Lust for Danger: A Mafia Romance -- Book One: The Family [Erotic Mafia Romance Book]

by Angela Jordan

  But it wasn’t mere workaholism weighing on his mind tonight: it was guilt, plain and simple. And as he gently placed his fingers of his left hand over the tattoo on his chest, Dominic realized what he had to do.

  With a look of combined rage, disgust and resignation, Dominic turned back to the sink and spat out the whiskey in his mouth, then poured out the remainder of his glass. He grabbed the bottle from his desk and overturned it above the sink, not stopping until every last drop had drained out.

  Peace offering, my ass, he thought to himself.

  As he let the empty bottle fall into the trash bin, Dom immediately felt better, even though he knew his decision to follow his conscience was about to make things very complicated for him. Trastevere was about to see a war the likes of which it hadn’t witnessed since the seventies.

  But that was a matter for tomorrow. Tonight, he planned to enjoy himself – and to drink his own fucking whiskey, not what the Berlottis had offered to him.

  Grabbing a charcoal gray T-shirt from the bureau in his office and pulling it over his solid frame, Dom gave himself one last look in the mirror before heading out of the office and down to the club. He liked what he saw, he had to admit. And he noted, with no small satisfaction, that he could look himself in the eye without any guilt or reluctance. He was doing the right thing – he would have made his mother proud.

  Yes, it was good to be the king.

  And tonight, Dominic Pirelli was going to celebrate.

  Chapter Eight

  As she stepped out of the cab, Jessica took in the sight of the gleaming, neon-lit megaclub in front of her. Pink and blue floodlights danced across its exterior, and a muffled bass beat could faintly be heard thumping relentlessly from inside. Two surly-looking bouncers flanked the main doorway, and above their heads a single word was lit up like a firework in impossibly bright white lights, made to look like a handwritten scrawl: Terrazza.

  She smiled to herself. Oh, yeah. This was exactly the type of place she’d been looking for.

  The bouncers took notice of her immediately, straightening up almost imperceptibly as she approached. And why wouldn’t they? She was dressed to kill, and she strode towards the club with all the swagger of a woman who was on top of her game – and knew it. As she stepped up the stairs to the doorway, one of them pulled the door open for her, and the music from inside leapt out all at once like the sins from Pandora’s box.

  “Good evening, miss,” said the bouncer, in heavily accented English.

  Jessica decided to fire back with some Italian. “Buona sera,” she replied.

  The bouncer smiled, and turned with his body to gesture her inside the door. “Please,” he said. “This way.”

  “Is there a cover charge?” she asked, in English this time.

  “For you? Of course not,” he said. “Would you like a table?”

  She blushed a bit, relishing the princess treatment she was getting. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just need a glass of Champagne and the dance floor.”

  The bouncer smiled. “Yes, please. Right this way.”

  He escorted her through a short foyer and past an interior door, and immediately the pulse of the music grew again to a louder volume. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Jessica saw a mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor, wrapped in faint wisps of fog that curled around their bodies like ribbons. Everywhere she looked, she saw beautiful men and women dressed to the nines: talking, laughing, dancing, or leaned up against the bar surveying the scene. The walls seemed to stretch on forever in each direction, and when she looked up, she could barely see the ceiling above her head. Around the perimeter of the club, on the second floor, she saw secluded balconies set all around the main hall with what she assumed were VIP tables.

  The club reminded her of the weekend she’d spent in Las Vegas, at a friend’s bachelorette party, except that this place seemed less crowded and somehow classier. The music sounded great, and it wasn’t loud to the point of being obnoxious – the perfect level for dancing, while still allowing for some level of conversation. The atmosphere was alluring, sensual – and beneath it all, she felt a distinct sense of eroticism swirling in the air, something powerful and enigmatic, like this was a place where anything could happen.

  She turned to look at the bouncer, but he had already slipped away from her and went back to his post at the entrance. She was alone amid all the chaos, and for a brief second she felt the slightest bit unsteady on her feet. She wanted badly to partake in all of this, but first she needed a drink to steel her nerves. Tonight was a night for the ‘old Jessica’ to come out: the sexy, confident woman she’d always been, before her recent string of bad relationships had thrown her for one loop after another. Tonight, she was going to remind herself who she could be.

  The bartender noticed her instantly as she stepped up to the bar, and came over to take her order. “Che cosa le porto?” he asked, but she waved her hand to signal she didn’t understand.

  He smiled. “What can I get you?”

  “I’d like a glass of Champagne, please,” she said, and he nodded.

  With a slight chuckle, he leaned forward across the bar so they could hear other better. “Miss, you are in Italy! May I suggest Prosecco instead?”

  “Ah, of course!” she said, laughing. “One glass of Prosecco.” He smiled again, and she watched him as he turned away and knelt down to take out a brand-new bottle from a mini-fridge. She appreciated the fact that all the staff were speaking Italian, even though they could easily switch to English. It was a sign that this wasn’t just some overhyped club for tourists. And the bartender, just like everyone else in the place seemed to be, was impeccably dressed – and gorgeous.

  He brought the bottle up to the bar and set a Champagne flute out in front of her, and with a slight flourish he popped open the bottle of Prosecco with a sound audible even over the music. The cork flew up into the air, and the bartender followed it with his eyes until he caught it in his left hand before it fell back to earth. Laughing, Jessica gave him a slight clap, and he bowed slightly in acknowledgment while filling her glass up to the brim.

  Placing the glass in front of her, he bowed again. “First one’s on the house.”

  “What!?” cried Jessica, digging for her purse. “No! Please, I insist!” But he’d already stepped back from the bar, and put up his hands in front of him indicating that there would be no more discussion on the matter.

  A little reluctantly, she took the glass. “Well, thank you,” she said, smiling. “I appreciate that.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “Enjoy yourself, with the compliments of Terrazza.”

  She turned back out to face the room, sipping her drink and surveying the scene in front of her. The atmosphere was electric with possibility, but she still felt a certain sense of reservation. She knew from past experience that a little liquid courage would help get her moving, and she hoped that once she was out there dancing all her cares would be shed away. After all, she was here for herself: not to pick up guys, but just to enjoy herself and have a good time. And as she pensively twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers, she felt that familiar warm flush tickling her forehead – the “Champagne buzz,” she’d always called it – and somehow she knew that everything was going to be all right.

  “And how are you tonight, miss?” came a voice from her left, and as she turned to face the speaker she saw a tall, muscular man in a sharp-looking V-neck t-shirt and blazer. He stuck out a hand, in a businesslike gesture. “I’m Dominic,” he said, in perfect English. “I’m the owner of this club.”

  Instinctively, she reached out her own hand to meet his in a handshake. “I’m just fine,” she said.

  “Have you been treated well so far this evening?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said politely. Something about his demeanor was putting her on edge, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe it was the super-confident way he’d approached her – or maybe it was the slightly arrogant tone sh
e’d detected when he’d said he owned the club. In any case, she didn’t feel too interested in conversation just now. “I was actually just going to check my coat,” she said, and began to turn away.

  “Ah!” he said, putting a hand on her arm. He flashed her a big grin as he did so, and she knew now beyond a doubt he was being flirtatious. “But please, won’t you join me at my private table upstairs? You can leave your coat there, and we can talk for a while. You’re from America, yes? I’d love to hear about your country.”

  She rolled her eyes, pulling away from his touch. “Well, in my country,” she said, “men don’t put their hands on women they’ve just met. Thanks but no thanks, Dominic. Excuse me.”

  Dominic looked a little surprised at her reaction, and the smile dropped from his face. But to his credit, he pulled his hand away immediately.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, miss. Please, enjoy yourself tonight. ” And with that, he receded into the crowd, leaving Jessica by herself again at the bar.

  She picked up her glass and walked over to the coat check, replaying the conservation in her mind. Was that all right? Had she been rude? She didn’t know why she’d rebuffed him so strongly – after all, his behavior had been completely normal by Italian standards, and there was nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation. She’d thought she’d been ready to receive some male attention, but as soon as she got some – from an Italian hunk, no less, who looked to have the body of a god – she’d run away from it. If that’s how she reacted to a hand on her arm, what was she going to do out on the dance floor?

  But she shook her head, pushing away those thoughts. She wanted to do things on her terms tonight, not anyone else’s. And just because the club owner thinks he’s some big-shot, it didn’t mean she had to come join him at his table or play his game if she didn’t want to. She thought back to how gentlemanlike and well-mannered Carlo had been, back at the café – compared with that treatment, this guy Dominic had come off as borderline rude.

  She had to smile to herself, actually, at the way she’d handled the situation.

  You don’t mess with Jess, she thought to herself – a saying she’d had since she was a teenager.

  She dropped her coat off at the counter, drained the last of her Prosecco, and headed back to the bar for another drink.

  “Another Prosecco?” asked the bartender.

  “Vodka soda,” she replied, smiling devilishly. “And make it a double.”

  She made sure to pay for her own drink this time, and by the time she’d slugged it down she was ready for anything. The music sounded perfect, and her body was alive with a restless energy – she needed to get out there and move her body to the rhythm of the beat. It was her night out, and damn if she wasn’t going to make the most of it.

  Let’s dance, she thought to herself.

  Chapter Nine

  As he walked back to his private table, Dominic had to laugh to himself. These American girls were so damn… presumptuous. It wasn’t the first time he’d been rebuffed by an American woman before he’d even had a chance to ask their name.

  He couldn’t fathom what it was about them, exactly – it was probably just a cultural difference. But in Dom’s mind, some harmless flirting was nothing to get offended over. After all, he’d just asked her to join his private table… she would have been treated to a nice cocktail on the house, some conversation, and a lush, VIP-lounge environment.

  What was so wrong about that?

  He waved off these thoughts with a brush of his hand. No matter. He wasn’t the type to have his confidence shattered just because an American girl had told him to leave her alone. Dom knew he could have anyone he wanted, with the snap of a finger – and indeed, back in his twenties he’d been quite the playboy, taking full advantage of the status his name conferred to him.

  But that was a long time ago. These days, Dom wasn’t interested in the type of meaningless one-off fling that might end with neither party even remembering the other’s name. He’d been yearning for something very different lately… something that a part of him was afraid to even admit to himself. But he wasn’t getting any younger. For all his life, Dom had known two families: his immediate family, and the mafia, and the line between the two had always been blurred. And when his parents had passed, the mafia had stepped in to fill the void. But by now, he’d seen too much shit, too much violence, to maintain the belief that the mafia was enough of a ‘family’ to sustain him. Dom loved his business, that was true, but that was exactly what it was: strictly business, nothing more. And love and business just didn’t mix.

  Forget it, he sighed, and went about his rounds in the club, making sure everything was running smoothly while successfully distracting himself from this train of thought. Too much self-reflection was a dangerous thing, and Dom had never been the type to waste time wishing for things he didn’t have. Too many people were counting on him. Too many guys put their lives on the line for him, every day, for him to let himself slip up for even a moment.

  In truth, the mafia was his family – and right now, it was the only family he had.

  “Vinnie,” Dominic called out, waving his cousin over from his post near a corner of the room. “Status.”

  “Bar’s packed, cousin,” he replied. “Things are picking up. There’s a small line outside, nothing major. Pretty good for a Thursday.”

  He nodded. “Any problems?”

  “Nothing serious,” he said. “There was an argument near the bathrooms between two drunk college kids, but we sorted them out and sent them home.”

  “Hmm. American?”

  He laughed. “No, boss. Italian. Why would they be American?”

  Dominic looked sideways at his cousin, who had that same jovial smile that he always wore on his face. “…No reason,” he said after a beat. “No reason. Listen, Vinnie, I’m going upstairs to my table. Can you send up a glass of Scotch? Make it a double.”

  “Sure, cousin, no problem. You want ice in that?”

  Dom sighed, rubbing a hand on his forehead and shaking his head. He had to smile.

  “Vinnie, you ask me this every fucking time.”

  Vinnie’s face clouded over. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. From his face it was obvious he had no clue what to say.

  “Vinnie, goddamnit,” he laughed. “No ice, okay? No ice!”

  Vinnie’s wide grin came back in an instant. “Got it, boss!” he said cheerfully, and sped off to the bar to place the order.

  As Dom climbed the stairs to his private table, he suddenly realized he was in a very good mood. Despite the guilt he felt about Carlo, and the looming mess with the Berlottis, Dom could put all that aside for now and just enjoy himself.

  Even the American girl wasn’t bothering him – although Dom had to admit, it was strange that he’d had Americans on his mind during the conversation with Vinnie. But no matter. Dom had always been a sucker for beautiful women. And by this point, he’d seen it all.

  A few of Dom’s associates were already seated around the table. There was Carmelo, a member of the family who was one of Dom’s trusted informants; Alexei, a Russian immigrant who was the family’s main source of weapons; and Salvatore, another Pirelli who helped oversee the docks down in Fiumicino. They were all good people, and Dom had known all of them for years. He hoped tonight’s conversation could be a mix of business and pleasure.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Dom said, as the three of them stood up to greet him. “How are we doing? Alexei, it’s a surprise to see you down here in Trastevere.”

  “Carmelo called me down here,” Alexei replied. “He said you were needing some extra firepower.”

  Dom raised an eyebrow. “Carmelo?”

  “Boss, it’s getting hectic out there,” Carmelo replied. “Drugs are changing everything. Small-timers are getting dangerous now, and the Chinese are moving in. Some pistols for our guys in the street would help them stay protected.”

  Dominic’s face darkened i
nto a scowl. “I don’t want any guns for our small-timers,” growled. “It’s too big a liability. They shoot the wrong person, we’ve got a war on our hands. Carmelo, you know this.”

  “But boss—” Carmelo began, but Dominic cut him off.

  “We’re not moving into the drug trade,” he said firmly. “That shit ruins families. We’re sticking to what we know: goods, gambling, and the protection racket. Carmelo, just look at this club. We built all this –” Dom gestured his hand toward the massive nightclub space – “without a dime of drug money. And I’m going to keep it that way. Tell your guys to stay the fuck out of the drug business. They stay away from that, they won’t need any guns in the first place. You got it?”

  Carmelo was sullen. “Yeah, boss. I got it. Sorry.”