you want,” Turo called after her. “You can slam the door to your room as hard as you want, too. But you'd better make sure you're ready to meet Lucio in an hour, and you'd better be done with these tantrums by then, or I might have to pay Penny a visit after all.”

  Maggie stomped up the stairs and into her room, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Thinking of what had happened to Daniel made her want to throw up, especially since she knew, on some level, her father was right. It was her fault. She hadn't told Daniel what business her father was in, or how angry he'd be if he found out about them. She'd been stupid enough to think she could hide her relationship with him from her parents. And he'd paid the price, and who knew how badly they'd beaten him? Was he crippled? Would he die from internal bleeding?

  She'd never be able to find out now.

  For the millionth time, Maggie fantasized about running away from home—just packing a bag and getting as far away from all of this as she could. No more threats from her father, no more disapproving looks from her mother. She could wear what she wanted, eat what she wanted, fall in love with whoever she wanted.

  But these fantasies never lasted long, because she understood how sheltered she'd been her entire life. Her parents had never allowed her to learn how to drive a car, since even that would be too much independence. She had no money of her own, and even if she did, she wouldn't be able to buy a ticket for a bus, plane, or train without Turo finding out. She had no friends she could stay with, no way of knowing how to make it in the world alone.

  She was trapped.

  Once she got her tears under control, Maggie walked over to her mirror and started to wipe the makeup from her face so she could reapply it in time to meet Lucio.

  As much as she hated it, she couldn't think of a single other thing to do.

  Chapter 3

  Brock

  Brock swirled the tumbler of aged scotch, peering out the penthouse window of Crockett Plaza. It was one of the tallest buildings in Dallas, and the streets and homes were so far below him that they looked like detailed miniatures from a model train set.

  “Hell of a view you've got here, Robby,” Brock commented. “Better than the view we had upstate in D Block, huh?”

  Behind him, Robert Nickelson grunted his agreement and fussily rifled through the papers on his desk for the fourth time since Brock had walked in. Brock watched the bespectacled man's discomfort reflected in the window glass, enjoying it. Nickelson had long ago earned the nickname “Robby Nickels,” since his early crimes had generally involved shaking down parking meters and jukeboxes. But in the three decades since then, he'd risen in the ranks of the Moretti crime family, achieving the rank of consigliere or “trusted advisor.”

  Brock took a sip from his tumbler, savoring the burning flavor that gave way to the sweet aftertaste of oak and liquid gold. “This is some incredible scotch, too. What's that aged? Fifty years?”

  “Something like that,” Robby sighed impatiently.

  “Man, that's swell,” Brock continued. “You sure have come a long way, haven't you, Robby? Hey, remember that pruno we used to brew in the toilet bowl? We used to use the fruit cocktail they gave us in the chow line, plus some ketchup, sugar, bread crusts for the yeast—”

  “Yeah, sure, I remember, okay?” Robby snapped, tossing the papers to one side. “I also remember that we were gonna sell that hooch to Big Lester to square my gambling debt. Instead, you used it to try to charm that corrections officer named Breanna, and you left me hanging. Look, Brock, I'd love to believe you came by today to shoot the breeze about when we were cellmates up in Ditchfield. That way, I could just tell you to fuck off and be done with it. But since we both know you've got something else in mind, why don't you just come out and say it instead of wasting my time with this cutesy, mysterious Memory Lane horseshit?”

  Brock raised an eyebrow mildly. “Wow. Sounds like someone woke up on the cranky side of the bed today.”

  “Not all of us get to spend our lives standing around in fancy suits and making quips, shitbird.” Robby squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. “Jesus, I thought getting promoted would mean less work, not more. Sit back, relax, delegate, and wait for the guys under me to kick up what they owe. Instead, Old Man Moretti's got me busier than a one-armed pimp in a bitch-slapping contest. Little Ralphie just got picked up by the Feds last week, which means I've gotta make sure he's either sprung or shivved before they get him talking. Plus, I've got to deal with these Russians who are setting up shop down in Corpus Christi, and it's the busy season for sports betting, so...”

  “Yikes,” said Brock. “Moretti's gonna crap a litter of lizards when you tell him you're going to be gone for the next month or so.”

  “And why the fuck would I tell him that?” Robby asked.

  Brock finished his drink and set the glass down on Robby's desk. “You just said it yourself, Robby. Thirty years of busting your hump for Moretti, laughing at his stupid jokes and kissing his ass, and you still feel overworked and underpaid. And you're second in command, and you know you'll never reach the top unless you whack Moretti and both his sons—which we both know you don't have the stomach for. So, it seems to me like the only way you're ever gonna actually get the life of leisure and luxury that you want is by stumbling over a random fucking pot of gold. Well, here I am. Consider me your own personal goddamn leprechaun.”

  Robby chuckled. “I'm Sicilian, Brock. We don't believe in leprechauns. But, okay, go ahead and give me your pitch. It should be good for a laugh, at least.”

  Brock sat on the edge of the desk. “You know Don Ricci over in New Orleans? Long story short, he ripped off a friend of mine, and I promised I'd get him some payback with interest. I've got the whole thing planned out, and when it's over, everyone involved is gonna come out the other side with enough money to retire on.”

  “Oh really?” Robby smirked. “How do you plan to reel in a fish that big?”

  “By using the oldest con in the book.”

  “If it's such an old con, won't he see it coming from a mile away?”

  “They never see it coming,” Brock assured him. “That's why it's the oldest one in the book. No one ever went hungry betting on people's greed, especially guys like Ricci.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  “You're gonna be the most important part of this whole thing,” said Brock. “See, if this is going to work, Ricci will have to believe I'm the heir to a Mafia family. But the only thing that'll convince him is if a trusted, high-ranking member of la cosa nostra makes the introduction, so—”

  Robby threw back his head and laughed. Brock waited patiently for him to stop, but the cackling continued for several minutes, until Robby's face was red and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “That's your
plan?” Robby asked when he could finally get enough breath in his lungs. “Are you the dumbest fuck who's ever walked the earth, or what? First of all, look at you, with your spiky, moussed-up blonde hair, and your fruity little Brooks Brothers monkey suit! You look like some kind of Wall Street yuppie. There's no way anyone would even believe you're Italian, let alone a made guy.”

  “Yeah, but some hair dye and contact lenses can give me the right look,” Brock insisted. “And you can help me with the rest. Give me some coaching so I can walk the walk and talk the talk.”

  “Even if I thought that would work—which it wouldn't, by the way, not in a billion fucking years—I still swore an oath never to betray this organization. That includes all the families in all the states. I make this introduction, and my life ain't worth stale dogshit. I'd be better off jumping out that window behind you.”

  “So, you won't do it, then? Not even for me, Robby? Not after all we've been through together?” Brock asked, pouting theatrically. Inwardly, he was loving this. He'd hoped that the carrot would be enough to convince Robby to help him, but hey, the stick was fine, too.