Dom's Ascension (Mariani Crime Family Book 0)

by Amanda Washington

  I turned, looking for the owner of the voice, to find a thin, nice-looking blond man watching me. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, but his steely-blue eyes made him look too intense for his age. He nodded toward the onions in front of him before returning his attention to the chicken he was chopping.

  Wondering if this was some sort of test, I washed my hands again and put on fresh gloves before scooping up the first onion.

  “The waiting’s the worst,” he said. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”

  “Annetta.” I set the onion down on the board and grabbed a knife. “The other guy is being interviewed, right?”

  It seemed like the obvious answer to his disappearance, but the restaurant management desperately needed to work on its communication.

  “Yes,” Brandon replied, going about his work.

  Keeping one eye on the door, I finished the onions and started crushing garlic before Frank returned and motioned me back. He barely gave me enough time to remove my gloves and grab my bag before he disappeared again. I had to run to catch up, emerging into a big office with a long table down the center. Seated at the table were four men. The first stood and introduced himself as Collin Royal, the restaurant manager. The other three offered only first names with no titles.

  “You’re a chef?” the suited man named Dominico asked, eyebrows shooting up his forehead with surprise. His eyes were bloodshot and he was cradling his head like it hurt. I would have felt bad for him, but both his question and tone rankled. I’d worked extremely hard to earn my title and didn’t appreciate his obvious skepticism. Assuming he was just another pig-headed chauvinist, I raised my chin and said, “Yes sir. They’re letting women in these days.”

  Probably not the wisest choice of words for a prospective employee, but if he was half as sexist as his comment suggested, I’d never make it past my first week here anyway. Forget the beautiful restaurant and perfect kitchen. Might as well torch the opportunity now than wait and ruin my work history with an early termination.

  Seated beside Dominico, Mario snickered.

  Dominico’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t back down. “What I meant is that you’re very beautiful. Seems a shame to hide you away in a kitchen.”

  My cheeks burned with both anger and embarrassment. And I was kind of flattered, which really ticked me off. Handsome and charming, Dominico was clearly a player, and I knew better than to let his kind affect me like that. “My apologies sir. I didn’t mean to misrepresent, but all the ugly women are currently becoming meter maids and mail clerks.”

  This time Dominico cracked a smile. It lit up his entire face and made my breath catch. No matter how big of a pig he was, the man was downright gorgeous when he smiled.

  Mario leaned forward. “The dish you prepared was excellent. It’s your own recipe?”

  “My mother’s, but I altered it.”

  “Perhaps it’s your mother we should be interviewing,” Michael suggested. My attention turned to him, noting the resemblance he shared with Dominico. I’d bet my best spatula the two were related, with not an ounce of manners to spare between them.

  “That would be impossible, since she’s dead.”

  Even though I hadn’t had many interviews, I was pretty certain this one wasn’t going well. Michael clamped his mouth shut and Mario looked away. Nobody apologized for the crass statement, but they did manage to look embarrassed.

  Finally, Collin stepped in. “Legally speaking, you own your mother’s recipes then, correct?”

  “Yes, and I have made my own alterations for each one. I attended the Culinary Academy of Las Vegas and earned—”

  “Yes, we have your résumé,” he said, waving it in the air. “If we need anything else, we’ll call.”

  And with that, I was dismissed. Frank shooed me out a back exit, the door clicking shut behind me.

  “Well, I'm never going to hear from them again. Good riddance, luridi porci,” I muttered as I headed for the bus stop. “Filthy pigs!”

  A group of tourists looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need Antonio’s. There were lots of opportunities for experience-less cooks like myself. My throat constricted just thinking the lie. I’d almost talked myself into believing I didn’t even want the job when Collin called the next day and offered it to me.

  I never should have accepted the offer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dominico

  “SHE’S PERFECT,” I said, the minute Frank escorted the beautiful brunette out of the office.

  Michael snorted. “Maybe perfect for your bedroom. If you weren’t so hung over you’d be able to see what a nightmare an employee like her would be. Tell him, Mario.”

  His words were way too loud. I winced and took another sip of water, hoping it would help. Last night’s rager had sent me stumbling home somewhere around four a.m. I’d completely forgotten about today’s interviews, and I still wasn’t sure why I was a part of them. Mario I could see being there, since his family owned a restaurant and he occasionally stuck his head in and pretended to manage it. But me? What did I know about hiring anyone? All I knew was Annetta Porro had a damn fine body, a cute face, and could cook. That seemed like enough qualifications for me.

  Mario snickered. “You always did like the feisty ones, Dom. She seems like trouble to me. And look at this résumé…no restaurant work history. This caliber of establishment can be very stressful. Especially during an event like your sister’s engagement party. What if she can’t handle the pressure?”

  “Then the De Luccas will think we’re disrespecting them, and we end up in a war with the Durante family without their support. Is that worth some piece of ass to you, Dom?” Michael asked.

  Only Italians would claim offense over a subpar meal. Still, the Durantes were the most powerful family in Vegas, and we needed the support of my sister’s future in-laws to take them out and dethrone their don, a sociopath by the name of Maurizio Durante.

  “Because if you need to get laid that bad, I know plenty of broads who’ll—”

  “I get it,” I said cutting Michael off. My head hurt far too much to enjoy the normal verbal sparring with my brother. Michael wasn’t a bad guy, but as the family heir he had a lot riding on his shoulders, and somewhere along the way his responsibilities had leeched away his sense of humor and turned him into the son our old man loved to brag about. As for me, I was just trying not to be too big of a disappointment.

  Mario stood. “I’ll go let Frank know we’re ready for the next applicant.” He headed for the door.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of unimpressive applicants presenting mediocre dishes, none of which held a fork to the enchanting Annetta Porro and her delicious seafood pasta. Despite her lack of experience, the girl had confidence and personality, which convinced me she could handle the stress of the kitchen. Sure, other applicants had more experience, but Annetta clearly had instincts and fire. I kept reminding myself I shouldn’t care who got the job. I didn’t work at the restaurant. She’d be in the kitchen and I wouldn’t even see her at the dinner. In fact, I’d probably never see her again. But for some reason, I did care. I wanted her to have it. By the time Frank disappeared with the last applicant, I was more certain than ever that she was the chef for the job.

  “We have to make a decision today,” Mario said, thumbing through the stack of résumés.

  “You know how I feel about it,” I said, leaning back and throwing my hands in the air.

  Michael frowned, “We’re not hiring someone just because you’re sprung on her. Think with your brain and put the family first for a second.”

  “Whoa.” That rankled. I sat up and stared him down. “Yes I’m attracted to her, but did you taste her dish? It was by far the best. Maybe you should put the family first, and stop blocking her just because I like her.”

  Michael stiffened.

  “Look, you and Father dragged me into this process for some reason, so that’s my opinion. We’re here to hire
the best, and she’s it,” I said. “This is all about making an impression and showing the De Luccas how much we value their alliance. You honestly think any of those other dishes will impress them?”

  He glared at me for a moment before turning to the restaurant manager. “What do you think?” he asked.

  The manager—his name was Cain or Connor or something—looked from Michael to me, then down at the résumés. “I-I-I don’t want to step on any toes…”

  Unsolicited, we were helping him interview chefs for the restaurant he managed, and I hadn’t even bothered to learn the guy’s name. And he didn’t want to step on our toes? Such was the power of my family.

  “Then don’t,” Michael said. “Who would you choose if we weren’t here?”

  “Um…” He swallowed and studied the résumé on the table in front of him. “Ms. Porro’s dish was exquisite, but you bring up a valid point about her work history. She has been working at the same place since high school, though, which does show work ethic and loyalty, but working in a kitchen is different.”

  “The girl’s loyal, Mike,” I said. “What’s more important to the family than that?”

  “Of course, I could be a little biased because Linguine di Mare is my favorite dish,” the manager continued, still waffling. “I’ve had it prepared by some of the finest chefs both here and abroad, but Ms. Porro’s version…exquisite, unique, and knowing she owns other such treasures intrigues me greatly. As a businessman and a food enthusiast, I’d love to get my hands on her recipes.”

  “Okay, so she can cook,” Michael reluctantly agreed. “Fine, hire her. But make sure you run a full background check first. If she has any ties to any of the families, I want to know immediately. Bring her in tomorrow and get her trained.”

  The manager grabbed a pen and jotted down notes.

  “Anything to add, Mario?” Michael asked.

  Mario nodded. “Stress test her. It won’t matter how great her dishes are if she can’t handle the pressure. If she fails, all our heads are gonna roll, so be sure you have trained backups, just in case.”

  With the decision made, Mario and the manager worked out the details while Michael grabbed the office phone and made a call. With nothing to do, I stacked the applications, setting Annetta’s on top. Then I memorized her number.

  When Michael returned to the table he pulled me to the side and let me know one of our warehouses missed their drop, and Father wanted us to check it out. And with that it was back to family business as usual.

  ***

  Mario drove my Porsche home from the restaurant and I slid into the passenger’s seat of Michael’s black Acura NSX. With its full leather interior and VTEC engine, the NSX was my brother’s pride and joy. He revved up the engine and we headed south.

  My family owned several warehouses around the city, each one on record under a different fictitious name. It was one of the many ways my old man kept Uncle Sam out of the family coffers. Warehouses were used to process stolen or manufactured goods, and money drops were made one to three times a day, depending on the flow of business. The warehouse in question was currently moving a cocaine shipment, so it should be making money drops at least twice daily. Carlo had called to check on them when they missed the evening drop, and nobody answered.

  The warehouse was located in a brick building behind a lounge on West Spring Mountain Road, between an imported car lot and a Korean restaurant. There was an empty lot behind it, and a low-income housing development beyond that.

  We drove around the block a couple of times, checking out the scene. It was dinner time, and the restaurant’s parking lot was filling up. The lounge looked pretty busy, but traffic at the car lot was dismal. There didn’t appear to be anyone watching the warehouse, so we pulled into the empty lot and scoped out the building. The security lights were on, but nobody came or left.

  I pulled the P229 SIG SAUER from my pocket, checked the magazine, and flicked off the safety. “You ready, Mike?”

  He nodded and we slid out of the car. I slipped my weapon back in my pocket but kept my hand on it. Michael beeped his car alarm on as we crossed the lot, heading for the front door. We couldn’t hear anything other than traffic and the loud rock music of the lounge, and neither of us had any idea what we were walking into. Most mafia bosses wouldn’t send their two heirs into a potentially dangerous situation, but our old man made it clear that if we couldn’t survive the life, we didn’t deserve it. I could see his logic, but still, it would have been nice if he’d at least sent us backup.

  The door stood ajar. We drew our guns and crept in slowly. We’d done this sort of thing over a hundred times, but it still made my heart pound, knowing anyone could be inside waiting to pop us off. We slipped around the corner and pointed our guns, just like we’d been trained to, only there was nobody standing to threaten. Four bullet-ridden bodies were lying on the ground, all of them faces I recognized.

  Michael swore and lowered his weapon, picking up the receiver of the phone on the countertop. He dialed and put it to his ear while I wandered around the room. There was blood everywhere, and the place reeked of shit. In addition to the gunshot wounds, chunks of clothing and flesh had been flayed off two of the men.

  Mobsters often left messages with their hits. A bullet through the eye meant the family who’d ordered the hit was watching. A bullet through the mouth meant the victim had been a snitch. But I’d never heard of a message connected to flaying a person. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to figure out why the hell these two had been tortured. It didn’t make any sense.

  In the middle of the room sat two empty tables, with a safe in the corner. Michael hung up the phone and made a beeline for the safe. He put in the code and opened it up to reveal a pile of cash.

  “At least they didn’t get the money,” he said, pulling it out and locking the safe back up.

  Sometimes my brother sounded eerily like our old man. All these men were dead, and he was proud none of them had given up the code. “Harsh, Michael.”

  He shrugged. “What do you want me to do, cry for them? Build them a shrine? Sorry, but I don’t have time to do any of that, because I’m gonna go catch the bastards who did this. Now let’s get out of here. Father’s calling in a clean-up crew.”

  He made it sound like they’d be cleaning up trash, or some sort of spill. Not people we knew. Wanting to remember them as human beings, I said, “That guy with the gun…he’s got a kid. A little girl. She was at dinner a couple of weeks ago.” I don’t know why I said it. It’s not like the announcement that he had a kid could drag the guy back from death, but it felt like we should say something at least.

  “Yeah? This one right here has a wife. You wanna stick around and reminisce? Maybe explain to their families why their killers are still out there?”

  “Does Father know who did this?” I asked.

  Michael cocked his head. “We all know who did this. Let’s talk in the car.”

  We hustled out to his Acura and took off. After we’d put a few blocks between us and the murder scene, Michael filled me in on his conversation with Father.

  “The old man suspects the Durantes are behind the hit, but he wants the names of the men who pulled the triggers. He’s given us permission to do whatever it takes to get them.”

  I knew what that meant. Michael and I spent the rest of the night crashing all the usual hot spots where hitmen were known to wag their jaws while blowing off steam. We paid off whores and bartenders, threatened a few contacts, even dropped an ounce of weed as a bribe. Other than instilling more fear and respect for our family, we got nothing.

  Somewhere around four a.m., during a coffee stop at some dive, Michael’s pager went off. After a quick call on the payphone, we were off again. This time Michael drove us to an older bar not far from the strip. We parked on the side and went to the back entrance. Michael knocked out a tune, and a bouncer answered and showed us to a small, cluttered office. He cleared coats off the sofa and invited us to sit. />
  “Tom’ll be in in a second,” he said after we were situated.

  A few minutes later, a guy who couldn’t have been much older than me and Michael joined us. He took off his apron and tossed it on the desk. “You must be Michael,” he said, shaking hands with my brother. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Tom.”

  Michael introduced me, and then Tom leaned against the desk and got right down to business.

  “One of my regulars was in here tonight…a loud mouth dipshit who goes by the name of Chains. He’s always braggin’ about one fight or another, and tonight I overheard him sayin’ he and a few friends jumped a warehouse. He was all hopped up on coke, so I thought it might be connected.”

  “Chains?” I asked.

  “That’s what they call him. I don’t know his real name. Always pays with cash. Brags he got the nickname from some sort of chain whip he uses.”

  My stomach turned as I remembered the flayed skin and clothing on two of the soldiers.

  “Sick bastard,” Michael said.

  “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” Tom said. “Short guy…about five foot five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, but built like he spends a few days a week in the gym. Brown hair, droopy eyes, usually wears a suit, but I’ve seen him in jeans a time or two. Hits on all the girls but never leaves with one. Sometimes he comes in with a couple friends. I wish I had more to tell you. I’d like to see this lowlife come to an abrupt end, if you know what I’m sayin’. I’ve got plenty of patrons warmin’ my bar stools, and I don’t need him bringin’ trouble into the establishment.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said, trying to give him a hundred-dollar bill. Tom refused the cash.

  “If you guys can keep Chains from bringin’ his sorry ass back here, that’d be thanks enough,” he said, showing us out the back door.

  Now that we had a name and a description, Chains wouldn’t be too difficult to find, but it was almost six a.m. by the time we left the bar.