Gun Moll

by Bethany-Kris

  For our fans, thank you.

  GUN MOLL

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Copyright

  Deep down into the depth of her core, Melina Morgan could feel a blaze burning hotter and hotter. Her soul was on fire. Soon, she knew it would consume her, but there was nothing she could do. Life had already decided her fate and fate was a real bitch.

  A droplet of water splattered her face as she readjusted the black umbrella she was holding. The sky was open, pouring water down all around her, but it didn’t matter. Not much did anymore.

  She watched with gritted teeth as the simple maple-oak-finished casket was lowered into the waiting plot in the ground. Melina stood alone as the first and only witness to the final resting place of a great man. A great man who’d been all but shunned and forgotten by everyone except her. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks, and as the thunder clapped overhead, she couldn’t hold them in any longer. The despair and anger she’d been holding inside burst from her lungs like a train running at full speed.

  Bitterness filled her mouth as she sobbed. Her knuckles cracked as she clutched the umbrella as if it were the only lifeline to hold her up. It wasn’t fair. Those fucks had betrayed him, stripping him of everything he’d worked so hard for; everything he’d honored and held in high esteem, they’d taken it away. Melina shouldn’t have been the only person at this funeral. It should have been filled with friends and colleagues of Daniel Morgan Jr. There should have been a line of men saluting him and placing the symbol of everything Daniel had ever stood for in Melina’s hands.

  But Melina held nothing except a worn, black umbrella that did little to keep the rain from chilling her bones. It was just too bad; the rain couldn’t cool the fire in her soul. As the casket came to its final resting place, the gravedigger started to throw the first shovel of dirt in.

  “Wait.”

  He threw dirt on the top of the casket.

  “Damn it, I said wait!” Melina yelled at him.

  “It’s raining cats and dogs out here. I’m soaked.”

  “Well, so am I. Do you know who you’re burying? Do you know who it is that you’re giving less than a damn about?”

  “Look, I’m just doing my job.”

  “So did he, and he got no respect for it. No appreciation. But today, you’re going to give me a chance to show him the respect he didn’t get when he was alive. Got it?”

  The man glared at her, his muddy brown eyes were hard, but Melina didn’t care. He was going to allow her this moment. Reaching inside her black trench coat, she withdrew a small souvenir. She’d had it since she was a small girl and now she was returning it to the one who’d given it to her. Staring at it with a measure of love and anger, Melina threw the small replica of the American flag down on top of the casket.

  “You finished?” the insolent gravedigger asked.

  “No, I’m not. You might want to get out of the way for what I’m about to do next.”

  “Can you hurry the hell up?”

  Melina’s russet brown eyes closed briefly before she opened them again. Reaching once more into her coat, she pulled out a black handgun with a worn grip and aimed it at the gravedigger.

  “I suggest you shut the fuck up before you find yourself in a hole out here, too.”

  The man raised his hands. “I don’t want any trouble. Please.”

  “Then be quiet and let me do what I came here for. You are welcome to continue your miserable excuse for a job, after.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Melina raised her Smith & Wesson 386 towards the sky and fired one round.

  “Lance Corporal Daniel Morgan Jr., thank you for your service. Thank you for believing that no man deserves to be left behind. Thank you for taking a stand and sticking by it, no matter what it cost you in the end.”

  Melina blasted another round off into the sky. The gravedigger jumped, but she ignored him. She wasn’t finished yet. Her voice wavered as she continued talking.

  “When others would’ve simply turned a blind eye, you stuck to your values and you always did the right thing. When life fucked you any way but right, your spirit let you hold on and keep fighting. Few knew your pain, but I saw it, no matter how much you tried to hide it from me. Few will ever know the real cost you paid for serving your country as an honorable man, but I know and I remember.”

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, Melina raised the gun and fired one last time.

  “This isn’t goodbye. It’s just an ‘I’ll see you later’ and when we meet again, you’ll be the man you once were. The man who looked at life through shining eyes with the hope and belief that no matter what, doing the right thing would always save you in the end. Rest now and know that the pain of this life is over, and you’re in a far better place. See you later.”

  As the rain slowed to a light downpour, Melina put her gun away and nodded towards the gravedigger. “He’s all yours now.”

  She turned to walk away.

  “Ma’am, I don’t mean to pry, but if he was a vet, why didn’t he have a military funeral?”

  Wiping her eyes, Melina swallowed the lump in her throat and faced the gravedigger with the familiar coldness already settling in her heart.

  “While in Afghanistan, a small group of men under him were trapped behind enemy lines and ordered to be left behind. He disobeyed orders and went back for them; two of those men died. My father lost his right forearm. Instead of giving him a medal for risking his life for his fellow man and for losing a limb, they discharged him dishonorably. He was an example for other men, and nothing more.”

  “That was mighty shitty of them to do that.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “What about the men he saved? Why aren’t they here?”

  “I was unable to get the contact information for the ones who survived.”

  Melina turned away and started to walk.

  “He was your father, wasn’t he?” the gravedigger called from behind her.

  “Yes, he was.”

  Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she started to walk through the graveyard and to her car. It was over and she would never return here. Contrary to what many thought, there was no sentimental value to visiting a grave. The person you loved was gone. There was no lingering spirit, waiting around for you to come visit. Only a body remained. A body that had already begun to deteriorate and would soon return to the earth from which it came.

  No, Melina was done here. There was no reason to visit a headstone, especially one that did not even begin to convey the true measure of the man buried beneath it.

  The rain continued to slacken as Melina walked back to her vehicle. A loud beep made her stop. Opening her purse, she reached inside. Her fingers closed around a black beeper that was outdated and behind the times, but necessary, according to her boss. The number “711” flashed across it. Putting it back
inside her purse, Melina kept walking. She’d just received another lesson from life: It doesn’t matter what the fuck is going on, the world keeps moving. Deal with it.

  Sad, but true. Anyone else would have the time to grieve properly, to get affairs in order. Hell, just a little time to sift through their father’s belongings and reminisce. But not her.

  It was time to dry her tears and close the vault to her heart permanently. She was in this world alone, and she had to make it the best she could. Even if she cringed every time the numbers 711 came across her beeper. Even if her stomach turned, imaging what kind of desperate fool she’d have to entertain tonight. It didn’t matter. She was an escort and tonight, she belonged to the highest bidder, whoever he might be.

  “James, come taste this for me.”

  Mac beat back his immediate urge to correct his mother when she used his given name. She was the only person he let get away with that shit. “I’m busy, Ma.”

  “James.”

  “Ma, I’m busy.”

  “James, come taste. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  He was twenty-six-years-old, and all his mother had to do was use the fucking tone. Every good Italian child knew what the tone was. Age, size, or gender didn’t make a goddamn difference. When an Italian’s mother used that tone, they knew to listen, or get out of the way.

  Sighing, Mac jumped down from the ladder he’d been balancing on for the last ten minutes. His mother needed her living room fan fixed and he still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what was wrong with it.

  Needs a new one, he thought.

  Mac knew that’s what it was. But Cynthia Bella Maccari wasn’t the kind of woman to ask for money or complain. He took care of his mother, as far as that went, but he did it without asking or telling her he was doing it. Sometimes that meant showing up with his Challenger’s trunk full with groceries, or sneaking her stack of bills off the table and taking them to the bank.

  Cynthia never said a word.

  Neither did Mac.

  It was just too damn bad James Sr. didn’t get the memo.

  Mac’s father was useless in all things—women, family, and money. Expecting him to handle his estranged wife’s business was like asking the doorknob to turn without touching it. It wasn’t going to happen.

  James Sr. liked to think that because his wife had kicked him and his cocaine-abusing, women-running, asshole-self out all those years ago, that he didn’t have a responsibility to Cynthia or the two children they shared.

  Mac took care of it all. Whatever his mother or sister, Victoria, needed, Mac did it.

  “All right, Ma, give it to me,” Mac said, leaning in the kitchen entryway.

  Cynthia turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. A thick, red sauce covered the tip as his mother blew on it to cool it down. She held it out for him to taste once she was close enough.

  Mac hummed as the rich flavors soaked his taste buds in familiarity.

  Home.

  It tasted like home.

  “Damn,” he groaned.

  “James!”

  There was that tone again.

  Crass language had never been acceptable in his home growing up. They’d been dirt poor and lived in a pretty shoddy neighborhood, but his mother always held some kind of standard for her children.

  Mac never really learned to follow those rules.

  “That mouth of yours, my God,” Cynthia muttered.

  Mac winced. “Sorry.”

  Cynthia’s brow puckered in her disapproval as she shook her head and dropped the spoon. “I know you run around on the streets going on like that, but in this home, James—”

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” he interrupted before she could really get started.

  Apparently, that wasn’t going to soothe Cynthia’s temper.

  “No, listen. What have I always told you, huh?”

  “Bad language and acting like a fool isn’t going to get me a real job.”

  Cynthia smiled. “And what are you doing for work lately, hmm?”

  Shit.

  Mac wanted to get his mother off that topic and quickly. If his bad language had tripped her anger up, his choices on the job front really would. His mother wasn’t stupid, she knew he ran the streets like her estranged husband did. He made up schemes, worked with a crew, and brought in money however he could. Even if it was fucking pennies. It was work. The only kind of work he cared to know.

  It was the one thing Mac had in common with his fuck-up of a father.

  La famiglia.

  The family.

  Mafia.

  Mac’s introduction to the Pivetti crime family had happened when he was just six-years-old. A lot of his younger years were spent in the passenger seat of an old Cadillac while his father collected money and watched the streets for his brother. Mac’s now-deceased uncle had once run the streets of Hell’s Kitchen as the top Capo in the family. Marco had been terrifying, and cold as hell. But then Marco Maccari met the wrong end of a bullet when a war broke out between rival New York families, and what could have been the Maccari reign in the Pivetti family ended.

  James Sr. found his shame in white lines of cocaine, effectively ruining any chance he had of getting made in the family. It was embarrassing and undignified.

  Mac wouldn’t be his father. He’d worked far too hard to separate James Sr. from Mac Maccari in la famiglia to let it be screwed up by something so stupid. Mac even went so far as integrating himself as a soldier for the Vasari crew in the Pivetti Cosa Nostra, while his father worked under the Audino side.

  There was no need to stain himself with his father’s mess, after all. Appearance was everything to Cosa Nostra. A man’s worth was determined by his actions, honor, and loyalty. James Sr. had none of that.

  But Mac couldn’t please his mother by being a wise-guy, either.

  Double-edged swords.

  Cynthia had never hidden her disapproval of Mac’s choices, regarding Cosa Nostra. If she chomped down on that bone, they would be glaring at one another all night. Mac had shit to do in the Kitchen in the morning, and he needed to be gone from Amityville before dawn broke.

  “Ma, let’s not start in on that again,” Mac warned, hoping it was enough.

  Cynthia sighed. “I want you to be a good man, Mac.”

  When she used his nickname, Mac knew his mother was serious. Cynthia only did that when she wanted something from him, or she needed him to listen.

  “I am a good man,” he replied quietly.

  In all the ways that count, he held back from adding.

  “Being a wise-guy—”

  “I’m not James, Ma.”

  Cynthia pursed her lips. “I know.”

  Guessing by the way his mother dropped his stare, he figured the conversation was over. Sometimes, it was all about picking the right battles with Cynthia. Maybe she just wasn’t up for the argument that night.

  God knew it would come on another.

  “Sunday,” she said.

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “Church.”

  Ah.

  Yeah …

  “Ma, I’ve got some stuff to do this weekend and all that. Next Sunday, okay?”

  Cynthia’s hands met her hips.

  The tone was coming again. Mac knew it.

  “Fine, Sunday,” he said quickly.

  Mac would have to make an excuse to his Capo to get out of collecting dues from the bookies, but whatever. Family came first. Sometimes that didn’t always mean the family that was supposed to be first.

  “And make sure you check up on your sister this week,” Cynthia ordered. “She doesn’t call me enough.”

  Probably because Victoria was smarter than Mac, and knew not to poke the bear that was Cynthia Maccari.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  Before Cynthia could say another thing, a loud clap of thunder rang out. It practically shook the roof and walls of the small, one-level home. A sheet of rain followed the noise, banging the roof hard.
r />   “Oh, darn,” Cynthia mumbled, glancing upwards.

  Mac followed her gaze and noticed a water stain on the ceiling. When had that gotten there? Chances were, that stain was from a roof leak. With another storm passing through, it was only going to get worse.

  It needed to be fixed and soon.

  Mac, frustrated with another thing being added to his list, tried to figure out how in the hell he was going to come up with the kind of money to fix the roof. A patch wouldn’t do. Maybe for a short while, but not long-term. The house was old and a roof was just one of the many improvements it could use.

  “Ma?” he asked, knowing he didn’t need to say another thing.

  Cynthia made a dismissive noise under her breath. “It’s nothing, James.”

  “Ma, that water stain is a foot long and three inches wide. How long has it been leaking?”

  “A few months.”

  A few months?

  “Ma!”

  Cynthia wouldn’t meet his gaze. “The house is old.”

  “I’m aware.”

  The rain kept pounding at the roof. Mac gritted his teeth and pushed his frustrations back. It wasn’t his mother’s fault that her useless husband couldn’t even take care of her or their family.

  But sometimes he wished all of this hadn’t been left to him.

  “I’ll have someone here next week to fix it, Ma,” Mac said.

  “But—”

  “No arguing. It needs done.”

  “Fine,” Cynthia said heavily. “That’s going to be a couple of thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  And he sure as hell wouldn’t tell her how, either.

  Melina stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair hung down her back in tousled waves. A nude lipstick moisturized her full lips. The fitted, black bodycon dress she wore accentuated the round curve of her ass and the gentle swell of her hips. Tugging up the bodice of the dress, she cursed under her breath. It seemed the ten pounds she’d packed on had gone straight to her breasts. It was getting a little harder to squeeze into her clothes—her top half anyway. But it wasn’t all bad. If anything, it would keep tonight’s customer firmly focused on her assets instead of forcing her to suffer through small talk and boring attempts to excite her.