The Queen of Miami

by Heidi Lowe

  The Queen of Miami

  by Heidi Lowe

  Published by Heidi Lowe Books, 2015.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE QUEEN OF MIAMI

  First edition. May 11, 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Heidi Lowe

  _________________________

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  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  OTHER BOOKS BY HEIDI LOWE

  BLURB

  ________________

  ONE

  Maurice di Blasio lay on his deathbed. An Arturo Fuente cigar sat burning in an ashtray beside him; his favorite brand, and the thing that had put him in that bed in the first place. He thought it a privilege to go out this way, life claimed by the thing he most enjoyed in this world, besides sex. In his line of work people often ended up with a bullet between the eyes.

  “Stop crying would you, woman, you'll upset the kids!” he snapped at his sobbing wife, his voice croaky and weak. This only made her cry harder, hearing how frail he sounded. A shadow of his former self. Nobody would have believed that this skeletal man, wizened by the chemotherapy, was considered the most dangerous man in all of Miami.

  Maurice didn't feel dangerous lying in that bed, but he did feel content. Mostly. With the cigar fumes drifting into his nostrils, four of his five children and the rest of his family and closest friends surrounding him, in the house he'd built from the ground up, he could die happy. It didn't escape him that he was the only happy person in the room, though it came as no shock. Not after the bombshell he'd just dropped on everyone. Even in his final moments he was trying to piss everyone off.

  “And quit sulking, Trent. You'll get over it.” This was directed at his second born, who stood scowling at him in the corner of the room, wishing all kinds of evil on his dying father. “I get it, son, I really do.”

  “Well I don't,” Trent hissed through gritted teeth, arms folded. He was badly in need of a shave; he always was. That was his thing.

  “You will, in time. One day, hopefully soon, you'll see it makes sense.” Maurice launched into a coughing fit that caused his wife to grasp him even tighter.

  “Daddy, are you sure about this?” She hadn't called him that since she was in elementary school. Never had it sounded sweeter than it did now, as she took his hand, the worry corrupting every feature on her beautiful face. His little girl – his only daughter – a woman of twenty-eight, who'd defied all sorts of biology and come out everything that he wasn't; stunning, graceful, and intelligent. Okay, so his sons weren't bad to look at, but Willa took beauty to the next level. A slender, olive belle, her natural complexion contrasted perfectly against her dark brown hair and small, hazel-green, come-hither eyes. Seeing her was a reminder to him that he'd done at least one thing exceptionally well in his life.

  “I've never been more sure of anything,” he said, smiling weakly. “You're ready now, honey. If you want it.”

  Willa nodded as a single teardrop rolled down her cheek. “Of course I do.”

  Seeing that fierce determination in her face, in her eyes, was all he needed now. He gave her one final smile, then let go. His smile never left his face, not even after he took his final breath.

  A couple of minutes of sobbing and mourning was all the room was allowed before the atmosphere changed and soured. As Willa di Blasio sat on the edge of her father's bed, still clutching onto his cold, lifeless hand, her crying swallowed up by the louder sobbing of her mother and several other family members, she could sense the tension in the room.

  “This is bullshit!” There it was, Trent's outburst. So predictable. “They said he had lung cancer, not dementia!”

  “Trent, take it easy, all right.” This came from Maurice's third child, Guy, the smooth-talker and snazzy dresser with the big heart and the tendency to defuse any situation. With only two years between them, he was the brother with whom Willa got along best (though if anyone asked her if she had a favorite she would have firmly denied it).

  Trent shoved his brother aside aggressively. He didn't care that the whole room was watching him. The whole room except Willa.

  “I took all the shit from him, put in all the hours, couldn't have my own life because I was being his lackey. And then he passes the reins to her!” he said in Willa's direction, shooting a murderous look at her. “What does she know about our business?”

  “Trent, hijo, please,” his mother begged, her face damp with tears.

  “He obviously wasn't thinking clearly,” Trent continued, looking around the room for consensus. “Everyone knows I should be the one to take over. Not some... some...”

  “Some what?” Willa shot up from the bed, all traces of her tears now gone. She squared up to her brother and didn't care that he had sixty pounds, six inches and six years on her. Her pupils seemed to grow darker as she glowered at him, her eyes slits of hatred. “Some what?”

  “You're a little girl, Willa. You're good at the books, but not out on the battlefield. You read about wars but never fight in them. Do you think anyone's gonna take you seriously out there?”

  She laughed humorlessly. “I suppose I should just go back to the kitchen, or go do the laundry, right? Because that's what you're really trying to say, isn't it, Trent? You don't think I can run this because I don't have a penis.”

  The requisite shrieks of outrage followed from some of the older people in the room.

  “I don't think you can run this because you've got no experience,” he shouted. “Not like the rest of us. You sat on the sidelines while we did all the work, while we built this empire up–”

  “A general never goes to the front line. That's what his troops are for,” she said. “The fact that you don't realize that is exactly why you're always going to be one of the troops, and why Dad left me in charge.”

  Willa saw his fist clench. He could finally punch her again, something she knew he'd been anxious to do for years. Now that the old man wasn't there to protect her, to step in, she thought Trent would be all over her. As a child, fighting with her brothers had made her strong, toughened her up. But if she went a round with them now, she would end up dead.

  “Who do you think will do business with you? No one knows your face, your name. You're a nobody out there,” Trent said.

  “I'm a di Blasio, that's the only name I need.” Those were her father's words. Many times he would start a sentence with 'you're a di Blasio...', and that would instantly make her feel better, as though the name held some magical property. Now it made her want to cry, though she held back. She wasn't going to cry anymore in front of Trent, or her other brothers. Not if she wanted their respect. “And don't assume I've been sitting on the sidelines doing the books. I know a lot more about this business than you think.”

  Perhaps when there wasn't an audience she would tell him just how much she knew, just how much their father shared with her. And, more importantly, just how much of the strategies that had made the family rich over the years
had come from her advice.

  “You're so full of crap, Willa. Do you really think anyone will back you over me? Honestly?”

  “Are you going to try to fight me on this? It's Dad's dying wish. The whole room heard it.”

  “I don't give a fuck what they heard! I was next in line. It's my turn now.”

  Willa stepped back. She looked at her other brothers – first Guy, and then Noah (the youngest di Blasio. The loveable, quiet stoner) – who were both trying their best to go unnoticed. They didn't want to get dragged into this fight any more than they had as children. Willa vs. Trent, a never-ending war. Boy had they fought growing up. Their personalities clashed so severely that it was impossible to imagine they'd come from the same parents.

  “What do you guys think? Do you agree that he should take over? Are you going to support him, even if it means going against what Dad wanted?” She loved her brothers, all of them, but she knew in their hearts they wanted to side with Trent. Heck, she would have done the same had she been in their situation. On the face of it Trent had more experience. He was a fighter, someone who got things done with brute force and threats, which, in their line of business, worked wonders. But that was neanderthal thinking. The di Blasios would have been nothing more than a family of thugs, lacking influence, without the brains behind them. Her brains. If they didn't see it now, she would make them see it.

  Guy was the first to speak, and he didn't look at Trent. “You heard what Dad said.”

  Then Noah. “We have to trust that Dad knew what he was doing.” He, too, couldn't look at his brother.

  And then it was time for several other family members – a couple of uncles, a couple of cousins – to show their support for Willa. With each new supporter, the look of pure betrayal intensified on Trent's face, while the look of victory magnified on Willa's. She didn't like winning this way, but Trent had brought it all on himself.

  “This is a joke,” Trent snarled. “All of you, you're a joke. But congratulations, you've just sentenced this family business to death.” With that he slammed out of the room.

  As soon as Willa stepped through the back doors of Yum Yums, one of the more legitimate and one of the most successful businesses the di Blasios had in their portfolio, she knew that news had reached the workers. It had been several hours since her dad's passing; likely everyone in the whole organization had heard by now. Their expressions when they looked at her said it all. Some even stopped whatever it was they were doing to offer commiserations and condolences. It took a certain kind of stripper, a skilled one, to be able to pull mournful faces while riding a pole topless!

  “Sorry to hear about your dad, Willa,” one of the managers said, patting her on the shoulder sympathetically. “He was a good man.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “Anything I can do for you, you just let me know, okay?”

  You can stop patting me on the shoulder, Willa thought to herself, but said instead, “Is Olivia here?”

  The manager gave her a knowing little smile. “In the back. She just took her break.”

  As she went to walk off, he stopped her. “Hey, so is it true that you're taking over?” His voice was jittery, hesitant, as though he didn't quite know how to ask, or even whether he should have been.

  “What gave you that idea?” she asked, and didn't wait for his response. Never admit to anything, that was her motto. Certainly not to anyone outside the immediate circle. For the time being, it suited her and the organization better if no one knew she was to take a more hands-on role. When this was all over she planned to call a meeting, get everyone on board with this thinking.

  But first she needed Olivia.

  Yum Yums was her favorite place in the whole world. Not just because of the half-naked women, but because there no one judged her or anyone else who patronized the club. It was one of the classier joints in Miami; the classiest ladies for the classiest clientele.

  “Oh, Willa, I'm so sorry.” She'd barely stepped into the changing room when half a dozen pairs of boobs in all colors and sizes came to suffocate her in hugs. She felt as though she'd died and gone to Heaven. She hadn't come for condolences, but she would take this any day of the week. There were worse things that could have happened to her than being smothered by breasts and kisses from some of the hottest women in the city.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “You wanna talk?”

  She pushed them away gently, unable to contain her laughter. “I'm fine, ladies. Seriously. But thanks for caring so much.”

  “You know we all love you, sweetie,” one of the older, more experienced dancers said, stroking Willa's face lovingly, her huge breasts bobbing and threatening to burst out of a tiny corset-like top. “We're all here for you.”

  “God, you bitches are like a pack of wild animals. Give her some space, hoes!” Honey Moon's entrance into any room was always loud and ostentatious, needing no introduction. She strode past her coworkers, big blonde hair bouncy, stilettos clinking against the tiles. The other ladies stepped aside to let her through. “Baby,” she said, squeezing Willa in a tight hug.

  Willa never wanted her to let go. If there was one thing Honey did well, besides stripping, it was hugging. She could hug all the pain away.

  They disappeared into one of the private V.I.P booths. Willa didn't protest when Honey took her hand and led her there. Even though she'd just lost her father, she saw no reason to stray from routine.

  Once they were alone, Honey Moon pulled off her wig, revealing flatter, more natural blonde hair. She kicked off the stilettos too. They hurt like a bitch. And with the costume went the name and the facade, transforming her back into Olivia, the relatively plain college student from Washington.

  “I'm so sorry, baby,” she said as they sat on the plush leather bench. The room was small and not very well lit – the perfect place for private dances... or whatever it was Willa had come looking for. The thing that would make her feel better.

  “Yeah, so am I,” Willa said. “I don't know why I am. I mean, he was in so much pain, and the chemo destroyed him...”

  “Because loving someone makes us selfish. We want them to stay with us forever, even though we know it's not in their best interest.”

  Willa nodded sadly and let Olivia cuddle her again. This was the woman she'd come to see, not the loud, brash alter ego their male clientele adored and salivated over. She'd met her as Olivia two years prior and got her the job at the club. But the removal of the facade was part of their ritual; when Honey Moon disappeared, only then could Willa drop her own mask, a mask most didn't realize she was wearing.

  “I'm probably the most powerful woman in Miami right now, and I can't even enjoy it.” She laid her head on Olivia's chest and did her best to enjoy being there, but even that didn't feel the same. These were breasts she knew well; and although the familiarity calmed her, the loss was still too present.

  “So it's true about you taking over?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Johnny came by right after... you know. Said your old man made you the number one.” She kissed Willa's head and let her mouth linger there. “That's big news.”

  “Yeah,” Willa said dully, her voice muffled.

  “How did your brothers take it?”

  “How do you think? Trent wanted to rip my head from my neck. I don't blame him though.” She nuzzled her face deeper into the flowery scented chest of her closest friend. This was where she felt most at home. She let her lips plant lazy kisses on the exposed flesh. “Dad was always screwing with people. This was his final middle finger to everyone, I think.”

  “Do you even want it?”

  Willa looked up, and when she did none of the bravado that she'd shown in her father's room earlier that day showed now. She looked and felt like a lost little girl, thrown into the world to fend for herself. “No. No, I don't. I never wanted any of this. I told him I did, because that was what he needed to hear, b
ut I... What has want got to do with anything anyway?”

  “Then let Trent take over.”

  Willa shook her head. “I can't. Truth is, it should be me. Dad knew that. I know that.”

  “So what happens now?” Olivia said, giving her a solemn look.

  “I become someone and something I never wanted to become. Something my father was that made everyone afraid of him.”

  Neither of them needed to fill in the blanks. Although no one ever spoke directly about it, Olivia knew that the type of outfit the di Blasios ran was the kind where people went missing or turned up at the bottom of a river. She knew there was a shady, dangerous, illegal side to their business, that the strip club and garages were the good places. And the type of power the family yielded wasn't gained by paying taxes and giving to charity. You didn't get that powerful without breaking a few bones.

  Olivia shuddered. She loved Willa in spite of her family, because Willa was nothing like the rest of them. Now she feared that would all change.

  “I hate to see you like this,” she whispered.

  “Make me feel better.”

  “Of course,” Olivia said, optimistic. Maybe some things would stay the same.

  It was Willa who made the first move, smashing her lips to Olivia's, so aggressive in her need for affection. Sex always made things better, even if temporarily. And when it came to sex, Olivia knew her body like no one else did, which was why she kept coming back to her.

  Olivia didn't need to ask for directions. Once she separated her lips from Willa's, she sank to her knees in front of her and wrenched open the buttons of Willa's jeans, before tugging them down, her panties going with them. She pressed her palm to Willa's chest, reclining her against the backrest of the bench, and spread her wide.

  Willa's head drooped backward, lifelessly, her eyes fluttering shut. She felt all of her troubles drift away like clouds as Olivia's tongue worked its magic on her sex. The pressure, the tempo and rhythm applied to her now rock hard nub all combined to give the best sensation. Willa couldn't contain her excitement, and the moans ripped from her throat. Each time Olivia felt that she was close to the edge, her tongue eased up and concentrated on less sensitive areas of her moist opening.