by Paula Cox
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dirty Nights copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DIRTY NIGHTS
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
DIRTY WHISPERS
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Preview of Fury
Chapter One
Chapter Two
More Books by Paula Cox
DIRTY NIGHTS
Chapter One
Livia
“Don’t you dare talk to that Irish filth,” Mom says, her voice thick with Italian rage, a rage which makes her sound even more dangerous than Dad, which is quite the achievement considering Dad’s the most dangerous man in New York. I sit at my desk just outside Dad’s office, sorting through papers and getting everything in order. Being a mafia boss means having dozens, if not hundreds, of real businesses. I handle many of these, interspersed with angry phone calls from Mom every now and then. “It’s an embarrassment that your father is giving him a single second of attention, Livia.” She swears in Italian. I hold the phone away from my ear, lest she burst my eardrums.
When she’s done, I say, “It’s fine, Mom. I know how to handle myself.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Mom shoots back, her voice haughty. If there’s one thing Claudio Russo knows, it’s how to sound haughty, upper-class, offended, and full of rage. “Just listen to your mother, Livia. These Irish can be tricky men, very tricky. Don’t forget that leprechauns are Irish.”
“I won’t, Mom.” I sigh, leaning back in the office chair. “Anyway, do you really think I’d go out of my way to talk to an Irishman? Give me more credit.”
“Well...good. Just remember who you are. When are you going to find a nice Italian boy and settle down? You’re almost thirty now, Livia. You haven’t got all the time in the world. You should be married by now.”
“I’m twenty-five.” I suppress a groan, not wanting to get into this whole mess again. It seems that every time I talk with Mom, she brings up my lack of a husband, flinging it at me like it’s a weapon.
“Twenty-five and unmarried.” She tuts. “That never would’ve happened in my day.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can say. Once Mom gets going, she’s like a stream train, chugging along no matter what I say. We could be sitting in a burning building and she’d refuse to leave until she’d finished her rant. She goes on, the normal stuff: I need a man; the man has to be Italian; I need to give her some grandchildren; I shouldn’t even be working here; my father is a bad man for allowing me so close to the business. Finally, she relents, barks something in Italian, and hangs up.
“Mom,” I say, a second before the line goes dead, “what, exactly, is the Irishman coming here for? Why is Dad talking to him?”
But all I get in response is a long hmmmmmmmmmm.
I glance around the office, a backroom in one of Dad’s many bars. On the wall, there’s a family portrait of me, Mom, and Dad, standing in Central Park. I study myself for a few moments; it was only taken a year ago and I look pretty much identical to how I did then, except that today my hair is tied up in a working ponytail and then it was flowing down to my shoulders. My skin is smooth and a warm, light brown, my nose is strong, just like my jawline, which is prominent. My hair is dark, thick, and straight. The only thing which ruins my appearance—the veritable bane of my life—is the blasted dimples which mark my sculpted image like a chunk taken out of marble, two little dents. In the picture, Bruno Russo stands next to me. He is big, wide-shouldered, and looking like a man who could’ve stepped from the nineteen twenties, he’s so Italian-American. Mom is the same, which leads me to wonder where these wretched dimples came from.
Ah, well, I think, as men clatter glasses, laugh, and glug from the bar.
I go about my work for the next hour and a half, making sure all the records for Dad’s businesses are in order. The trick, Dad told me when I first started, is to make dirty money look clean. Dad, for all intents and purposes, is the legitimate owner of dozens of thriving businesses, never mind that he’s the don of the Italian mob.
I work fast, and soon I’m leaning back in the chair and gazing at the portrait and thinking about how Luca should’ve been there for it. But Luca is dead, I think bitterly. Gunned down by the Irish a month before that photo was taken. The Irish—if Mom’s warnings weren’t enough, Luca’s death surely is. And now Dad is going to meet with one of them. I shiver, really shiver, at the thought.
Then the bell above the bar door rings. The barman sticks his head through. “Some redhead here to see your dad,” he says.
I nod shortly. “Fine.”
The man walks in. I expected him to swagger, but he walks with a confident, measured step. I know from Mom’s ranting—a persistent campaign over these past few days—that he’s around my age, mid-twenties, but he looks much older with his this red-brown beard, a beard he wears without any hint of self-consciousness. It’s strange to see such a rugged beard when the men I usually mix with are clean-shaved and neat. He wears a t-shirt, jeans, and boots, all hugging his tight, muscular body; again, this is odd. He isn’t dressed snappy like the Italian men always are.
He walks to the office door without even glancing at me, without so much as a nod, and knocks on Dad’s door. Dad calls: “Give me five minutes!”
“Alright,” the man says with a casual sh
rug, stepping back. Then, finally, his gaze turns to me. I expect some sign of respect, but he looks at me as though I am just any other woman. His eyes are dark, woody brown and his face is open and relaxed, far more relaxed than an Irishman should be in an Italian bar.
Wait a second, I think. He doesn’t know who I am, does he?
“Hello, pretty lady.” He smiles, his lips just barely visible through his wild tangled beard. “How are you this fine afternoon?” His voice, just like his beard and his general disheveled appearance, make him seem older. It is deep and chesty, rumbling earthquake-like.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Excuse me?” I say, absentmindedly fiddling with my pen, spinning it around my thumb and then catching it between my fore and middle fingers. It’s my favorite pen, a birthday present from Dad, shining silver with my initials inscribed near the lid. “I don’t think you know—”
“I know you’re damn sexy.” He says this nonchalantly, an offhand remark, and stuffs his hands in his pockets.
There’s no way in hell he’d talk to me like this if he knew who I was. He must just think I’m just a secretary. It’s funny, because if he just turned around and looked at the photo, he’d realize his mistake. But he doesn’t. His eyes are glued to me. His smile is a rictus, constantly there, like he knows the punchline to a joke nobody else knows even the set-up of. He stands close to the desk, staring down at me. I gaze back up at him, biting my lip in outrage. The pen almost flies from my hand. I grip it hard, knuckles turning white.
“You need to back up,” I say, voice iron. “Right now.”
“Woah.” His grin does something I thought impossible. It gets wider. He seems to find me funny. Big mistake. “Can’t a man compliment a lady these days?”
“I don’t want your compliments,” I say. “So why don’t you just back up?”
He takes his hands from his pockets, holding them up in a sign of peace. “I just can’t help but admire your outfit, is all.” His accent is Irish intermixed with New York, lilting and strangely alluring. No—not alluring! Don’t think that! And his arms, too, squashed into that t-shirt, seem huge and hot. No—not hot! Don’t be stupid! He’s an Irish beast! What would Mom think? He looks me up and down. I’m wearing a hugging dark dress which matches my eyes and a pearl necklace, with matching pearl earrings. “Very, very attractive.” He gives me that infuriating, too-at-ease smile again.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m Aedan O’Rourke,” the man says, as if this means anything.
“So?”
He shrugs. “Just thought it might be good to learn each other’s names, is all.”
“Why would you think that?”
I squeeze my pen too hard. My palm is sweating. The result is that my silver, inscribed, treasured Mont Blanc slides from my grip like a fish and lands on the floor, on the other side of the desk. I squeak and dive for it, petrified that the nib or feed will have been damaged. Aedan steps back, all the way to the wall, out my way. I don’t want to stand up, but I love that pen and there’s no way I’m letting a red-haired Irishman stop me from retrieving it.
I stand up, go around the desk, and lean down to pick it up. I feel his eyes on me, burning into my ass, where the dress hugs tightly. I feel his eyes and all at once I’m angry, because the wave of revulsion which should come over me—which Mom tells me is only right when an Irishman looks at an Italian woman—doesn’t come. Why? He’s an Irishman, for God’s sake!
“That’s a nice pen,” he says, and now he’s close to me, so close I can smell his musky cologne. He’s so close that if he were to take another step, his crotch would be pressed into my ass.
Who does he think he is!
He takes another step forward, and now he’s almost touching me.
Our life is a hard one, and Russos aren’t renowned for their slow tempers. Without really thinking about it, I round on him, gripping my pen like a knife and aiming it straight at his throat.
“You insolent man!” I scream, driving the pen with all my strength, cringing internally as I hear my own voice and realize I sound like Mom.
“What the—”
He lifts his arms, catches my wrist, and holds me still. I strain, but it’s like straining against steel. He just stares at me, bemused, and still smiling, as though this is at all funny.
“Is this your idea of foreplay? I’ll admit, I prefer a little kissing and touching. But then, I’ve always liked difficult women.”
“Shut. Your. Mouth!”
I push; he holds me still.
Then the door to Dad’s office opens. We both turn, still locked in our struggle. Bruno Russo walks out, hands in his suit trouser pockets, a gold chain around his neck and a gold watch on his wrist. He shakes his head slowly.
“I see you two have met,” he says, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “Livia, if you could refrain from stabbing my guest, that would be most appreciated.” He rolls his eyes. “Come, Mr. O’Rourke. We have much to discuss. I must apologize for my daughter.”
“He started it!” I protest, but I drop my hands to my sides.
“Your ...daughter?”
Aedan glances at me and the look of shock on his face almost makes this exchange worth it.
“Oh.”
Chapter Two
Aedan
If there’s one thing the bastard son of the leader of the Irish mob shouldn’t do when he’s sent for an interview with the don of the Italian mob, it’s hit on the princess daughter, the famous Livia Russo, draped in jewels and stuck-up in the extreme. But then, I’m a secret bastard, aren’t I, so maybe if there’s a little leeway with that, there’s a little leeway with this. That logic is bad, and I know it. I feel red-faced and pretty damn stupid as I follow Bruno Russo into his office.
It’s way plainer than I expected it to be and the man seems flagrant in comparison. His flashy suit and gold jewelry, his thin hair combed over a balding head, his general appearance of old mafia, looks strange in what amounts to a simple clerk’s office. He waves a beringed hand at the chair opposite his.
I close the door and take the seat.
“So, you and my daughter are fast friends,” he says, with only a slight Italian accent. His eyes are steady, the sort of eyes I know well. They’re the same as Dad’s eyes, only Dad’s are a touch more sadistic. These are the eyes of a capable killer, an unemotional killer, but a killer all the same. They’re eyes I see when I look in the mirror every morning, truth be told.
“I didn’t know it was her,” I say, somewhat sheepishly. “Otherwise I never would have...”
He shrugs, leans back. “Her mother detests the Irish and so she does, too, although I suspect not as greatly. Women’s business...I keep out of it. I think she knew you were coming, but she doesn’t know the reason why.” He laughs, a surprisingly carefree sound. “Did she come at you with real intent?”
I chuckle, shocked at how at ease I feel in what is, really when you get down to it, enemy camp. But Bruno isn’t at all like Dad said he’d be, but then, Patty spends his life seeing daggers in the shadows. “I think so, yeah.” I smile. “I’ve gotta say sorry though, Mr. Russo. I can’t help it, when I see a pretty lady, but I should have.”
There you go again, a voice whispers, perhaps Mom’s voice, dead for three years and miserable right up until the end. Pretending you’re a simpleton, an animal driven by nothing more than women and desire. But we know the truth, don’t we? We know what drives you most is dear old Patty; you’ll live your life with rage and anger and blood and spit trying to get his approval, won’t you? And why? Now, I’m sure it’s Mom’s voice, quiet and timid, as though afraid Dad is going to hit her. Is it because you could never impress me, is that it? Is it because you let me down? Oh, you want dear old Daddy’s love, don’t you?
“Aedan?” Bruno says, using my first name as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah?” I shake my head, focus, dislodging the thoughts.
/>
“Would you like a drink? Whisky?”
“Sure.”
He nods at the bottle which sits on the desk, beside two glasses. I pour myself a glass and then arch an eyebrow at him. He nods and I pour him a glass. For a few moments, we drink in near-silence, the only noises coming from the street outside and the bar, honking and shouting, clattering, the jukebox, the occasional laugh.
“You must understand that this allegiance—this proposed allegiance—is very difficult for the family to swallow. I had a son, once. Luca. Luca Russo. He was next in line; he was going to be the don one day. He was strong...No, that’s a lie. The truth is, I wanted him to be stronger than he was. Anyway, I’m sure you know, or maybe you don’t...” He sighs, takes a sip of whisky. “He was gunned down in a battle over a scrap of concrete by an Irishman. So, you see, the Russos are not exactly predisposed to trust the Irish. It’s doubly bad for Livia. Luca is—was—is her twin.” He winces as he struggles to decide if his son should be past or present tense.
I just nod.
“A man of few words.”
“Not usually,” I mutter. But what am I supposed to say to that?