“Fuck, I wasn’t complaining!” Maddox barks, but quiets down when the waitress stops at our table with a pot of coffee. The fresh smell fills my lungs. One thing this diner has is a damn good brew.
“Good morning,” she greets me with a warm smile. “Care for a cup?” I’ve seen her here a few times, although I forget her name. She has soft wrinkles around her eyes and her curly red hair is always pinned up into a bun.
I slide the empty mug in front of me toward her and flip it over. “Thanks.”
“Can I get you a menu?” she asks, the steam rising as the coffee spills neatly into the ceramic mug.
“No thanks.” I always take my coffee black, so I ignore the creamer and sugar in front of Maddow. I nod toward him before saying, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.” The hot coffee is just what I needed. The comfort of familiarity calms me for a moment. Enough to get my head on right.
The redhead nods. “Coming right up.”
Once she’s out of earshot, Maddox leans forward. “Have you ever seen me shy away from anything dangerous?” He’s got a smirk on his face as his hands wrap around his coffee mug.
“Nope. I’m usually the one dragging your ass out of harm’s way though.” I huff a small laugh and take a sip of the rich coffee. It’s the perfect kinda hot.
I hold his gaze as I add, “Whatever this job is, we’ve got to pull it off nice and clean. No surprises, and no fuckups.”
I’m more than ready for this. Maddox is, too. Probably more than I am, given that the risk factor is off the charts. That’s the kind of thrill he lives for. Not that I’m much further behind him. I’d be lying if I said I wanted a desk job. Fuck the safe shit. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to settle down someday. Maybe if I could find the right woman for me. For us, I mean, as Maddox and I like to share one woman. I could see it happening real easy if he’d just get his shit together. I tap my fingers against the mug as the thought hits me and I have to brush it aside. He has his reasons.
“So who exactly are we meeting?” Maddox asks.
“The boss himself, I think.”
“Fuck, we’ve got to bring our A game.” He studies the rim of his coffee mug for a while, then he looks up. “Once we know this is a sure thing, we should celebrate. You wanna go out tonight?”
I don’t. But I don’t want to stick around at home either. “Maybe,” I answer.
It’s clear as day that Maddox wants this badly. He thrives on a steady routine, so the last few months of crap gigs and weeks without work have made him even more off balance.
“This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for,” I tell him.
He gives me a cocky smile as he settles in his seat. “Damn right it is.”
Chapter 2
Bianca
I so didn’t sign up for this shit.
Sucking in a deep breath, I run my fingertips over the smooth pearls of the earrings in my right palm, trying to quell the anger burning inside of my stomach. I stare at the sparkling diamonds, wanting to feel anything other than animosity. It’s not happening.
There are other emotions stirring--fear, anxiety, but anger is the strongest whenever I’m back here.
I can always find comfort in my mother’s earrings. It’s a habit I’ve had for years. They remind me of her and how she always kept herself together. The memory calms me on even my worst days. But today, nothing is working to subdue the frustration that grips my heart like a vise. I swallow thickly, feeling a lump grow larger in my throat. It dries up as unbidden memories come to mind; sounds of gunshots and shattering glass fill my ears. At first I was terrified, and I went along with this because of that fear.
I press a hand to my neck and feel burning heat as images of the carnage flash through my mind. Cracked glass everywhere, dark red wine spilling onto the plush carpet, bullet shell casings crashing onto the hardwood floor. My fingers move to my throat without me even realizing it as my heart races and tears prick my eyes.
They tried to kill me. I remember trembling on the cold floor, wine soaking into my blouse as the bullets rang out. I tried to be still. I tried to be quiet. I wanted them to think I was dead. Thank fuck they did.
My throat feels tight as my hand closes into a fist and the hooks of the earrings dig into my palm.
Now I have nothing. All that hard work. All that money. Gone just like that.
All because of my last name.
My entire wine inventory and business I worked so tirelessly to build is fucked.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my emotions under control. At least I’m alive. It wouldn’t have happened if I weren’t part of a family that had so many enemies. A family I didn’t ask to be born in. And now I’m back here. I tried to move on and start a new life, as much as my uncle would allow, anyway. A new name was out of the question though. Uncle Vit wouldn’t have it. I’m a Russo. I should be proud. I nearly roll my eyes remembering how he had the balls to tell me that. Being a Russo means you die, and the people around you die. I’m tired of my name haunting me.
But you can’t outrun who you are.
I lost almost everything nearly a decade ago; both parents, my happiness. I’ve been doing anything I can just to survive. Starting my own business at such a young age was my therapy. My way to get through it all. And it was working.
Now even that lies in ruins, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I’m not sure that I can do anything about it. I was born into this life, and in the life, nothing is certain.
I should be happy that I made it out, at least for a little bit. Most people would be. Things could have ended up much worse than they did.
Taking in a trembling breath, I open my hand and my gaze strays back to the earrings. For the first time this week, a feeling of calm washes over me and the constant pressure of anxiety wanes. I can see her. I can see my mother’s face smiling at me, these same jewels adorning her ears.
How I miss her.
Sometimes I still think I can hear her coming down the hallway, or shaking me awake when I've overslept. But then I realize I'm imagining things, and the darkness sets in.
She's never coming back.
“She wouldn't want to see me like this," I whisper, tracing my fingers over the earrings as my chest heaves with a staggering breath.
The words seem like a contradiction. As a mobster's wife, she had to know that a life of danger is all I’d ever have. She probably thought she would always be there to protect me, but she should've known better.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts.
I look back from where I’m standing at the window, taking in my childhood room, and I scoff quietly to myself. It looks like I never left as my eyes drift from the soft pink wallpaper, to my neatly made bed and teddy bear, a gift from my dad, and it's hard not to break down into frustrated tears. But I know I can't. I have to be strong.
Wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, I quickly slip the earrings back into the little pocket in my purse. I smooth my blouse and hair, putting on a cool exterior. It's something my mother showed me well.
Clearing my throat, I call, “Come in."
There’s a slight pause before the door opens, and in walks my father’s older brother Vittoro Russo, one of the most feared and ruthless mob bosses of Chicago. Tall and imposing, he’s dressed in his usual tailor-made dark suit. He's balding now, but what's left of his grey-streaked hair is slicked back. Several wrinkles and creases line his face, a visage weathered by age and ruthlessness.
It’s crazy how he has my father’s features, but at the same time looks nothing like him. I think it’s just his demeanor; cold, calculating and absolutely merciless.
Unconsciously I take a step back as he enters the room, anxiety twisting my stomach. I'm normally at ease in his presence, but today the anger surrounding him is palpable, making the emotions running through me feel puny in comparison.
He’s fucking pissed, his dark eyes filled with a fire that pricks my skin. The attack on my winery was
an ordered hit, a personal insult to him. And he's not going to stand for it. They’re dead men.
Uncle Vit’s dark eyes soften as he walks over to stand next to me. He forces what’s supposed to be a smile onto his face as he stops in front of me. Neither of us has it in us to genuinely smile though. He doesn’t need to pretend for me.
“How are you feeling, princess?” he asks me, his deep, accented voice making my blood run cold. Princess. It’s the nickname my daddy used to call me. Uncle Vit adopted it shortly after he died. At first, I was comforted by the name. It made me feel like a part of my father was still here.
But now, I hate it. I hate being reminded daily of the past. Every day since I’ve come back here it's been like this. I hate being reminded I’m part of a crime family that has seen so much death and destruction. The mafia princess.
“I’m alright, all things considered,” I reply, flashing him a small, grateful smile before averting my gaze. It’s hard to look at him for long. He always reminds me of my loss. “Glad to be alive,” I add. Even now, I can still hear the shattering of wine glasses and crack of gunfire ringing in my ears. I clear my throat of the lump growing and cross my arms over my chest as I look back out of the window.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if they’d killed you.” His voice is small and full of genuine pain.
I’m unable to find the words to respond, my lips parting and then closing again. I don’t want to blame him for what’s happened, even though I feel he’s partly responsible. He created his enemies. There’s no shortage of people who want Uncle Vit dead or to get at him in some way. And it’s only logical that they’ll use anyone close to him as a means to do it. As his niece and the closest thing to a daughter he’ll ever get, I’m mafia royalty.
And a crown jewel of a target.
In the life, family is just as much of a liability as it is an asset.
And I know that’s what I am to him. A liability. Uncle Vit’s become like a second father to me since my dad was murdered almost a decade ago, making sure my every need and want is taken care of in his absence. He’s the only true family I have left.
Though I resent the fact that Uncle Vit is the reason why I was targeted today, I owe him my life.
“But you survived. And I’m grateful.” There’s an edge to his words that serves only to increase my anxiety. I know he’s here to comfort me, but his mind is only on revenge.
Even now, I can see the distance in his eyes as he imagines the torture and pain his men will inflict on the men who tried to kill me. “It’ll take a lot more than a few bullets to take down Bianca Russo,” I try to joke, but my voice cracks.
Uncle Vit chuckles, a cold, mirthless sound, although his eyes are saddened. “Ah, my little princess,” he says affectionately, bringing a hand to my cheek, “how much you remind me of your mother. She was so beautiful and strong… just like you.”
And she should still be here.
I don’t say the words that beg to come to my lips. I don’t want it to sound like an accusation. Uncle Vit couldn’t have saved her if he tried. But he was the one who started that war. Just like this one. Uncle Vit stares at me when I don’t respond, his cold eyes assessing my face. “You’re angry,” he remarks slowly.
“Yes,” I say truthfully, the word slipping out easier than I imagined it would.
“I don’t blame you,” Uncle Vit says, an unforgiving chill seeping into his voice, “and I promise you. They’ll pay with their lives.”
Looking into his burning, dark eyes, I don’t doubt it one bit. I should be happy that he’s going to make sure I’m avenged, but instead I feel even more anxious, my fingers twisting around one another as I look back out of the window. I know his act of retaliation will only lead to another act of retaliation. Things will escalate rapidly until someone important ends up dead. And then it'll be rinse and repeat.
It’s an endless cycle that will never end.
I’m so sick of all the death and killing.
“Thank you,” I say shortly. I try to sound comforted by his words, but it’s hard.
“I just wanna go away,” I confess suddenly. I cringe as soon as the words leave my lips. I didn’t mean to say them, but a little bit of tension leaves my body at my admission. “I don’t want to deal with this.” My tone makes my meaning clear. I want out.
My heart pounds wildly as I wait for Uncle Vit’s reaction and his gaze returns to my face. He stares at me thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. A feeling of relief washes over me, and my knees nearly buckle in gratitude. “You are,” Uncle Vit says. “I’ve hired a detail to keep you safe.”
My eyes stare into his hard gaze, and the realization of his words sinks in. He either totally missed the meaning of what I said, or didn’t care what I meant. He has no intention of letting me out of his sight. Instead, he intends to force me into hiding somewhere, with hired thugs as my bodyguards.
Fuck my life. My hands try to ball into fists and my breathing comes up short, but he ignores my reaction. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets and looking out of the window he adds, “You'll go with them to our safe house.” His words are cold and sharp, his tone brooking no disagreement. “You’ll do exactly as they say, and obey them as if they were me.” My eyes narrow at his words, but he doesn’t spare me a glance as he continues. “You will not contact anyone, or see anyone but them. If you want to get word to me, or if I want you to know something, I’ll filter our messages through them. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”
The room seems to spin around me as Uncle Vit watches my face for my reaction, his creased countenance a wall of stone. It seems like such a cruel joke. I almost died this past week for fuck's sake, now I have to go hide away and continue being a part of the very life I hate. A part of me wants to rebel, to tell him no and run from the room. But the other part of me realizes that I have no one to turn to.
Nowhere to go.
If I try to leave on my own, I’m good as dead.
When I don’t respond, Uncle Vit reaches out and takes my hand as he watches the range of conflicting emotions doing battle on my face. “Don’t worry, princess. You will be protected. I hired two men who are very good at what they do. The best. They’ll make sure you’re safe. You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” he says.
I take a long time to respond, wishing there could be a way I could defy him and leave my name and my past where it belongs, but there’s only one answer he’ll accept.
Looking into his hardened eyes, I know my fate is sealed. I’m going underground, whether I like it or not.
“Yes Uncle,” I reply softly.
Chapter 3
Maddox
My elbow rests on the arm of the club chair in Vittoro’s office. I rest my chin in my hand, my pointer finger tapping against my bottom lip as I stare past his desk and out of the window. The dark brown curtains are pulled back, so I can easily see the woods beyond his estate.
With the window cracked open, the curtains gently sway as the crisp early spring breeze blows through. My eyes travel from the swinging curtain to the bookshelf on the right of the office. The tall mahogany wood is carved and etched with intricate designs, the shelves filled with books that mostly look worn and aged. I never took Vittoro for a man who was well read. In this line of business, you don’t find many men who are book smart on top of street smart. And if you aren’t street smart, you don’t survive.
Maybe he simply likes collecting them. Maybe it’s just that he enjoys appearing as though he’s read them. Seems stuffy to me. I tap my feet on the floor as my eyes cross his desk. It’s scattered with paperwork, and the only other thing on it is an old ass lamp that looks like an antique.
I know all about Vittoro and the rest of the Russos. But I’ve never once been here on the estate. I’ve never even spoken to him before.
I’ve dreamed of working for the mob, being a member even. But I didn’t think we’d be on babysitting duty. I roll my head to the side, subtly cracking my nec
k. The anniversary of my father’s death is only days away. I shift in my seat uneasily, trying to get comfortable and ignore the stir of frustration and anxiety mixing with the guilt weighing on my chest, threatening to hold me down. I swallow the spikes in my throat. It should be getting easier to deal with, but it only seems to get harder each year.
“And we’ll be taking the target to an undisclosed location?” Damon asks Vittoro. I’m doing my best to pay attention even though this isn’t what I signed up for. The conversation turns to white noise. I can’t pay attention to a damn word that either of them are saying.
I was built to fight, and I’m damn good at it. I wasn’t made to babysit some girl. Probably one of his comares. A smirk pulls at my lips as I wonder if he’d really trust us with her. But I’m not going to fight with Damon’s decision. He takes the orders from our clients; he always has, and so far it’s worked well. He looks out for me, I know he does. And he says this is the next step for us. I don’t understand how this is a promotion, but the money sure as fuck is.
Vittoro Russo nods his head and continues telling Damon about the war that’s just started.
I suppose I have Tony Condotti to thank for this. I don’t know his familia like I do the Russo’s, but I know he’s a dead man. No one puts a hit out on the entire Russo family and lives to tell the tale. Condotti hasn't admitted to being the one who hired the hit, but he’s the obvious suspect.
Working for the mob is a dangerous business, especially when there are three families in one area. The death of Frank Galanti, the mob boss who just died on the Westside, has done nothing but increase tension between the other remaining mob bosses.
No one from the Galanti mob is strong enough to step in and hold it together, and he had no living family to take over. With the Galanti familia out of the picture, their territory is up for grabs, and strained loyalties have vanished.
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