Carlo settled down in the chair across the desk, taking the bottle and looking it over.
“Wow,” he said. “Macallan 18? What’s the occasion?”
Dominic laughed. “No occasion. It was a gift. Come, have a drink.” He handed him a glass.
“A gift…” Carlo repeated, looking towards the door as he poured himself a finger’s-width of whiskey.
Dominic’s smile clouded over for a second; he could almost see the gears turning. He knew Carlo was wondering who those men had been. Hell, for all he knew, Carlo might even have recognized them. But he also knew Carlo was smart enough not to ask questions about matters that didn’t concern him.
…Except that the two men did concern Carlo. Very much, in fact. But for the time being, Dom couldn’t let him know that.
“You seem tense, figlio,” he said, changing the subject. “Something wrong?”
Carlo smiled slowly, swirling the whiskey in his hand before speaking. “Vinnie said you were in a bad mood,” he said. “I was just wondering what he did this time.” The two men shared a look of amusement.
“Fucking Vinnie,” said Dominic, returning the smile. “Don’t get me started.” He held his glass out across the table. “Cheers.” They clinked their glasses, and each took a sip.
“Wow,” said Carlo. “That’s amazing. Thanks, Dom.”
“Of course.”
They sat silently for a moment, each lost momentarily in their thoughts. There was a mutual respect between them, even though they came from very different worlds and had strong – often conflicting – opinions. It was a strange type of bond between them, even bordering on friendship. They both understood how the game was played.
But while Carlo often wished he’d never fallen in with the mafia, Dominic was the opposite – he loved this life, and he was very good at it. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
“Carlo, you know, you got a good head on your shoulders,” Dominic said finally, breaking the silence. “Not like your damn brother.”
Carlo winced. “What’d he do this time?”
“Same old, same old,” Dom replied. “Pissed off a bookie at the Mediterranean Club last week – fucked up the count again. I swear, Carlo, your brother Rocky can’t do math for the life of him. The owner thought we were making a statement or something; he came down here personally to ask me about it.”
Dom chuckled, sipping his whiskey.
“It worked out, of course. I told the guy – I said, listen, if you want your full take, you better start pulling your weight for the family. You think we’re doing this for free? So now I’ve got him passing me tips about which cops are working the black market gambling circuit.”
Carlo nodded. “But you still put Rocky out on the docks.”
Dominic’s face darkened. “Watch it, figlio. You know the rules, and so does Rocky. Your brother doesn’t wise up, I can’t trust him doing anything but dockwork. He’s gotta learn. You got that?”
“Yeah, boss,” Carlo replied sullenly.
“You were fresh once, too, you know,” Dom continued. “Remember? You couldn’t knock over a bowling alley, for Christ’s sakes. I had to send Luca down there to bail you out.”
“I remember.”
“I know you do,” said Dominic, draining the last of the whiskey in his glass. “Now. About my money…”
Carlo took out the wad of cash and placed it on the desk.
“Three thousand, eight hundred,” he said, as Dom ruffled through the banknotes. “That’s from the whole south district, minus Giovanni who requested one month’s extension.”
“What?” said Dom, pausing. “Why’s that?”
“His son got whacked,” said Carlo. “You probably heard about it – the Italiabank heist? Fucking cops filled him so full of holes they had to do a closed-casket funeral.”
Dominic whistled. “…Shit. Does he need anything?”
He shook his head. “I sent him your condolences, and I told him just to talk to me if he needs something. He sends you his gratitude.”
“Good. And I trust you gave him the extension.”
“Course I did. I told him you understand family comes first.” Carlo paused suddenly, inhaling sharply as he spoke the words. Dominic didn’t have to guess what was coming next.
“Dom… any leads on my father?”
They stared at each other hard. Dominic traced his index finger around the rim of his glass, his bottom lip open slightly as if weighing his next words.
Finally, he sighed.
“Not yet, kid. Not yet. I’m working on it.”
Carlo stayed silent, but the frustration was written all over his face.
After a moment, he nodded. “Okay,” he said, suddenly throwing back the rest of the whiskey and standing up rather abruptly. “Then if you don’t mind, boss, I think I should get out of here.”
Dominic nodded. There was nothing more to say about it.
“Alright, figlio,” he said. “Be good.”
“Yeah.”
But as Carlo stooped to touch Dominic’s ring, Dom stopped him with a hand pressed on his shoulder. His head snapped up in surprise, and the two of them regarded each other, sharing a strange look of understanding.
“I’m working on it, kid,” Dom said again. “We’ll get it sorted out. I promise you.”
Carlo’s eyes clouded over slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned down hard as he nodded. “Thanks, Dominic.”
He turned and left, and Dominic’s eyes lingered on the door for a long moment, a strange, quizzical look on his face. He sighed, opened up the Macallan and poured himself another drink.
“Fuck,” he said to himself, lost deep in his thoughts.
Carlo really was a good kid. But no matter how much he liked him, Dom couldn’t afford a war with the Berlottis, not now. It wouldn’t make a difference, anyway – wouldn’t change what had happened, wouldn’t bring Carlo’s father back.
But it was a dangerous game to be playing. He didn’t like keeping Carlo in the dark about things – it wasn’t right. Dom was a man of morals.
And if Carlo found out the hard way, things were going to come to a boiling point one way or another.
Dominic sipped his whiskey contemplatively, thinking over what the hell he was going to do. So many headaches, all for that stupid museum.
The fucking Ambrosis…
Chapter Six
As Jessica slid the key-card into the door of their hotel room, her breath caught short in her chest. She had a brief, sudden flash of terror as she wondered what would greet her on the other side of the door.
For a split-second, she didn’t know what would worse: to find Tyler waiting for her there in the room… or to find him gone.
But when she opened the door and flipped on the light, she saw that he’d already cleared out his stuff. Her suitcase was packed up neatly at the foot of the bed; he’d even made the bed, removing all trace of his presence from the rumpled covers they’d shared just that morning.
He was gone.
Her eyes welled up instantly; seeing the room empty of his presence somehow made the breakup seem all the more real, and all the more final. Jessica was a strong woman, and she knew she’d made the right decision – but still, this was a lot to process all at once.
She closed the door and flopped down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling while allowing herself a moment to grieve for the love that she’d lost.
Of all the breakups she’d had, this one didn’t feel quite as painful as some of the others. Maybe that should tell her something – maybe it was never right to begin with. She’d known they were very different people, and it had been a struggle, at times, to make it work. But she’d tried, damn it – she’d really tried. After all, weren’t relationships about compromise?
But there was compromise, and then there was… compromise. And some things – like cheating – were non-negotiable.
“Fucking asshole,” she muttered to herself, wiping her eye with the back of
her hand. “Fucking idiot.”
She peeled herself off the bed and heading straight to the bathroom. A long, hot shower would help to clear her thoughts.
And indeed, it did the trick – as she stood there under the steaming hot water, she realized her sadness was far outweighed by her confidence that she’d made the right decision.
It was a sad thing that had happened, sure, but at least she didn’t feel like she’d made a mistake.
Stepping out of the shower, she realized it was only 8:30 PM, and she was suddenly struck by how lucky she was. It was a beautiful evening in Rome, and she had the night to herself – with no commitments, no obligations to anyone. She could do anything she wanted; no more worrying about what Tyler wanted to do, or whether she was boring him with all her talk about what he always referred to as her “art stuff.”
She could go wander down to the Trévi fountain, and linger as long as she wanted by the beautiful, larger-than-life marble sculpture with all its intricate detail.
Or maybe she could spend the night curled up in her bathrobe, watching old movies and ordering Champagne from room service.
Hmm… those were both good options. But they were both so typical-Jessica. She’d always been the bookish type, more interested in museums than nightclubs. And tonight, she was looking to live it up a little.
She smiled.
For the first time in a long time, she felt like going out on the town.
She walked over to her closet and opened it up, inspecting the dresses she’d packed and running her hands over them one by one as she considered her options. Mostly she’d brought “daytime” outfits, and she wasn’t too inspired by what she saw before her. But as she kept looking, she started to piece something together in her mind.
“Hmm,” she said out loud. There was a royal blue sleeveless dress that caught her eye, and she could pair it with that slim black belt with a gold buckle she’d picked up at a little boutique the day before. She had the perfect pair of black heels to go with it, too. Before she knew it, she was caught up in a flurry of activity, her bathrobe cast to the floor as she whipped the clothes over her head.
She spun around in the mirror, admiring herself. Perfect. The dress fit her gorgeously, and it showed off the curves of her hips in just the right amount to be suggestive while still keeping it classy.
“Jessica,” she said to herself, “you are one foxy lady.”
She dried her hair in a flash, still wearing the outfit but just kicking off her heels – she didn’t want to take the outfit off and risk having that euphoric feeling go away. She did her makeup in a hurry, just a smudge of light lipstick and a quick swipe of eyeliner – what she called her “no-makeup makeup” look. She was a woman on a mission, and suddenly every minute she spent cooped up in her hotel room felt like another minute wasted.
She grabbed a simple black purse and light jacket, did a final twirl in the mirror, and was done – lights off, door shut, and into the elevator within twenty minutes of leaving the shower.
And as she descended down to the lobby, she couldn’t stop smiling.
As she reached the lobby, she walked over to the concierge desk. “Excuse me,” she said, “where’s the best place to get a drink on a Thursday night?”
The concierge was a tall, muscular kid, maybe 20 years old, and she noted with pleasure that he was fighting not to give her a once-over as he spoke.
“Well, ah...” he said, clearly flustered, “It depends – are you looking for dancing, or…”
“Yes,” she said emphatically, cutting him off. “For dancing.”
“Okay,” he nodded, “very good, ah… maybe you want something a little fancy? Or more relaxing?”
She looked at his nametag – Emilio.
“Listen, Emilio,” she said, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I just dumped my boyfriend, and I’m looking to go dance my ass off at the hottest club in town. You got it?”
He blushed a bit, but laughed.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I know a good place. It’s close by… not more than ten minutes. I will call you a taxi.”
“Perfect,” she said. “What’s the name of it?”
“It is in Trastevere,” he said. “A club called Terrazza. It is the best place for dancing. You will love it.”
She smiled.
“I’m sure I will.”
Chapter Seven
Running his thumb over the stack of banknotes in his hand, Dominc Pirelli looked again at the screen of the television by his desk and watched Carlo Ambrosi exit through the main double doors of the club.
He sighed heavily before unlocking the drawer of his desk and shoving the wad of banknotes inside and locking it tight.
Forget it, he thought to himself, as his eyes turned to the now half-empty bottle of Scotch. He reached out for it, but something made him pause for just a second.
Maybe he shouldn’t. After all, he never knew what kind of bullshit lay in store for him this evening – never knew when he’d have to clean up someone else’s mess at a moment’s notice.
But things had been pretty quiet this week, the Ambrosi incident notwithstanding. Dom ruled with an iron fist, and the whole town knew it. It had been a long and violent road to the top, but over the past several years Dom had reached such a position of power that no one was stupid enough to mess with him. He had the mayor in his back pocket, for Christ’s sake, and now even the Berlottis were trying to win his good graces.
And besides, if anyone tried to fuck with the Pirelli family, he had a whole army of loyal soldiers ready to keep the peace.
So after a minute’s hesitation, Dom grabbed the bottle and poured himself another double. Fuck it. He loved this life, it was true – but he’d had enough of the family business for one day. And besides, what was the point of being the most powerful man in town if you couldn’t let loose once in a while and enjoy yourself?
He took another long, luxurious sip of the whiskey, savoring the taste as it went down. “Ahhh,” he said in satisfaction.
It was good to be the king.
Standing up with a smile on his face now, he walked over to the en-suite bathroom in his office – another perk of being the boss, he chuckled to himself. He took a look at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing the first traces of gray appearing in his jet-black, shoulder-length hair. He was only thirty-eight, but the men in his family had always gone gray early.
But Dom liked the salt-and-pepper look he had going on, and he had no hang-ups about getting older. With his full lips and high, muscular cheekbones, he knew he cast an imposing presence. And the chiseled muscles of his six-foot-two frame didn’t hurt things, either.
He splashed some water on his face, tearing off his navy-blue t-shirt and using it to wipe the water away – an action that would have sent his mother into a yelling fit. He smiled softly at the memory of her, and his eyes flicked to the tattoo on his left pectoral muscle, just above his heart.
Dom had a half-dozen tattoos, but this was the one that was most special to him – an ornate medieval-style cross with a rosary draped over it, and the date of her death written underneath. On a ribbon wrapped diagonally over the stem of the cross, there was a simple word written: Madre.
He knew what Carlo was going through, and he could recognize easily that pained, dull look in his eyes when they spoke about his father. And what he always told Carlo was true: family comes first. For a guy like Dom, family was all he’d ever had – the only thing keeping him off the street, the only people he could count on not to stab him in the back. Family wasn’t just first, it was everything.
Hell, if Carlo had been a Pirelli, there was no question what would be happening to the Berlottis right now: a full-fledged fucking war, no question about it.
But Carlo wasn’t a Pirelli. And that made things much more complicated.
Dom knew what his mother would say about this, of course. She always considered their gang to be one big extended family. When the guys would come over, no matter what time
of night, she’d put on a pot of coffee and make sure everyone was fed. She never gave much weight to the idea that only Pirellis were allowed in the inner circle – much to the chagrin of Dominic’s father.
And if she were alive, she would have treated Giorgio Ambrosi’s murder like a crime against her own flesh and blood.
Damn it, Dom thought to himself, cursing as he pulled away from the mirror and stormed back into his office, still shirtless. He was thinking of work again. Sometimes he was like a machine without an off switch.
Lust for Danger: A Mafia Romance -- Book One: The Family [Erotic Mafia Romance Book] Page 3