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This story is posting daily to Vella (starting 3/18) and Radish, and it’s slowly showing up on book retailers.
Chapter One
How I came to be living with a mafia princess turned stripper.
“The target is Armando Marino, but any information you can get out of Roman or Rocco Marino would be useful. They own the strip club, Façade, located in the downtown area known as the warehouse district. Demetri got you an in, vouching for you as having come from the D’amico family out in Chicago. Don’t leave him swaying in the breeze, Hunter.”
“Got it, sir. My undercover assignment is to pose as a bouncer at the club, yeah?” I pushed around the papers on my desk until I found the pictures of the girls that danced at Façade. Not the cream of the crop, exactly, but there was one girl who drew my eye every time I looked at the surveillance photos. Dark doe eyes glared out at the camera, her hair a combination of pink and blonde. She looked like she could use a decent meal, and her makeup was heavy, making her look tired. Something about her made me want to swoop in and protect her from the shit she must see on a regular basis.
“Right. Don’t be gettin’ all cozy with anyone, either, slick. Unless it furthers the investigation, I don’t want you making friends. That’s how you blow your cover and get caught, and that’s the last thing you need.”
Michael Kline was my Squad Supervisor and contact with the FBI when I went undercover, or UC for short. My latest assignment was to gather as much intel as possible to bring down the Marino crime organization. Rumor had it they were the most ruthless family in Jersey since Grady De Luca was killed and left the business to Armando Marino. The details surrounding De Luca’s untimely demise were still a mystery, but all signs pointed to an inside job. Demetri Falconari was a fellow UC Agent out of the Chicago Division, my hometown and the place I’d supposedly just moved from. He’d vouched for me as one of the D’amico foot soldiers under his watch so I could insinuate myself into the Marino crew without suspicion.
“It’s been almost a year since De Luca bit the bullet, and we’re no closer to finding out who did it. Let’s get this case closed and put away a few mob guys while we’re at it,” Kline said in his curt manner.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. I left my service weapon and all my true identification as Riley Hunter with my superior. After accessing the safe and gathering my UC identification and a couple of unregistered weapons, I headed out.
First, I went back to my apartment to prepare for my evening at my new job. I had to report to Rocco Marino at nine, ready to take control of all the losers who wandered into the nudie bar with ugly intentions. It was up my alley to protect those girls, of course, so I was confident with my ability to accomplish that task. Staring at myself in the mirror, I noted the stubble I’d been growing over the past few days successfully hid a faint scar running along my jaw. My hair could lean toward blond if I spent too much time in the sun, so I was lucky it was the dead of winter and I’d been indoors studying case files. I had no tattoos to leave me vulnerable to identification, but my eyes were a bit of a beacon. I slipped in my lightly tinted brown contacts, giving my green eyes a more hazel appearance. It would be a simple thing to claim they were corrective if anyone asked. The resemblance to my undercover driver’s license was identical.
This case required a complete undercover existence; therefore, I was residing in one of the bureau’s undercover residences. It looked lived in, shit every-fucking-where, clothing that would fit my cover in the closet and dresser. The bathroom was stocked with typical male shit, scents I didn’t usually use in the aftershave and cologne department, razors and toothpaste and any bullshit I’d need for now. My bureau-assigned bank account in my UC name was set up with a modest amount of cash to get me by until I started earning at the club. My POS car was parked out front, so I grabbed my keys and headed out to get the night started.
There was only street parking, which kind of sucked, but it was to be expected in this kind of area. I doubted anyone would want to steal the mostly rusty 1984 Cadillac DeVille with Chicago plates I was currently stuck with. The air was as cold as my last girlfriend’s heart as I climbed out and flicked the collar of my leather jacket up closer to my face, walking the few blocks to get to the club. I spotted the blinking red neon sign that said Façade, and wondered who the genius was that thought they were being ironic with that name.
Stepping up to the giant redwood of a man guarding the entrance, I stuck my hand out from my pocket as I walked up. “Alexander Moretti, looking for Rocco Marino.”
The bastard stared me down like a mouse running up for a bite of cheese that just fell off the dude’s beard. Like I’m some chump looking for a handout. Fucking asshole.
“Look, it’s my first night on the job. Maybe you could cut me some slack, man.”
Finally, some expression appeared on the dick’s face as he raised his left eyebrow. You ever see a gorilla in a three-piece suit? Me either, until now.
“The boss will see you.” His voice was like a dead body after it’s been drug across gravel for ten miles. It completely fit him.
“What, you got telepathy or somethin’?” He’d never so much as moved except for that eyebrow. It was tempting to tell the monkey to dance, but he’d probably smash me into next week like Donkey Kong.
He stepped aside, pulling the door handle as it buzzed. I could only assume they’d been waiting for my arrival, but I wasn’t naïve enough to expect the welcome wagon.
It was like walking through a time machine into the seventies. Black leather couches, thinning red carpet, and red wallpaper with black swirls were the first things I noticed. The putrid smell hit three steps in; smoke, and not merely from cigarettes, sweaty bodies crammed into a warm room, and the melted fur smell that comes off heaters sometimes in the winter.
Gee, I couldn’t wait to get to work.
Next thing I saw was the stage, with three scrawny women gyrating to the stripper typical, Pour Some Sugar On Me. It was C shaped with a pole at each end and one in the middle, and I couldn’t help but imagine their stilettos sticking to the floor as they walked. The lights were low, of course, but I made it out to be seven customers, two bartenders, and at least five armed ‘bouncers.’ If there is one thing these types of assignments require, it’s to know your surroundings, and the surveillance package had truly prepared me for this evening. Then the second largest man I’d ever seen in my life was walking toward me, a huge smile on his face. His hair was thick and wavy, dark brown, with a full beard covering his face. I took him to be six-five, sporting two seventy-five worth of muscle.
He stuck out his hand as he grew closer. “Alexander, right? Rocco. I hear you’re a friend of ours.”
“You can call me Alex. Nice to meet you.” Shaking the slab of beef masquerading as a hand he thrust at me, I mentally high-fived him for not squeezing too hard. I didn’t want to show him up on my first night, and his size certainly didn’t intimidate me. My muscular build hid pretty well under my clothes.
“Well, Alex, let me show you around.”
I followed Rocco dutifully as he showed me all the areas suitable for the public. Throughout the tour, I kept alert for the other Family members, but I had yet to spot either Armando or Roman.
“Um, work attire…” he started. I’d noticed his fancy, well-tailored suit, though it wasn’t a three piece like the goon out front.
“I’m, uh, used to wearing black jeans and a leather jacket back in Chicago. I can see you’re better dressed out here,” I offered. He nodded curtly.
“Tomorrow, something more upscale,” he said—well, demanded.
“Of course,” I replied, barely resisting a snort. Like the strippers would become classier, the clientele less trashy, if the employees wore tuxedos.
“Okay, for tonight, just do a walk around and make sure nobody is roughing up one of the girls. They can get hands on, as long as the girl is okay with it. No actual sex in the club; on their own time, it’s whatever. Got it?” He threw the words at me like a deck of fumbled cards, floating out haphazardly over his shoulder as he walked and I followed.
“Yes, sir.” We exited the back room onto the main floor again after I made a note of the four locked doors I had not been allowed to access. The girls on stage had rotated, and I stopped in my tracks as the girl from the picture caught my eye. Covering my stumble, I kept her in my periphery as I continued after Rocco until he brought me to a stopping place. I could see the entire club from there, so I understood the reason for him bringing me to that spot.
As Rocco walked away, I took my post. The girl was fucking mesmerizing. Her hair was turquoise now, long and flowing out behind her as she spun around the pole, and my mouth went dry. Her body was lithe, a little fuller than in the photo I’d studied until my eyes blurred. She looked healthier, and she damn sure looked fine as her tits hung upside down with her on that fucking pole. All that hair swept the floor, one leg kicked out, and she spun back to right herself.
Those big doe eyes zeroed in on me as the song ended, and I had to force myself not to squirm. Her gaze pinned me to the spot, and finally I had to wipe the sweat from my upper lip.
Then the new song came on and she went back to dancing, and I went back to sweeping my eyes around the room like nothing had happened.
~F~
When I woke the next morning—okay, the crack of noon—I reminded myself that sleep was for the weak. I was relieved to find a coffee maker and a stash of sub-par ground coffee, which would have to do. My cover story would not mesh with fancy dark roast coffee. Those were the things I must sacrifice for the greater good.
The rest of my night at the club, I busied myself doing walk-arounds, watching for signs of persons of interest. I didn’t recognize anybody, and I’d seen plenty of photos of the players in the Marino mafia. It was mostly a bust, including the very end of the night when I had to escort a few ladies to their cars. While escorting them, I tried to spy the vehicles the surveillance team had tagged, coming up empty.
We walked in a group to each girls’ car, and my doe-eyes was in the talkative gaggle. They thoroughly enjoyed taking turns holding on to my biceps as though they couldn’t take one more step without the support. Despite feeling her eyes on me constantly—and more than once catching her staring—doe-eyes never touched me. Pity.
Mentally, I noted she left with another girl whose name I hadn’t gotten, instead of having her own car. I found myself wanting to know everything about her; then she was gone and there was nothing left for me but getting in my car and heading home.
I couldn’t sleep, memories of her plaguing my overtaxed mind. Names and faces and aliases flashed through my brain as I struggled to fall asleep. Details of my UC life crowded in, my subconscious not allowing me to forget anything, however miniscule. Finally, I slept fitfully, hot and kicking the twisted sheets to the floor. They were scratchy anyway, some ugly pieces of shit they’d picked for the place.
So here I was, drinking my third cup of coffee and debating what to do for the daylight hours. I finally decided I couldn’t stay cooped up here and dragged my ass out of the apartment. I stepped into the nearest bodega for orange juice and a donut that had probably been around since the first world war. As I walked back out, I noted the twenty-four-hour laundromat, the small gym, and the pawnshop. Deciding to brave the cold for a bit, I walked north from where I was, hoping to find something entertaining. The bureau didn’t exactly ensconce me in the Palace of Versailles, so the pickings were slim.
Someone rammed hard into my shoulder, the feminine expletive making me laugh and soften my initial ass-kicking stance of defense. The first thing I noted was turquoise hair; lots and lots of it tumbling around the woman from the club as she attempted to stand up straight. My hand shot out to steady her as she tripped over her sneaker and plowed into my chest.
“Wow, I am so sorry,” she muttered. Her cheeks were a fabulous shade of red as those deep brown pools looked up at me.
“It’s fine,” I murmured, stroking a hand lightly down her hair and placing a firm hand on her back to steady her.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going, and then my two left feet caught up to me.”
I stared at her face; the black eyeliner that was apparently ever-present, the clear brown eyes and nude lips. Something about her just called to me. “A-are you going somewhere in this cold?”
She dropped her eyes and gazed back at me from under her lashes. Jesus. Such a simple action, and I had to reboot my brain to speak coherently. “I was thinking of getting warm in the coffee shop around the corner. Wanna come?”
Did I want to come? You’re damn skippy. “Yes—yeah. Sure.” I shrugged, trying to play it cool. Too late, idiot.
I followed her as she picked her way through the crowd of people who always seemed present on the sidewalks in any busy city. She rounded the brick building I thought housed the utility company and opened the door to a bakery cafe.
The smell coming from inside was enough to make my mouth water. I knew Alex wouldn’t order what Riley would order, so I purchased a black coffee and a bagel, insisting on paying for doe-eyes. She protested half-heartedly, then blushed when she ordered a latte and a croissant.
“Call it an afternoon pick-me-up,” she said, glancing away from me as she bit her plump pink lip.
My cock loved the idea of a pick-me-up with her at any time of the day or night. Though this disappointed him, I told him to stand the fuck down.
We sat, and I finally got the chance to talk to her, to ask her name. She pulled her coat off and hung it on the back of her chair, revealing a white sweatshirt that kept slipping off her shoulders. She was so fucking sexy without even working at it.
“My name is Wren.”
Thinking I knew that name from somewhere, I replied, “Alex. I just moved here about six weeks ago from Chicago, where I was born. It’s certainly different.”
“I suppose it must be,” she agreed, pursing her lips to blow on her hot coffee before taking a sip.
My eyes were glued to her every move, and I had to work to distract myself. “So, how long you been here?”
“All my life. My dad was Grady De Luca,” she whispered, glancing around again.
My eyebrows shot up; I couldn’t help it. “The Grady De Luca?” I asked quietly.
Wren nodded, and I watched her mouth as she bit into her pastry. She chewed for a minute before answering. “He died, and I’ve been stuck doing things I’m not terribly proud of in order to make ends meet. Like having to work at the club.”
“So you went from high on the hog to the gutters of Jersey City?” I hissed, trying desperately to keep my voice down.
She dropped her head, staring at her lap as she shredded a napkin. “I guess so.”
“Why weren’t you given respect and a place to live, at the very least?”
One creamy shoulder rose and fell. “Dad left everything to Armando, and he lets his sons run the business the way they see fit. He makes money, but he doesn’t work for it.”
“So, the two of them are the reason you . . . dance?” I demanded.
Wren inclined her head slightly. “I’ve been trying to find a place to rent around here, you know, to get out of the place they pay for. There are so many girls there, it’s never quiet. They’re always fighting; there’s never any food because they eat it without replacing it. It’s awful.”
“There’s gotta be something we can do.”
I watched the tear tremble on her lower lash before she swiped angrily at it with her thumb.
And that’s how I came to be living with a mafia princess turned stripper.
Chapter Two
How I wound up with a bullet hole in my shoulder.
Wren only had one duffle bag full of clothes and another bag for toiletries. The place the dancers lived was a shithole compared to the ‘luxuries’ of my rundown one-bedroom. There were so many of them living there that they shared beds, and beds was a loose term, since it was really mattresses thrown down wherever. They had repurposed the dining room into a bedroom with two mattresses and a clothing rack, and the living room was overflowing with girl junk.
We hauled ass as soon as she threw her bag into the backseat of my Caddy. I wasn’t a complete buffoon, so I offered her the bedroom and said I’d sleep on the couch, which was pretty stupid of me considering the couch was six inches shy of six feet long, with me being six-two. Sadly, I also knew I couldn’t go sticking my dick in the first stripper who gave me her sob story, or I’d be in deep shit with the boss. In regard to their reactions to Wren living with me, I was already more than a little scared of both my current bosses, the legitimate and the illegitimate.
Since she didn’t have a car, I offered Wren a ride into work that night. It was so fucking cold the heater couldn’t even make a dent before we got there, my breath puffing out every time I breathed. I tried hard not to look over at her, because she looked so fucking hot. She’d painted her mouth a deep red, standing out against her pale flesh. The constant black liner was there, and she’d added some kind of eye makeup to make it all dark and hot as hell. I could only be thankful that whatever she was wearing was covered up under her heavy black coat. If I could actually see that she went to work dressed in stripper gear, I’d probably jump her in the car and end up with a broken nose.
After I parked, I suggested she walk separately, but she said it would be no big deal. “Nobody cares who I ride with,” she insisted, climbing out and heading to the door.
“Maybe, but I’m new here, and King Kong will probably smash me into the concrete if I break a rule. Not to mention Rocco coming in as a close second in the Goliath department.”
The muscle in her jaw tightened at my words. “Andrei would be smarter if he kept his thoughts to himself.” Her jaw relaxed. “After all, opinions are like assholes; everyone has one.” She winked.
“Uh . . .” I’d lost my opportunity to respond, as she was already dragging me up to the door and the bouncer who was apparently named Andrei.
“Open up, Mickey Mouse,” she demanded, hands on her hips.
I’ll be damned if he didn’t just swing the door open without a word or an eye twitch.
We made our way to the back room, and she moved over to a locker, stowing her bag before shrugging out of her coat and scarf. My mouth went dry as she slowly untwisted the purple knit, her back to me. Her ass was shapely, curved in a perfect upside down heart, and perky as hell. That ass deserved unholy things done to it, and I wanted to be the one to do them. I needed to divert my attention immediately unless I wanted her to catch my obvious erection, so I pretended to be messing around in my own locker.
“See ya, slick,” she said as she breezed by me.
Yes, she wore her stripping outfit under her coat. Yes, it was a flimsy excuse for clothing, consisting of sheer black material showing off a thong in siren red to match her lips, and nothing else. Oh, except for the needle thin high heels that might be the nail in my coffin. Trying to catch the saliva pooling in my throat before I drooled, I ended up choking instead.
Ah, fuck.
So we continued for days that turned into weeks, the cold turning rainy and slushy. It was miserable outside, and it seemed every businessman in the city wanted to warm up in the titty bar. I was frustrated in more ways than one, because I’d seen nothing at all at work, not even the code to get into one of the rooms that had to be offices at the very least. Rocco came and went, speaking frequently with the bartender, a short, stocky man who had more neck than brains, named Liam. I figured easily that he served as the eyes and ears for the boss. The boss who must spend his time with his feet up in his penthouse or some shit, cause he sure as fuck wasn’t ever here. I was actually starting to believe he must not put in any work, like Wren had said.
A time or two, I had to tell Wren I was running errands so I could head to my meet-up with SSA Kline on a jogging trail. We could basically be alone, and he always waited for me well past the busier beginning and end section of the trail. It was good to get a jog in, since the meeting was a bust; at least I wasn’t wasting my time.
The other source of my frustration was Wren, obviously. She changed her hair color pretty regularly; most recently, it was blonde. It surprised me that I liked it as much as I did, but holy fucking hell, she made a dynamic blonde. Unfortunately for my foot soldier, she had a terrible habit of walking around in long-sleeved shirts just barely long enough to cover her ass and knee high or thigh high socks. I was dying, literally a man on his last legs, because pounding it into my hand in the tiny cell of a shower was not working. I kept picturing her full mouth wrapped around my cock, or the legs that went on forever wrapped around my face, and I’d have to hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes to either calm down or jack off. The girl musta thought I had toilet issues.
The worst day of my entire twenty-eight years came when I was trying to jerk a quick one without getting in the shower for the third time in one day. My pants were around my ankles, and I was standing in front of the toilet, bracing one hand on the towel rack. Just as I was coming, I tried to grab the hand towel to catch the jizz when the towel bar came off the wall and sent me flying ass-first into the cold water of the bowl. Shouting and cussing, I jumped up and then slipped when my bare foot caught the water I’d splashed out. I fell again, this time stuck between the porcelain god and the tub. Naturally—because fuck my luck—Wren came knocking on the door to ask if I was okay. No, I was not okay, but I couldn’t tell her that, now could I? Instead, I told her I’d ripped the fucking bar off the wall and that I was just fine, but did that stop her?
Spoiler alert: no, it did not stop her.
Long, creamy legs came into view first, until I shoved the towel and the offending bar out of my face. Then I saw that long blonde hair in a ponytail spilling over her shoulder, her eyes bright as she tried not to laugh at me. My ass was on the cold tile, the cracks and uneven parts digging into my flesh, my cock was laying scared and tucked into his friend the ball sack, and my knees were in the air with my feet splayed one over the tub and one over the toilet bowl. I would have gladly put my service piece to my head instead of facing Wren, but I’d turned that shit in. Goddammit.
“Oh, Alex. Do you need help?” She lost the battle, dissolving into a spate of giggles.
“No, sugar, I think I’m going to go ahead and die here, thanks. If you could just, you know, leave? I’ll be fine.” I watched her turn to go, the bottom curve of her asscheeks basically on display, and tilted my head enough to bang it against the tub. “Ow.”
Though it took some maneuvering, I got my feet under me and twisted and shifted until I was out, then I just lay flat on that blasted uneven floor while I tried to find my dignity, which was lost somewhere between the toilet and my taint. Finally getting up and fastening my jeans, I reminded myself never to leave the seat up again, and then I washed my hands and left the bathroom, praying Wren had found a reason to leave the apartment.
“You’ve got a bit of, uh . . .” Nope, not that lucky. “Some toilet paper, I think.” Her hands brushed at my stubble, and I blinked.
Standing just outside the bathroom, she was so close, her warm and spicy scent permeating my senses. It was already all over my car and my apartment, but to have such a concentrated blast aimed at my face sent another bolt of lust to the appendage I’d recently abused. Her eyes were so dark with the doe-eyed look, reminding me she was an innocent. That thought had me backing away quickly and bumping into the wall.
“Thanks,” I muttered, side stepping and moving to the area known as my bedroom, a.k.a. the couch. I didn’t look back to check for hurt feelings, because I couldn’t have withstood that type of look on her face. Flipping on the television, I pretended to become engrossed in a marathon of Emeril’s cooking shows. I knew I was screwed, only not in the sense I desperately needed. The rules clearly stated I wasn’t supposed to get involved unless it furthered the case, and so far Wren De Luca had less information on her father’s murder than I did.
At work that night, I roamed between tables to keep an eye on the patrons. Wren was off the clock and gave me more fodder for wet dreams when she told me she had plans to take a long bath and do her nails. It was odd to me that I didn’t even notice the nakedness of the other dancers, but Wren could slay me with something as innocent as a t-shirt and sweatpants. Concentrating on men seated around the stage, I only half-assed glanced up when the door to the back opened and Rocco emerged with two men.
What caused me a double take was the sudden loud exchange of voices and raucous laughter as the men slapped each other on the back. I recognized them as none other than the elusive Roman and Armando Marino. The former was a younger man who was tall and lanky, with dark hair slicked back, a horseshoe mustache, and a soul patch. The older of them, who I knew to be the don, had a pleasant, almost nondescript face. If not for the money practically glowing with its own aura, he’d be a regular handsome guy you’d never look twice at. I moved slowly closer so I could eavesdrop.
“Numbers is still bringin’ in the most dough, despite the few men that had to be heavily reminded to pay their shark. Ghost payroll is working like a charm; the books are sparkling clean.”
Trying not to be too obvious with my staring, I glanced over as Roman spoke. Movement between two men nearby caught my attention, and I recognized one of them as Petey Cap; Marino muscle using this gig as cover, same as the rest of us. The stranger was arguing in a low and furious voice, and I spotted the moment he made a grab for Petey’s gun. Acting on instinct, I lunged in the direction of the trio, who stood oblivious to the danger a few feet away.
“Get down!” I shouted, just before I grabbed the old man’s shoulder and took him down with me, feeling a searing pain in my arm. When I hit the floor, I rolled with a grunt, then crouched over Armando to be sure he wasn’t hit. Glancing up, I saw that other men had gone into action to subdue the disgruntled customer. Petey was getting the riot act from Liam, and Rocco was standing hunched next to Roman, wide-eyed as he stared at me.
And that’s how I wound up with a bullet hole in my shoulder.
Chapter Three
How I came to realize Wren De Luca could break my heart.
There was more hubbub surrounding me saving Armando Marino’s life than that of the second coming. They rushed me into the back of his limo to his house, where we were met by their doc, some wheezing monstrosity that you’d never take seriously in a real medical office setting. The gunshot wound was a simple through and through, and he didn’t even have to stitch it up, he just cleaned it and bandaged it.
They gave me a glass of scotch and a cigar, supposedly a real Cuban, and told me to sit in an armchair. “Really, boys, it was nothing.”
Rocco pulled an ottoman over and sat in front of me while I tried not to laugh at his bulky frame folded up onto that small seat. “You saved Dad, and we don’t take that lightly. That bullet could have hit him anywhere, and none of us even saw it coming. Not even Pete, who is now facing serious consequences for being a dumbass.”
Roman spoke up from behind me. “I’ve been told you do your job at the club, keep your head down and your nose clean. Although I’ve also heard Wren De Luca moved in with you.”
Keep your cool, Hunter. “She said she needed a place to crash. I’m not boning her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
A long, deep laugh came from behind me, and I was positive it was Armando. He stepped around to the front of my chair, leaning against the arm of the long aqua couch. The entire place screamed, trapped in the 1980s. “I’m not particularly worried about that. I don’t care which dancer you fuck; you could fuck them all and I wouldn’t give a shit.” He puffed on his own cigar, blowing the smoke off to his right. “You saved my life. That’s what counts. You risked yourself for someone you’d never met—although I’d wager you knew who I was.”
“I had a feeling, without seeing you before, that you were the boss. You carry an aura of power, Mr. Marino.”
He let out that hearty laugh again and slapped his knee. “Anyone who risks his ass to save mine can call me Armando.”
I actually found myself liking this guy. “If that’s what you want.”
He steepled his fingers in front of himself, the cigar hanging out of one side of his mouth. There was silence for several long minutes. “If I made you an offer to accept the oath, would you agree? If you decline once the offer is officially made, I won’t make it again and you’ll find yourself another job. Out of respect for what you’ve done, I’m giving you prior warning. If I offer, will you accept?”
Since this was my goal, I didn’t have to think about it, but wanted to pretend I was contemplating my options. “What would change?”
“You’d hit the streets with Roman. Collect tributes. Work with the sharks to ensure our money is coming in. That sorta thing. More money, more respect. A crew once you’ve learned the ropes.”
Roman spoke from over his father’s shoulder. “I know you worked for Dante in Chicago before, but we do things differently. So I’ll train you, so to speak. Then you go out and do your own thing. The more money you bring in, the more I pay you.”
With more salary, I could maybe get a two-bedroom from the division. It would be in line with the job, and that would mean no more sleeping on the couch because I’d stupidly dabbled in playing a knight. “Okay. I’ll accept if the offer is made.”
“You realize the only out is death?” Rocco spoke again, his deep voice as serious as the death of which he spoke.
“I understand.”
Armando tossed his cigar into the ashtray on the coffee table and straightened to his full height. Sensing the importance, I stood as well, and Rocco rose and moved to flank me, Roman on the other side.
“Alexander Moretti, we would be pleased to hold the ceremony of Omertá with you as the guest of honor. Do you accept this offer of your own free will?”
“I do.”
They slapped me on the back with general words of enthusiasm and encouragement. Too many thoughts plagued me, such as the worry I’d be expected to make my bones; I prayed my alibi from Chicago would cover that as well. Then I wondered what Wren would think, since she was sort of my friend and definitely my comrade. I also thought of getting a message to Kline to inform him of the change.
All of this went through my head as the three men threw out dates which worked best for them. Obviously, I was available for whatever they chose, or I’d make myself available; that was how this worked. They settled on four nights from now, and I agreed.
“If you ever need anything, you tell me, got it? I owe you.” Armando was incredibly sincere, and I had to remind myself he was a criminal I was trying to pin with a murder charge.
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
They sent me home in the limo, and I shook my head at the dichotomy of the sleek black vehicle in my shady neighborhood. Bars on the windows and no cars newer than twenty years old, dealers sitting on stoops waiting for their buyers to come around. What a frickin joke.
I was surprised to find the lights off when I let myself in since I thought doe-eyes was stayin’ in tonight. Leaving the apartment lights off, I headed for the bathroom and turned on the over-the-mirror fluorescents. Getting shot wasn’t in my plans, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I grabbed a handful of my shirt from behind me and yanked it off over my head. The bandage was probably not necessary, but I debated leaving it on, anyway.
“Alex?” I heard from the direction of the living room. Shit.
“In here,” I answered, knowing she could see the bathroom light from the front door.
She appeared, hair a fiery red and no makeup. The bathroom suddenly felt too small. “I thought you were stayin’ in,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory.
“I thought you were workin’ all night,” she returned. I opened my mouth to explain when she gasped. “Oh, Alex, what happened?”
She was in my space before I knew what to do, one hand on my bare pec and one tracing over the bandage. I held my breath, afraid to inhale her perfume and send my already overheated system into overdrive. She dropped her purse and shrugged out of her coat; now she was less dressed and closer than before as she gazed into my eyes, waiting for my answer.
Swallowing, I stuttered, “I, uh, I saved Armando.”
“Really?” Her eyes went wide.
I nodded, my fists clenched at my sides to keep from running a finger under her tired eyes. Backing away a step, I bumped into the sink. “There was a guy, pissed off at something, he grabbed for Petey’s gun. I saw it and stepped in front of Mr. M.”
“Wow. I bet he’s impressed with you now, huh?” Sounding bitter, she started to step away.
I grabbed her wrist without thinking. “Hey, it’s good, okay? They’ll let me in, promote me. I’ll get us a better place soon, yeah?”
Something in Wren’s eyes changed, becoming more charged. She bit her lower lip, and my eyes darted down to watch her teeth sink into her flesh. I wanted to do that; I wanted to bite her lip and so many more places. “You won’t kick me out when you’ve made it and I’m still just a stripper?”
Though it sounded rusty, I laughed. “No, I could never do that to you.”
Wren looked down, and it felt like the spell between us was broken. “That’s really sweet of you.” Backing up, she picked up her coat and bag. “You shouldn’t get the bandages wet,” she offered as she left the bathroom.
Letting out a shaky breath, I pulled my shirt back on, heading to the couch to bury my face in my pillow.
The next few days flew by, and suddenly the night of the ceremony was here sooner than I would have thought possible. Wren seemed to be avoiding me, and she wasn’t coming to the ceremony. The guys were; Rocco and Roman and, of course, Armando. Other guys I recognized were there, men I knew for a fact were with the Family and not merely club workers. New men introduced themselves, people whose faces I knew from mugshots and surveillance photos, but who I had to pretend not to recognize. It was mostly a giant party, and I ate and drank until I thought I should stop before drunkenly spilling my guts. Or having them spilled forcefully if I accidentally admitted I was a fed.
Finally, it was time for the official part, and it didn’t last nearly as long as I expected. Do you agree to keep your mouth shut? Yes, I do. Do you realize we’ll kill you if you break the code? Yes, I do. Congrats, you’re a made man for the Marinos.
They had to pour me into a car at the end of the night, but I wasn’t as drunk as I let on. I had to report to Roman tomorrow afternoon, and I was no longer needed at the titty bar, which was sad, really. No more chances to see Wren naked.
As I was trying to unlock the door, I dropped the keys. Maybe I was drunker than I thought. Grabbing the doorknob for support as I bent over, it surprised me to find it unlocked. I thought I heard yelling as I opened the door, but then it was quiet. Focusing on the silence, I threw my keys and wallet on the kitchen counter and peeled my jacket off.
The yelling picked up again, and I whipped my head to the left. I was right the first time, and it was coming from the bedroom. It was only a few feet away, so I strode over and knocked on the door.
“Wren, you all right?” I asked loudly.
I heard a series of thumps, and a loud growl, followed by a grunt.
“Alex!” Wren shouted, sounding panicked. Ramming my shoulder against the door, I managed to open it as Wren kicked and shoved at a man in her bed.
“What the fuck?”
“I told him no, but he didn’t listen.” She suddenly didn’t seem so fragile anymore as I realized she’d knocked him out.
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word.
Squatting and throwing the man over my shoulder, I grunted at his weight as I straightened back up. I walked him all the way down the stairs and dumped him against the building, ensuring the outer building door was closed and locked before heading back upstairs. Hopefully, he’d make his way home when he came to, or be questioned by the street patrol when they found him sleeping on the sidewalk.
When I got back inside, I couldn’t look Wren in the face. Here I was, wanting her with a desperation that nearly killed me, and she was bringing strangers home for a quick fuck. This was the reason she couldn’t attend my Omertá ceremony. Knowing you’re a loser and having it shoved in your face were two different things. I left the lights off as I settled face first on the couch again. It’s a job, Hunter, I reminded myself. Just a job.
That was how I came to realize Wren De Luca could break my heart.
