Glitter and Greed (Brooklyn Brothers #4)

by Melanie Munton

  And today, he needed that pain medication.

  The anniversary of his hardest kill took a toll on him every year. A long story, one with the most tragic of endings, and one he’d vowed to never speak about again. So, on this day every year, I was there for him in silence. In brotherhood.

  Brothers in blood.

  Brothers in arms.

  “So, the fight tomorrow night against the Slovakian looks good,” he murmured as he switched out his magazine.

  We were down in the indoor shooting range beneath his gun shop in Bensonhurst, just up the street from my gym. He not only sold guns and held training courses down in the range, he also repaired and altered a lot of those weapons himself. Due to his technical knowledge of lethal weaponry, he’d made a lot of law enforcement and military contacts over the years and worked with various agencies. Like a surgeon that knew every vein and artery in the human body, Rome knew the ins and outs of nearly every gun out there. Ones on and off the market.

  I grunted in agreement as I took aim at my target at the other end of the firing lane. “Should be a piece of cake. He leaves his entire middle too vulnerable every time he throws a cross-body. He’ll be done after a few hits to his ribs.”

  I’d been fighting in The Slaughterhouse for four weeks, and had finally worked my way up to Kamikaze. I was scheduled to fight him in two weeks, if everything went according to plan. Rome and I had been working the crowds at every fight, but we hadn’t learned much. Anytime you brought up human trafficking, people clammed up. They knew it was bad, big time shit, and most of them didn’t want any part of it.

  But some of those people…they were the bad shit.

  I had no doubt that a number of those money-slinging assholes down there were directly involved.

  Alek was right. In order to get them to talk, I had to be in a higher position of importance. I not only had to look like I belonged, I had to have the right people in my corner, trusting me. Once I proved myself, they would hopefully feel comfortable enough to spill their guts.

  Beating Kamikaze was probably my only chance.

  “Heard something interesting the other day,” Rome said after firing off several rounds.

  “From one of your customers?”

  Rome oftentimes got useful information from the people who hired him to do jobs, though sometimes the average walk-in customer could be just as informative. A lot of those customers lived in the neighborhood, walked the streets, and they heard things. And with a little incentive, they liked to tell you those things.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Decent guy, good for his money. Bought a couple of handguns from me. Anyway, he mentioned hearing that shipments of cocaine were making their way up here from Mexico.”

  I placed the Beretta down on the table in front of me. “Mexico? Are we talking the Garcia cartel?”

  He nodded. “So he’s heard. Which isn’t a huge surprise. We knew they were probably going to start expanding their territory the second Diego Suarez was put in the ground.”

  Diego Suarez was the former drug lord of Miami and had controlled much of the drug trade in the Southeast United States. He had been the only roadblock preventing the Garcia cartel from claiming more distribution routes along the east coast.

  Now, there was nothing stopping them.

  I ran my hand through my hair. “Shit. That could cause a turf war with the Niners.”

  The Niners were the largest gang in all of New York City, their members numbering in the hundreds. Drugs had been their territory in this city for decades, and I couldn’t imagine them taking too kindly to the cartel butting in.

  I swear, by the way my brothers and I all talked sometimes, you’d think we were cops.

  Not quite, though.

  You see, our world was a little complicated.

  We were what you might call the former “sixth family” of the New York mafia. Our ancestors went into voluntary exile in Brooklyn after stepping off the boat from Sicily in the early twentieth century. The other five families the Rossettis came over with—the Esposito, Mancini, Ferraro, Rinaldi, and D’Angelo families—later settled in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan and eventually became known as the five families of New York.

  Back then, it was simple.

  My great, great grandfather had been an honorable man. When the other families had become seduced by greed and driven by the pursuit for power, he’d removed himself and his family from the New York organization. Over time, the families’ sins had risen to a level that was poisoning society, so he’d made a vow to do whatever he could to limit the scope and range of their influence.

  In other words, the Rossettis were the ones who stepped in when the families got out of control.

  When their actions affected the innocent. When their crime sprees turned to rampages. When their impact was felt from too far away. We made it our duty to get involved and do some damage control. That oath had been passed down through our family ever since. Generations and generations of Rossettis fighting against the corruption of the original five.

  Cat’s Batman reference had been a little more on the nose than she realized. Only, we didn’t consider ourselves heroes. Not by any stretch. Vigilantes, perhaps, but not heroes. We just tended to give the cops some assistance whenever their organized crime unit had their work cut out for them.

  We were the family you never heard about.

  That’s how we preferred it.

  But lately, the situation had been anything but simple. Because our lives had become intertwined with the families and their crimes far more than we’d ever wanted or anticipated.

  Long story short, Raphael Esposito had been the Boss of the New York organization for well over a decade. Cris, the second eldest of us, had played a major role in getting him arrested for racketeering, bribery, attempted murder, and a laundry list of other crimes. A few months after that, his son Stefano went after Cris by kidnapping his now wife Jasmine.

  Cris killed Stefano.

  To say that the Sicilian syndicate, who informally ran the entire firm from Italy, hadn’t appreciated the “treasonous” Rossetti family murdering one of their own was putting it mildly. Santi “The Slayer” Gabbiano and his nephew Dominic, of the powerful Gabbiano crime family, had come to New York to intervene in the situation.

  Ace, our youngest brother, was instrumental in getting Dominic arrested after he took Ace’s girlfriend Roxy hostage.

  Both Dominic and Santi were now awaiting trial.

  As if that hadn’t stirred the shit pot enough, Raphael then paid the Russian mafia to help him escape from prison just as his trial was about to begin. That situation had been even more fucked up because the Russian vor—boss—was now my oldest brother Nico’s father-in-law. Nico’s wife Lexi had gotten caught in the crosshairs when shit went down within the Russian organization. Both she and Nico had almost died in a fire that Raphael himself set.

  Lexi was now pregnant with Nico’s child.

  Raphael was still on the loose.

  And we had no idea what he had in store for our family. All we knew was that he wanted revenge, and he never did anything on a small scale.

  So, yeah. Shit was no longer simple.

  Rome mentioning Diego Suarez reminded me of something. “What if the Garcia cartel is involved with the human trafficking?”

  Rome’s head snapped around. “Their business is primarily drugs.”

  “But do you remember the details of the DEA’s takedown of Suarez? There had apparently been some reports of him making a deal with his Colombian contacts for more than just cocaine. There were rumors of women being trafficked into Miami through Colombia.”

  Rome ran his tattooed hand through his long, dark beard in contemplation. “What does that have to do with the Garcias?”

  “Before he died, there was talk of the Colombians betraying Suarez and taking their business to the Garcias, remember? Drugs and women.”

  “Meaning the Garcias probably offered the Colombians a higher price,�
� Rome surmised.

  “Exactly. Think about it. Suarez is gone, which means their cocaine shipment routes are now open all the way up to New York. What’s to stop them from hauling women, too?”

  Rome slowly nodded. “But this would all mean that the Garcias are the ones working with Raphael. You really think they’d partner with each other?”

  I shrugged. “He’s not allied with the Niners. Not since the summit shooting.”

  Before his death, Stefano Esposito had gotten into the drug business with the Niners. But they found out he’d been cutting them out of deals and skimping on their profits, so a rogue group of Niners shot up a mafia summit meeting as payback.

  “If Raphael gets into business with the cartel,” I worked out, “he has access to drugs and women. The Niners are strictly drugs. Financially, it makes the most sense.”

  “You could be onto something. Let’s see if anyone at the fight tomorrow knows anything about the Garcias.”

  With that, we both picked up new weapons—Rome a .45 Judge and me a badass .50 cal Desert Eagle. Widening my stance and tightening my grip on the handle, I took aim at my target and blew out a steady breath—

  “You ever going to tell me about her?”

  The steady breath was blown out in a frustrated growl. My arm dropped. “How the hell did you know?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. Rome’s version of a smile. “You forget that Ace has access to the security cameras at your gym? He checked out the system whenever the motion detectors went off at three o’clock this morning.”

  Goddamn mother shit.

  Cat had no doubt just gotten home from her shift at Rumors. I hated that she not only worked there, but that she was coming and going in the middle of the fucking night like that. When literally anything could happen to her in the blink of an eye. Had the encounter with her two junkie neighbors taught her nothing?

  “She’s just someone I met a little while back,” I vaguely answered, refusing to look at him. “Her place was broken into and she didn’t have anywhere else to stay, so I offered the upstairs apartment until she can figure it out.”

  “This woman wouldn’t happen to be a stacked, black-haired bombshell that goes by the name of Raven, would she?”

  My fingers tightened on the trigger.

  He snickered, shaking his head. “You dumbass. You know no good can come of you keeping a woman above your gym, right?”

  “Meaning?”

  Raising his own arm, he pointed his weapon down the firing lane. “Meaning, since when do you get involved with shit like that? If you’re going to fuck her, just fuck her and be done with it. The deeper you get, the more complicated it’s going to be.”

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe I just needed to help Cat find a cheap apartment and say my goodbyes.

  Maybe a woman with that many secrets and so much mystery surrounding her was nothing but trouble. Maybe I just needed to let her go.

  But maybe…I didn’t want to, dammit.

  Because I didn’t know exactly what Cat was yet, what she was to me, or how I felt about it. And I wasn’t giving her up until I had all the answers. So, everyone else could just keep their motherfucking opinions to themselves.

  Once again, I lifted my arm and steadied my feet. “Maybe keeping it simple isn’t working for me anymore.”

  Squinting down the barrel, I sighted in my target.

  Sucked in another breath…slowly began to let it out…

  Rome sighed. “Man, I just think you should be careful with a girl like—”

  I squeezed the trigger and fired.

  Single shot to the heart.

  I know how you feel, buddy.

  Why the fuck was I back?

  Why was I torturing myself?

  Why did I feel compelled to stalk this woman?

  Why, why, why?

  From my hunched position at the bar, my gaze tracked Cat’s movements across the crowded strip club. Tray perched on her shoulder, she maneuvered around the rowdy drunks who groped anything that bounced, the horny married guys who were out for a quick thrill, and the overeager man boys who couldn’t control their boners every time one of the girls so much as glanced in their direction. She handled the attention with the jaded ease of someone who didn’t expect more from the male population than exactly what she was getting.

  Goddammit, that was just wrong.

  Everything about her working at Rumors was wrong. She had the brains, skill, and talent to do so much more than prance around as eye candy for a bunch of unworthy fuckers. They didn’t deserve to get that close to her, and she didn’t deserve to be treated so carelessly.

  A growl came from low in my throat when one of the married assholes slid his hand up her bare thigh and tried pulling her onto his lap. She quickly dislodged the touch with a placating smile and continued on like it was simply part of the job. Hell, she didn’t even bat an eye at the inappropriate behavior.

  While my vision was obscured by a blood-red haze.

  Christ, I hated this shit.

  I’d worked up a bubbling fury in the twenty minutes I’d been sitting here. Ever since spotting her the second I walked through the club’s doors, I hadn’t dared to blink since. A bone-deep sense of protectiveness wouldn’t allow me to let her out of my sight.

  Her so-called “outfit” didn’t help matters.

  The pleated plaid skirt wasn’t so much a skirt as it was a tiny swath of material strategically placed over the apex of her thighs and covered only half her ass. Every inch of her flat stomach was on display. And the white top that was tied just beneath her breasts drew the eye straight to her beautiful rack. The lacy black bra underneath kept them nice and propped up so you’d have to be blind to not notice them. Her mass of shiny black hair was left hanging down her back, making every hot-blooded man in the place want to wrap it around his fist as he punished her luscious ass for being such a naughty little girl. The knee-high socks and sky-high Mary Janes completed the schoolgirl mindfuck of an image.

  Understandably, her customers liked the look a hell of a lot.

  Nevermind that I had a massive amount of appreciation for it. I couldn’t stand that I was being forced to share it with a room full of douchebags who were fantasizing about the exact same things I was. I didn’t want her body in any man’s mind but my own.

  Then why are you even here?

  I’d been asking myself that question all night. Even as I’d been driving myself to the club, I couldn’t identify my overall goal. It wasn’t like I could drag her out of the building and stop any of it from happening. As long as she worked in a place like Rumors, other men were going to think they had some right to be in Cat’s orbit. They would flirt with her, proposition her, touch her, and maybe even more.

  The maybe even more part was really fucking with my head.

  Like bad.

  In fact, my head had been a mess ever since that conversation with Deja about Cat swinging around on a pole in my goddamn gym. There was no way I would survive that. Knowing she was moving that body in the most provocative of ways without being able to touch her—under my roof.

  She hadn’t seen me sitting at the bar yet, and I had no clue what to expect when she eventually did. I had no say in anything she did with her life, so she’d have every right to have my ass kicked out of here. The only thing I was sure to accomplish tonight was driving myself one step further toward insanity.

  My glass of beer froze halfway to my mouth.

  Where the hell did she go?

  I couldn’t see Cat anywhere. She wasn’t on the floor, and I knew she wasn’t in the kitchen because I was sitting not far from the door and I would have noticed her. My heart rate sped up as concern overtook me. The only other option was the bathroom. Yeah, she was just in the bathroom. That was it.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Rumors!” the DJ said over the club’s loud speaker. “Let’s give a warm welcome to our next dancer in her debut performance. You’ve seen her around, but tonight is her ve
ry first night onstage. Let’s give it up for…Raven!”

  My head snapped up.

  What. The. Fuuuuck.

  The crowd broke into applause as the velvet curtains on the stage slid open and revealed a single silver pole that gleamed under the bright house lights. The music started—some sultry Latin number—drawing an immediate approval from the male audience.

  And sure enough, out she fucking walked.

  My Cat, strutting her sexy ass across the stage, headed straight for that damn pole.

  I shot to my feet.

  Not sure what I thought I was about to do. Not sure what the hell she thought she was doing either. I mean, where the fuck had this come from? Since when did she dance onstage?

  She spun into her routine and unsurprisingly, she was stunning. Sensuous and effortless with her movements, to be sure, but a little disconnected from the audience. She wasn’t making eye contact with anyone, much to my fucking relief. Wasn’t flirting with any audience members for more tips. Wasn’t smiling at anyone. Despite how skilled she clearly was, it was like she just wanted to get through it as quickly as possible.

  Still, the entire audience was eating it up.

  As if any man could watch that display and not love her.

  Not want her.

  Bills were being thrown at her, making my back teeth clench in outrage. That was obviously how strip clubs worked, but it cheapened her. Whether she’d had formal dance lessons or not, I didn’t know. But Cat was too graceful, almost artistic, with her routine to have wrinkled, stained dollar bills be tossed so callously at her.

  My fuse was always short.

  Tonight, that fuse had been snipped in half and lit the moment I laid eyes on her. Shining like a beautiful beacon in a sea of greed and filth.

  Don’t lose your shit.

  Don’t lose your shit.

  With every article of clothing that came off, a grenade was launched at my insides, demolishing what little control I had left.