STARSTRUCK: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (The Destroyers MC)

by Zoey Parker

  Tommy stared at the phone for a long moment. “Fuck. This is it, isn't it? Later, when I'm down on my knees in the fucking swamp with some wiseguy's gun pressing against my ear, this is gonna be the exact moment I look back on and think, 'I didn't have to betray everything I swore an oath for. I could've just walked away instead.' And it'll be too fucking late.”

  “Tommy, when you're lying on your own private beach somewhere with a Mai Tai in your hand and a big-titted girl's lips wrapped around your cock, this is going to be the moment you look back on and think, 'God bless Bax for making sure I never have to take orders from arrogant shitheads like Parrino ever again.' And then you're gonna finish your drink and blow your load all over the chick's face, and it's going to be beautiful and Hallmark's gonna write a card about it. Now stop clutching your fucking pearls and make the call.”

  Tommy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.

  Chapter 6

  Stef

  Stef walked down the steps, heading for the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling, and the worst part was that she knew it still would be, no matter what she chose to eat. None of the food her mother approved of—seeds, hardboiled egg whites, salads with no dressing—was actually filling, and trying to sneak a mouthful or two of unapproved food would be futile. Her mother watched the contents of the fridge and the pantry like a hawk, and whenever there was less of anything than there should be, she made sure Stef was punished for it. The few times Stef had tried to smuggle in snacks, Gracie immediately found them and confiscated them. Sometimes she even ate them herself in front of Stef, just to torture her.

  Stef hated always feeling hungry.

  As she passed the door to her father's private study, she heard the phone ring twice. Her mother answered, exchanged a few quiet words with the caller, and called out, “Benny, it's for you!”

  The door to the study opened slightly, and Benny's voice emanated from it. “Did they say who it is, or am I supposed to guess?”

  Stef rolled her eyes. They'd installed a state-of-the-art intercom system a few years before, but her parents still insisted on yelling to each other from across the house like something out of a damn sitcom.

  “Tommy Quarters from Dallas,” her mother hollered. “He says he's Old Man Parrino's consigliere.”

  “Tommy who?” her father shouted. “Old Man what? Who are these people?”

  “I don't know, but he says you know him, and he says he wants to talk to you. Are you going to pick up the phone or not?”

  “Fine, fine, I'll take the call in here,” Benny snapped. He stepped away from the door, but left it ajar instead of closing it like he usually did when a call came in for him.

  Stef stood in the downstairs hall for a moment, thinking about how the open door gave her a rare chance to listen in on the conversation. Benny frequently took calls from other gangsters in his study, and he usually put them on speakerphone so he could pace as he talked. Stef had never cared about his business or anything associated with it, so she generally wasn't interested in eavesdropping.

  But she also knew that this call might be about her—another hopeful matchmaker from another rotten crime family, trying to arrange a marriage between her and yet another self-important punk. If she listened in, she might have a better idea of what she'd be dealing with on her next date.

  She crept over to the door, keeping her body pressed against the wall to stay out of sight. She felt silly, and she knew that if her mother or father caught her spying, she'd be in big trouble. But she couldn't resist. She was tired of having no knowledge of—or control over—her own life.

  Stef heard her father clear his throat and hit the button on his desk phone. “This is Benny Altamura. Who am I speaking with, please?”

  A voice answered, sounding stilted and formal. “Don Altamura, it is truly an honor to speak with you. Thank you for taking my call. I hope I have not disturbed you. I'm not sure if you remember me—we met briefly at the thing in Vegas a couple of years ago. My name is Thomas Quattrocchi, and I have the privilege of acting as advisor to the Parrino family in Dallas.”

  Good lord, Stef thought. This guy sure isn't big on brevity.

  “And why are you calling me, Mr. Quattrocchi? Surely, if your boss has business to discuss with me, he can speak with me himself. Unless, of course, he feels that I'm unworthy of his time, in which case—”

  “I can assure you, Don Altamura, my employer has the utmost respect for you. However, the matter I'm contacting you about...well, it doesn't actually involve Mr. Parrino. It's an unrelated matter, one in which I've been asked to act as a sort of go-between between you and another party.”

  “And I can assure you, sir,” Benny countered testily, “that nothing robs me of the inclination to trust my fellow man more than vague nonsense and murky phrases like 'another party.' If you're trying to conduct some kind of business behind your boss' back, that doesn't sound like anything I'd want to be involved in.”

  “My deepest apologies, Don Altamura,” Thomas said quickly. “I feel I've done a poor job of stating my intentions. If I seem as though I'm being furtive in this matter, I'm sorry. I promise you that nothing about this situation is untoward or inappropriate, or counter to my employer's interests in any way. It's simply that there are certain factors which demand a high degree of discretion. Actually, that's the reason I've been asked to contact you specifically. The, uh, other interested party has heard of your impeccable code of ethics, and feels that you alone can be trusted to protect his interests in this delicate matter.”

  Stef smiled. Whoever this person was, he clearly knew the right way to approach Benny—by appealing to his vanity and his self-image as a “man of principle.” It seemed like this call wasn't about setting her up with anyone, but she figured she may as well hear the rest of it.

  She heard her father sigh, then chuckle wearily. “All right, Mr. Quattrocchi. You got me to ante up, and you've gotten me to see your raise. Well done. But now I think it's time for you to show your cards, don't you? And please, resist the urge to start every sentence with 'Don Altamura.' Your respect is noted. There's no need to gild the lily, so to speak.”

  “Unfortunately, as I've said, this is a matter of tremendous secrecy. And since men in our position often find our lines of communication...compromised, shall we say, by certain government agencies, I believe it would be best for us to go over the details in person. Are you available for a meeting tomorrow evening? I can make myself available at your convenience, naturally, as can the interested party.”

  “Very well,” Benny agreed. “Meet me at The Hurricane Club at seven o'clock. And Mr. Quattrocchi?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If this turns out to be some sort of setup, I can guarantee you that when I'm done punishing you, I'll move on to everyone you've ever cared about. Do we understand each other?”

  “Certainly,” Thomas said. Despite the threat, Stef thought he actually sounded relieved. “And thank you for this opportunity, Don...sir. You won't regret it.”

  Stef heard the call end and scuttled away from the door. She was relieved that this wasn't another attempt to set her up, even though she knew that would certainly be happening again soon anyway.

  She thought about proceeding to the kitchen, then decided to return to her room instead. None of the food options that were available to her sounded appetizing anyway. If she could force herself to take a nap, maybe that would make her hunger go away, if only for a little while.

  Chapter 7

  Bax

  Bax walked down Bourbon Street at sunset, with Tommy and Mule next to him and herds of tourists and hucksters passing them on both sides.

  The hot evening air was thick and hazy, filled with the smells of booze, sweat, spicy foods, and manure from the horses that pulled the carriages once the avenues were closed to cars for the night. Raucous jazz and drunken karaoke blared from every bar, and strippers danced lazily in the doorways of the clubs, half-heartedly beckoning to vacatione
rs. Out-of-work actors with goatees and ponytails led groups on ghost tours, telling the same hokey stories of pirates, vampires, and voodoo over and over.

  “Jesus, this is like some redneck version of Atlantic City,” Tommy said.

  Bax smiled. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this place until now. Sometimes while he was on the road, every town started to seem the same as the last one. But nowhere else on earth was like New Orleans. It was crowded and sticky and noisy and it stank, but there was a certain poetry beneath it all that was deeply alluring.

  More than anything, Bax missed the stories. No matter where a person went in the Big Easy or who they met, they were guaranteed to hear stories. Half of these stories were exaggerated beyond all proportion—the other half were bald-faced lies. But they were always spellbinding, even when the teller had his hands deep in the listeners' pockets.

  Bax liked that.

  Despite his stroll down Memory Lane, though, Bax didn't feel much like himself in that moment. He'd dressed the part for plenty of scores before, but never like this—diamond cufflinks, a silk handkerchief folded into three crisp points, narrow Italian shoes so polished he could see his reflection in them, and an Ermenegildo Zegna suit that cost almost five thousand dollars. His hair was slicked back with pomade that was so thick and greasy it felt like pure lard. The ensemble was a lot to get used to for someone who spent at least half of his time cruising around on a motorcycle with road dust caked on his jeans.

  Still, Bax had to admit that if he was feeling a little self-conscious and uncomfortable, he could only imagine how Mule felt. They'd almost had to find a tent-maker to tailor a suit that would fit Mule's huge, awkward, billowing frame. Tommy had tried to teach Mule the same lessons about proper vocabulary and inflection, but he gave up after fifteen minutes and told Mule it would probably be better if he just didn't say anything at all. Mule couldn't even mimic the cocksure stride of a true Mafioso—all he could do was lumber, slope-shouldered, with his eyes fixed on the ground.

  By contrast, Bax swaggered like the owned the whole city, swinging his shoulders and popping his hips arrogantly with every step.

  “I really nailed the walk, didn't I?” Bax asked Tommy. “I found some footage of John Gotti online and copied him.”

  Tommy smirked. “Gotti only walked like that because he accidentally crushed his own foot trying to steal a cement mixer when he was fourteen. Don't overplay your part. Remember, mid-level wiseguys walk around like they've got a couple boulders swinging between their legs. The higher-ups don't have to.”

  Bax laughed and discarded the exaggerated stride, walking normally instead.

  A skinny hustler with a pockmarked face and a stingy brim fedora sidled up to the trio. “Hey, big-timers, big spenders! You wanna have some fun tonight?” He winked, gesturing to a nearby strip club. “We got live sex shows, we got private booths, we got air conditioning, we got the prettiest cooch and the strongest hooch this side've the Mississippi. We got lap dances for thirty bucks...buy two, get a third one half-price. Y'all ain't gonna find lower prices anywhere on Bourbon Street. Whaddaya say, whaddaya say?”

  “Thanks, but we've got a prior engagement this evening,” Bax said. “Another time, maybe.”

  “Aw, ain't no time like the present, boys! From the look of them fancy suits, I figure you gents could buy a dance with every gal in the place twice over an' still have enough for a six-course meal down at Tujague's.” The hustler nudged Mule's side playfully. “Bet we could even rustle up a mountain-climbin' gal to see to the big fella here, how 'bout it?”

  Mule's massive arm shot out with surprising speed, seizing the hustler's wrist and bending it around behind him. The hustler let out a yowl like a scalded cat.

  “Speaking of mountain-climbing, my friend, how about you take a hike?” Bax suggested.

  “Okay, okay!” Mule released the hustler, who rubbed his wrist with a wounded look on his face. “No disrespect intended, gents. Y'all enjoy your evening, now.” He retreated to the doorway of the closest strip club.

  “You've got some mighty quick hands, there,” Tommy observed.

  Mule smiled.

  Shortly before Bourbon intersected with Canal Street, Bax and the others found themselves standing in front of The Hurricane Club. It looked like most of the other party joints in the French Quarter—tricked out with fake palm fronds, gaudy paint, and cheap strings of hanging skull-shaped lights. A blues quartet played a down-and-dirty boogie-woogie, and tourists spilled out from the doors and windows holding tall neon plastic cups filled with strong mixed drinks.

  “Seems kind of tacky for a guy like Altamura, doesn't it?” Bax commented.

  “That's probably just window dressing,” Tommy answered. “Come on, follow me.”

  They shouldered their way through the crowd of perspiring drunks. One of the dancing patrons almost spilled a beer on Bax's suit, and he flinched nervously. He'd used his own money to buy this outfit, and he couldn't afford to shell out for another one.

  The bartender was a ruddy-faced man with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a t-shirt that said “Voodoo Unto Others Before They Voodoo Unto You.”

  That should have been the MC's slogan, Bax thought with a grin.

  Tommy leaned over the bar, raising his voice to make himself heard. “My name's Tommy Quattrocchi, and I'm here to see Benny Altamura. These men are with me.”

  The bartender nodded serenely and pointed to a door between the two bathrooms. “Knock six times.”

  Tommy led Bax and Mule to the door and rapped on it six times. After a moment, it opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous-looking man in his forties with a shaved head and piercing black eyes. There was a long, ragged scar across his throat.

  “Mr. Quattrocchi, my name is Silvio, and I am Don Altamura's majordomo,” he said in a raspy voice. He beckoned them inside, closing and locking the door behind them. “At the risk of appearing impolite or unwelcoming, I must ask whether any of you gentlemen are carrying weapons of any kind.”

  “No, we came here in good faith,” Tommy assured him.

  Silvio nodded. “Very good. Even so, it is my unfortunate duty to pat you down, just to make sure. I trust you will not take offense at this precaution?”

  “We understand,” Tommy said. “By all means, do whatever you need to do.”

  “Excellent. If I brush against your more delicate areas during my search, I do hope you will forgive me. Many would-be assassins have been known to hide firearms in such places, so I'm afraid we are forced to be quite diligent, even at the expense of our guests' comfort.”

  “Hey, you pat down those areas thoroughly enough, there may even be a tip in it for you,” Bax chuckled.

  Silvio offered a thin, humorless smile. The trio raised their arms and spread their legs, allowing Silvio's bony fingers to examine every inch of their bodies. Sure enough, when he reached Bax's crotch, he didn't shy away from it the way most men would during a pat-down.

  “You want I should turn my head and cough while you're down there?” Bax asked wryly.

  “I do not believe that will be necessary. Thank you for your cooperation. Don Altamura is waiting for you downstairs. Please follow me.”

  As they followed Silvio, Tommy said, “Hey, I couldn't help but notice the bulge at your shoulder. Looks like you're packing a mighty big piece, there. What is it? .357 Magnum?”

  Silvio turned to him and pulled his jacket open for a few seconds, revealing a massive Desert Eagle handgun in his shoulder holster.

  Tommy let out a low whistle. “Wow. Very nice. I gotta get one of those.”

  Silvio led them down a black staircase to a smoky room with a low ceiling. A song by Mel Torme played softly from several strategically-placed speakers, and men in expensive suits sat around tables with green felt surfaces, playing poker, blackjack, roulette, and dice. None of their voices raised above a hushed tone.

  “Nice setup you've got here,” said Tommy.

  “Thank you. Don Altamura is quite proud of it.
” Silvio gestured to a table in a corner where Altamura sat, watching them approach. “Would any of you care for something to drink?”

  “I'll have a sambuca, neat,” Tommy said.

  “A dry martini for me, please,” said Bax, “and Cutty Sark on the rocks for my friend here.”

  Mule nodded.

  “Of course,” Silvio said, vanishing into a back room.

  Bax felt his stomach lurch in unhappy anticipation. He hated martinis, dry or otherwise. But according to Tommy, it was a preferred drink among northern Mafia bosses and their scions, so when in Rome...

  As they reached the table, Altamura stood, smiling indulgently and offering his hand. “Ah, the enigmatic Mr. Quattrocchi. It's a pleasure to formally meet you.”

  Tommy lifted the manicured hand to his lips, kissing the ruby ring on Altamura's little finger. “Don Altamura. An honor, truly.” He waved a hand at Bax and Mule. “Please, allow me to introduce you to Aurelio Lupo from Toronto, and his associate Max.”