Ruthless: Mob Boss Book One

by Michelle St. James

  She wanted to bristle at this commanding tone, but then they stepped up to a large metal door guarded by two men with dead eyes and arms as big as her waist. She stepped a little closer to Nico. She thought they might be questioned going into the club, but one of the men nodded at Nico and opened the door without a word.

  Interesting.

  They stepped into a stairwell lined with purple lights. Music pumped from somewhere beneath them, vibrating the ground. Nico started down the stairs, and Angel had never been more glad to feel Luca’s presence behind her.

  They emerged into a large warehouse space filled with writhing bodies dancing to the music that invaded the space from invisible speakers. At the front of the room, a massive movie screen was playing Scarface on mute. A giant pile of cocaine sat in front of Al Pacino, the movements of his mouth working in strange synchronicity to the music in the club.

  Nico stopped in front of a small man wearing a headset and sunglasses. Without a word, the man hooked a thumb to a staircase at the back of the cavernous room.

  Nico took Angel’s hand and started through the mass of bodies, the crowd seeming to part in front of him like he was the Messiah himself. They passed several more men on their way up the stairs but proceeded without incident down a long hall that seemed to wind its way into the bowels of the building. The music faded slightly, the bass pounding like an electric heartbeat in the background.

  They came to the end of a hall and a door guarded by four men holstered with semi-automatic weapons. One of them had a scar that ran the length of his face under eyes that made Angel shudder.

  Dead. Soulless. All of them.

  She’d thought Nico and his men imposing—and they were—but Nico’s operation looked nothing like this. Here she knew there would be no mercy, no New Age attempt at reconciliation or pacifism. Here violence wouldn’t be a last resort but a opening salvo to any kind of engagement.

  She swallowed hard as one of the men opened the door. Then Nico was pulling her into a room beyond the hall. The door shut behind them with a heavy thunk that made Angel think of the door to a tomb.

  Clearly, not your average warehouse door.

  She didn’t know what she was expecting, but the room was nothing like any of the places she’d seen belonging to Nico. Instead they could have been in any abandoned faculty building. It was large and bare, the furniture old and mismatched. The air was heavy with smoke, and Angel caught a whiff of something earthy and bitter.

  A man stood behind a rusted steel desk, and she had to fight the urge to recoil.

  He was massive, at least a couple inches taller than Nico’s already impressive height, with a scar just above his left eye. His hair was cut close to his head, his face shaded with the the kind of five o’ clock shadow she’d never seen on any of Nico’s men. Violence emanated off him in waves, a tsunami of psychic misery that pulled at her like a riptide.

  Nico was the iron fist inside a velvet glove, danger masked with refinement.

  This man was something else entirely.

  There were no guards inside the room, but Angel wasn’t comforted by the thought. This was not a man who was afraid. Of anything.

  “Farrell,” Nico said, stepping up to the desk.

  “Vitale.”

  There was no warmth between them, none of the brotherhood that was so evident when Nico talked to his men. Farrell’s eyes traveled unashamedly over her body, and she felt Nico tighten next to her.

  “I didn’t expect to see you in this part of the world,” Farrell said in a British accent that looked way too refined for the kind of man he was. He sat down behind the desk. “Heard trouble’s brewing across the pond.”

  Nico didn’t sit, and she tried to follow the train of posturing; who was more important, who was making a point or taking a stand through their actions. It was like trying to decipher an argument in a mysterious language.

  Nico handed him a piece of paper. Farrell held Nico’s eyes for a few seconds before reading it. When he looked up, his expression hadn’t changed a bit. His gaze returned appreciatively to Angel.

  “So this is Rossi’s daughter.”

  Angel flushed, although she couldn’t have said if it was because of his frank appraisal or because he was yet another person connecting her father to this world.

  “It is.” Nico’s voice was hard as granite.

  Farrell nodded, and for the first time, a trace of humor showed in his eyes. “You know what you’re doing here, Vitale? Seems like you might be off reservation on this one.”

  Nico held his gaze. “Raneiro doesn’t seem to think so.”

  Farrell glanced back down at the piece of paper. “Or maybe he’s just speeding along your untimely demise.”

  Nico didn’t say anything, and Angel forced herself to remain still, tried to make her face impassive in the ensuing silence.

  Finally, Farrell leaned forward and scrawled something on the piece of paper Nico had handed him. “Word is he’s at a safe house. You didn’t hear it from me.” He slid the paper across the desk but didn’t let go when Nico tried to take it. “But I’m not with you on this. Understand?”

  “I don’t need you on it.” Nico’s voice was flinty. “I just need you to keep your men out of the way until it’s over.”

  Farrell let go of the slip of paper, and Angel glanced around Nico to see what was written there; 21 George Row.

  Nico pocketed it, guiding Angel in front of him as he and Luca headed for the door.

  “Does she know what’s going to happen to dear, old dad when you find him?” Farrell asked behind them.

  Angel looked back at Farrell, now holding a lit cigar, then up at Nico.

  “Let’s go,” Nico said, ushering her out the door.

  41

  They rode back to the flat in silence, although Nico had a feeling that wouldn’t have been the case if Luca hadn’t been with them.

  Fucking Farrell Black.

  Angel waited until they were behind closed doors in the bedroom of the flat to ask the question he’d known was coming.

  “Are you going to kill my father?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

  He walked to the dresser and removed his cuff links. “That’s not my intention, no.”

  “What does that mean, Nico?”

  He turned to face her, forcing himself to remain calm. “It means that my intention is to obtain evidence of his part in my parent’s murder and then hand it over to the Syndicate.”

  She scowled. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m convinced that is my intention,” he said carefully. “Because it is.”

  “Then why did Farrell seem to be saying otherwise?”

  The torment in her eyes sliced through his soul, but he hadn’t lied to her yet. He wouldn’t start now. “Because Farrell knows how these things sometimes go down.”

  “And how is that?” she asked.

  Nico took a deep breath. “These are not good men, Angel. Your father—”

  “My father isn’t a good man,” she finished for him. “Isn’t that what you want me to know?”

  “No. Not what I want you to know.”

  “But what you believe is true.”

  He chose his words carefully, not wanting to hurt her. “There are all kinds of men in this business. Some are more… selective than others in choosing their income streams.”

  “Income streams?” Her laugh was brittle. “You’re not an investment banker, Nico. You’re a criminal.”

  He flinched, then hardened his heart. “I’ve never lied about what I am, Angel.”

  She stalked to her suitcase and took off her shoes. “No, you just wrap it all up in a designer bow and hope no one will notice.”

  He turned away from her. “You’re not being fair.”

  “None of this is fair,” she said.

  “No.”

  She turned to face him, her face streaked with tears. “I know my father isn’t a perfect man. The evidence is pretty much irrefutabl
e. But he’s my father.”

  “I know,” Nico said. “Believe it or not, I understand the bonds of family more than you might think.”

  She seemed to consider his words. “Then I guess we’ll just see what happens.”

  He started unbuttoning his shirt. “You have my word that I’ll tell you everything. Luca will be there, too, so you can ask him for his version after it all plays out if it makes you feel better.”

  She went still. “What are you talking about? I’ll be there with you, Nico.”

  “No.”

  “No?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t get to tell me no.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he said, stripping off his shirt.

  “He’s my father, Nico.”

  “I think we’ve established that. And we’ve also established that this is an extremely dangerous situation. I can’t risk having something happen to you.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  “It’s not an opinion,” she said. “You may own me in the bedroom, but it’s not a literal interpretation of the word.”

  “I’m not taking you with us,” he said simply. “And Luca won’t take you. So you’re not going.”

  He walked into the hall and shut the door behind him. The flat was quiet, and he poured himself a drink and opened the doors to the balcony off the living room.

  The lights of the city glimmered in the darkness, London’s monuments lit up like trophies to the past. He loved Europe, loved the history of it, but sometimes he was fucking tired of looking behind him. Angel made him want to look to the future, and Carlo Rossi was standing in his way.

  He hated telling Angel no, wanted to give her everything she asked for, everything she wanted and more. But this was one thing he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give her. The potential price was too high. Not just death, but the probability of seeing her father at his worst. Of watching Carlo Rossi do what Carlo Rossi did.

  And that had never been pretty, even before the situation with Angel.

  It was a fool’s errand, trying to protect her from the truth, but ever since he’d met her, all he’d wanted was to keep the light burning in her eyes. He’d even posted someone near her brother’s school, hoping to insure the safety of the person who seemed to matter most to her. But he couldn’t save her from everything. She would find out. When this was all over, she would find out the kind of man her father was. There was nothing Nico could do about that, but he could control the how of it, could try and insure that the blows were delivered in a way she could bear.

  And he would keep his word. He would make every effort to keep Carlo alive, to pass the burden of responsibility in deciding his fate to the Syndicate where it wouldn’t be connected to him and to Angel and to the surprising thing that had begun to build between them.

  He finished his drink and went inside to find his rosary, pushing aside the feeling that he was no longer in control. That he was on a journey with an ending he couldn’t shape and probably wouldn’t like.

  42

  Angel was up with the sun the next morning, her eyes dry and gritty. Nico had come to bed at some point after she’d turned off the light. He’d reached for her, and she’d gone to him without speaking. This was how it was with them. How it had to be. A separation of their undeniable feelings and everything that should have made those feelings impossible.

  In bed they belonged to each other. Time would tell about the rest.

  She sat on the balcony while Nico and Luca plotted out how to get into the safe house. Their murmured conversation was irrelevant to her, and she spent the day lost in her own thoughts.

  “You’ll be okay while I’m gone?” Nico asked when night finally fell across the city.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. And she would. She had to believe she would.

  He cupped her face and ran his thumb along her cheek. “I love you, Angel. Don’t forget that in all of this.”

  She stretched to kiss him softly on the lips. “Don’t you forget it either.”

  He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and left with Luca. She waited a half hour before leaving the apartment and hailing a taxi.

  “Twenty-one George Row,” she said to the driver.

  He looked back at her. “George Row? In Bermondsey?”

  “I… I guess.”

  “You sure that’s where you want to go, luv?”

  She sat back in the seat. “I’m sure.”

  He sighed and started the meter, then pulled out into traffic.

  She looked out the window, her mind turning to her father. She hadn’t seen him in at least six months. It made her feel shitty, despite everything she’d learned about him. Had he always been this man? Or had he become this way after her mother died? Was there any way back from all of this? Would he be happy to see her? She hoped so, especially since she planned to walk up to the door and knock. Luca and Nico had gone to great lengths to plan their entry to the safe house in a way that allowed for the possibility of armed guards. Angel was hoping her status as Carlo Rossi’s daughter would make her entrance considerably easier.

  She thought back to that day at Vitale headquarters, the day her father’s men had come for her. Nico had been right; they’d been willing to sacrifice her. Could she really count on her father’s love to keep her alive?

  It didn’t matter. This was the end of the road. She had to know who her father really was, and she wasn’t going to get it secondhand from Nico or Luca. She had no doubt they would tell her a version of the truth, but it would be watered down, filtered through the lens of their desire to protect her.

  People will tell you who they are if you listen.

  It was time for her father to tell her who he was.

  They’d been driving about twenty minutes when the the car pulled over to the side of the road next to a row of rundown brick houses.

  “I can wait if you won’t be long,” the driver said, turning around to look at her.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll have a ride back.” She passed him some cash she’d found on Nico’s bedside table. “Thank you.”

  He hesitated, then nodded and put the car in gear. She watched him drive away before turning to the row houses in front of her.

  43

  Nico ducked through the window in front of Luca, careful not to knock anything over as he slid to the floor. The house was small and shabby. No surprise. Carlo was a lot less likely to attract attention in a neighborhood like Bermondsey, although Nico had no doubt it was well below Carlo Rossi’s usual standards. The realization gave him a hit of pleasure; Carlo had been afraid of him.

  Very afraid.

  Some kind of comedy was on the TV beyond the kitchen, and Nico used the laugh track to cover his steps as he inched forward toward the noise, wanting to get a handle on how many men were in the house. They’d seen one posted near the front door on their way to the back of the house, and he assumed Carlo had at least one man with him at all times. That meant he and Luca would be outgunned by at least one man.

  But they had the element of surprise, and that gave them some advantage.

  He flattened himself against the wall between the kitchen and the living room. A commercial was playing on the television, and he held his breath, hoping Carlo and his men didn’t decide to use the opportunity to take a leak. A couple minutes later, the show they were watching returned, and Nico peered out into the living room.

  Three men; Carlo and two others.

  Carlo sat on the sofa with a sandwich in his lap while an overweight man took up space at the other end. Next to it, an old recliner was occupied by a beefy guy with a bald head. A cross tattoo snaked up the back of his neck.

  Nico pulled back into the kitchen and held up three fingers to Luca, standing on the other side of the doorway. Now Luca would know how many men they were dealing with.

  Luca nodded, and Nico raised five fingers and started counting down on them.

&nbs
p; 5… 4… 3… 2… 1

  They came through the door at the same time. Carlo’s guards were on their feet, guns pointed at Nico and Luca before Carlo even knew what was happening. Lazy.

  “I wouldn’t,” Nico said, pointing his gun at Carlo’s head while Luca aimed at the shorter of the two men. “You might be able to take us, but at least one of you is going along for the ride. Besides, we just want to talk.”

  Carlos stood, brushing crumbs off his perfectly tailored trousers. “Nico Vitale. If you’d wanted to make a social call, you should have let me know. I would have cleaned up a little.”

  He had changed in the year since Nico had seen him. His face had grown thinner, his hair grayer, and there were lines etched around his eyes that Nico didn’t remember. He was still tall, imposing in the way that tall men are, even when they were lean like Carlo. But he didn’t look well.

  This is Angel’s father. His Angel.

  He pushed the thought aside. Carlo was a murderer, and that was the only way Nico would afford to think of him.

  “Give me the tape,” Nico said. “Give me the tape and I’ll let you live.”

  “This again?” Carlo held up his hands in a gesture of confusion. “I told you in the Syndicate’s hearing, I have no idea what you’re talking about. They believed me. Why can’t you?”

  “Because you’re a murderer and a liar. They may not know it, but I do.”

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think you know that counts, is it? It’s what you can prove,” Carlo said calmly. “And right now, you can’t prove a thing, while I can most certainly prove that you kidnapped my daughter.”

  His mention of Angel made Nico see red. “You don’t deserve her.”

  Carlo’s brow furrowed, like he was trying to complete a complicated math equation in his head. “That’s interesting.”

  “Shut up.” Nico cocked his weapon, and everyone went still.

  “Give us the tape,” Luca said. “At least you’ll live.”

  “I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carlo said. “But if you won’t listen to reason, I have no doubt Raneiro and the Syndicate will understand my position. You kidnap my daughter, come in here, hold me at gunpoint… “ He shrugged. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” He glanced at his men. “Do it.”