by Reilly, Cora
He pulled a cigarette—his last one—from a battered packet before lighting it and taking a deep pull. “The Camorra owns the city and its people. And now he owns you.” He released the smoke from his lungs, cloaking us in it. I coughed.
“Camorra?” I had heard the term in a report about Italy on television a while back. They were a branch of the mob, but this was Las Vegas not Naples. “You mean the mob?”
Dad got up. “I said too much already,” he said regretfully, taking another drag. His fingers that held the cigarette shook. “I can’t help you. You’re in too deep already.”
In too deep? I’d been in Las Vegas for three days and worked at Roger’s bar for only one day. How could I be in too deep? And what exactly did that mean?
Dad didn’t give me the chance to ask more questions. He rushed out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I heard the entrance door slam shut.
If he insisted on beating around the bush, I’d have to pepper Cheryl with questions. If her cryptic warnings from yesterday were any indication, she definitely knew more. I wasn’t going to ask Fabiano directly about it unless I had no other option. He’d probably laugh in my face if I asked him about the mafia.
Cheryl was putting glasses onto the shelves attached to the wall behind the bar when I walked in. The red neon lamps were still off, and without their glow, the area looked dull. There was also another woman wiping the leather of the booths. She nodded in my direction when she caught me staring. Her hair was a nice shade of light brown, but her face looked long in the tooth, used up. Hard drugs. It made her age difficult to guess. She could have been forty or thirty. There was no telling.
I headed straight toward Cheryl and put my backpack down behind the bar. When our eyes met, my cheeks grew hot at the memory of what I’d overheard her do with Roger last night. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re late,” she said, a bit on edge.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Actually, I was right on time, but I decided not to say anything. After all, I needed to pump Cheryl for information.
“Sorry,” I said as I grabbed two glasses and helped her fill the shelves.
“You could clean up the changing room or Roger’s office. I’ve got this.”
Roger’s office was the last place I wanted to clean. “I’ll clean the changing rooms,” I said, turning to her.
She returned my gaze questioningly. “What’s up?”
“You know I’m new in town, so I’m not in on what’s going on around here,” I began and could see her defenses on alert. Perhaps getting answers from her wouldn’t be as easy as I’d hoped.
“But people are acting strange around Fabiano ... You know, the guy who fought the last battle?”
She laughed bitterly. “Oh, I know him.”
I was taken aback. “Oh, okay. So what’s the matter with him? My father freaked out when Fabiano gave a ride home last night.”
“He gave you a ride home?”
Okay. This was really starting to grate on my nerves. Why couldn’t she just spill it?
“He did. It was late and he didn’t want me to walk by myself. He seemed worried.” I decided not to mention that he’d picked me up the night before too.
Cheryl gave me a look like I’d completely lost my mind. “Trust me, he wasn’t. I don’t know why he took you home, but it sure as hell wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. You are lucky nothing happened.”
I moved closer to her until we were almost touching. “Cheryl, just tell me what’s going on. This bar, Fabiano ... everything is off.”
“This is Camorra territory, chick. Everything belongs to them—and your Fabiano—to some degree.”
He wasn’t my Fabiano, but I didn’t want to interrupt her, fearing she would change her mind about giving me an honest answer.
“He’s Falcone’s right hand.”
“Falcone?”
The name didn’t ring a bell, but it sounded Italian. She cursed under her breath. “It’s not my business. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“So is Falcone some kind of mobster?” I’d seen movies about the mafia, and I knew they were the bad guys, but was that even reality? This was the twenty-first century. The mafia seemed like something out of the roaring twenties, old men smoking cigars in fedoras. Fabiano was someone who instilled respect in others, I could see that, but did that stem from him being a mobster or the fact that he looked intimidating? Anyone who’d seen him in the fighting cages would think twice about a confrontation with him.
“Some kind of mobster,” she murmured like I had committed blasphemy. “You say it like it’s a normal job, chick. It’s not, trust me. The things the Camorra does, the things your Fabiano does, they ...” Her eyes went to something behind me, and she fell silent.
“Go clean the changing rooms,” she muttered.
I turned, spotting Roger a few feet from us, a disapproving expression on his face. He wasn’t looking at me, only Cheryl, and a silent conversation I wasn’t privy to seemed to take place between them.
Taking the mop and bucket, I hurried past him. I was used to being the new girl in town. I’d moved about a dozen times in the last ten years and had always felt like I was on the sidelines of life because of it. I never got the inside jokes.
I knew being a mobster wasn’t a normal job. These people were bad news. But Fabiano hadn’t seemed bad. Something about him made me curious, made me want to catch a glimpse behind that cautious mask he wore. Who knew why he’d become a mobster? Sometimes life just left you with no choice.
I was glad that cleaning the changing room required no concentration at all, because my mind was occupied processing the news. I wasn’t sure what to think because I didn’t know enough. The Camorra, Falcone, mobsters ... the words held no meaning for me. But for my father and Cheryl, they did. For them, they instilled fear.
My train of thought was interrupted when the first fighters entered the changing room. Apparently, there were fights scheduled every evening. I wondered where Roger found all these guys eager to beat each other up. Many of them had as little choice as I did when it came to finding a job.
One of them, the youngest of the lot—around my age—sauntered closer. I lifted the bucket from the white-tiled floor, ready to leave them alone. He gave me a flirtatious smile, which died when one of the other guys whispered something in his ear. After that, I might as well have been invisible. Confused, I left the room. Was I some kind of pariah? The untouchable cleaning lady?
Not that I had any interest in flirting with that guy, but his change in demeanor was a slight blow to my confidence. I didn’t kid myself into thinking I was a stunner like some other girls, certainly not wearing the same flowery dress as I did yesterday.
At least I didn’t smell. Yet.
I faltered in my steps when I saw a familiar face enter the bar. Fabiano was dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The white contrasted nicely with his tan. He was a sight to behold. Tall and handsome, aloof and cool, he exuded power and control. He held himself with natural grace that mesmerized me. It was like watching a lion on the prowl. There was almost too much of him to take in. His words about alpha males flashed through my mind, followed by the fact that he was a member of the Camorra. People had warned me to stay away from him.
My mother had always said I was a fixer. I needed something broken so I could see if I was capable of mending it. Injured animals, sick people, broken-down cars. Her. She’d said it would get me in trouble one day. Because people couldn’t be fixed, and one day I’d find someone so broken, he’d break me before I could mend him.
Was that what had drawn me to Fabiano from that very first second? Had I sensed that something about him was broken and I needed to fix it?
FABIANO
Something in her expression was different. She was a bit more hesitant than before. I watched her carry the bucket and mop behind the bar then busy herself taking stock of the fridge, with her back turn
ed to me.
I had a feeling she didn’t want me to see her face. Perhaps she thought she could disguise her emotions from me. Like that was going to work. A look at her body told me everything I needed to know. She was tense and her breathing was too controlled, as if she was trying to appear unaffected but failing miserably.
I leaned against the counter, resting on my elbows, watching her silently. She wore the same dress again and the same sandals. It was starting to drive me crazy. Couldn’t her father stop gambling for one fucking day so she could buy herself some decent clothes? Rage rose up inside me at the obvious neglect she’d probably been suffering all her life. Neglect was something I knew all too well. It came in different shapes and forms.
I waited patiently until she could no longer pretend that there was anything remotely interesting inside the fridge. She squared her shoulders and turned to face me. Her smile was all wrong. Tense and unsure. On the verge of being fake. There was a flicker of caution in her eyes but still no fear.
“Water?” she guessed, already reaching for a glass.
I shook my head. “No fight tonight. Give me a Scotch.”
“Right,” she said. “Are you going out? You look nice.”
“Nice, hmm ...” She didn’t need to know that Remo and I would be checking out one of our strip clubs tonight. There had been some inconsistencies with the books, which we needed to investigate. And after that, we’d have a long talk with the sluts working there.
A blush spread over her cheeks, making me want to reach over the bar and brush my fingers over them to feel her heated skin and those damn freckles. The innocent act usually wasn’t something that got to me, because it usually was just that ... an act. With Leona I could tell she wasn’t acting.
“All business, no fun,” I told her.
Her smile faltered again. She reached for the cheapest bottle of Scotch. I shook my head. “Not that one. Give me the Johnnie Walker Blue Label over there.” It was the most expensive Scotch Roger’s Arena offered. It wasn’t really an establishment for fine tastes. The guys around here liked their drinks how they liked their women: cheap.
“That’s thirty dollars a glass,” she said.
“I know,” I said when she slid the glass over to me. I downed a long sip of the amber liquid, enjoying the burn. I didn’t drink often and had only been drunk twice in my life. There were other ways to get a high ... fucking and fighting, my favorites.
I pushed a fifty-dollar note over to her. “Keep the rest.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she gave a small shake of her head. “That’s too much.”
She fumbled in the cash register and pushed the twenty dollars over to me. Then she bent down for a moment to retrieve another fifty-dollar bill and put that down in front of me as well.
“I told you I don’t want that money back, and that twenty dollars is your tip.”
“I can’t accept either. It’s not right.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
She blinked, then averted her eyes. “Who told me what?” She was a horrible liar and an even worse actress.
“Don’t lie to me,” I said, a hint of impatience creeping into my tone.
Her blue eyes met mine. She hesitated. “I overheard a few people talking.”
I didn’t believe that shit for a second.
She scanned my face. “So is it true?”
“Is what true?” I challenged.
“That you are part of the Camorra?”
She said it like the word meant nothing to her. She didn’t know what we stood for, didn’t know how powerful we were. For most people, the mere word fostered fear, but not for her. I hoped it would stay that way, but I knew it couldn’t. Living in this part of town, working for Roger, she’d soon see or hear things that would make her realize just who the Camorra was and what they did.
“I am,” I said, emptying the rest of my Scotch.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to keep it a secret?”
“It’s difficult to keep a secret that isn’t one.” The Camorra was Las Vegas. We controlled the night clubs and bars, restaurants and casinos. We organized the cage fights and street races. We gave the poor fuckers bread and games, and they greediy accepted any distraction from their miserable lives. People knew of us, recognized us. There was no sense in trying to pretend we were something else.
“But what about the police?” she asked.
A few other customers tossed glances her way, their glasses empty, but none of them would dare come over to interrupt us.
“Don’t worry,” I said simply. I couldn’t tell her about our association with the sheriff of Clark County or even our connection to some of the judges. That wasn’t something she needed to know.
Seventy dollars sat on the bar between us. I picked it up and stalked around the bar. Leona’s gaze was a mixture of caution and curiosity. I took her wrist. She didn’t resist, only watched me intently. I fought the urge to back her up against the wall and get a taste of her. Fuck, I really wanted that taste.
I turned her hand and put the money into her palm. She opened her mouth, but I shook my head. “I don’t want that money back. You will buy yourself a nice dress and wear it tomorrow. And do me a favor, get rid of those fucking sandals. Then our debt is settled.”
Embarrassment filled her face as she looked down at herself. “Do I look that bad that you feel the need to buy me clothes?”
“I’m not buying you anything. I’m just giving you the money.”
“I’m sure it’s a big no-no to take money from someone like you,” she said quietly. I still held her hand, and I could feel her pulse speeding up under my fingertips.
I leaned down to her ear. “It’s an even bigger no-no to refuse a gift from someone like me.”
She shuddered but still didn’t pull back. When I released her, she stayed close to me. “Then I have no choice, I suppose,” she said.
“You don’t,” I agreed.
People were watching our exchange with poorly hidden curiosity. A glance at the clock revealed I needed to get going. I didn’t want to make Remo wait.
“Tomorrow I expect to see you in your new clothes,” I told her.
She nodded then finally took a step back. Her expression was torn.
“So you’ll be back tomorrow?” she asked.
I walked back around the bar then turned to her once more. “Yes.”
LEONA
I watched Fabiano’s retreating back. Now that he wasn’t there to distract me anymore, I realized how many customers were sitting in front of empty glasses. Cheryl and the waitress of unidentifiable age were at the other end of the room and only now began to make their way over to me. I quickly hid the money in my backpack before I rushed toward the first table to take their orders. I could tell that people were eyeing me curiously. The conversation with Fabiano had drawn more attention to me than I enjoyed.
I could still feel the remnants of shame when I thought of his demand. I needed to buy a new dress for myself. I knew my clothes had seen better days. And my flip-flops ... I stifled a sigh.
Perhaps I should have stood my ground and refused the money. Owing the mafia money was bad news, but Fabiano had gifted me the money not as a mobster but as a ... what exactly? We weren’t friends. Barely knew each other. Was I in his debt ... or worse in the Camorra’s? Did he expect something in return?
The idea was terrifying and exciting all at the same time. Not that I would ever give him any kind of physical closeness in return for money, but the idea that he might be interested in me filled me with a giddy kind of excitement.
“So staying away from him isn’t going so well, huh?” Cheryl said as she came to a stop beside me, carrying a tray stacked with beer bottles.
“I can’t stop him from having a drink in the bar,” I said with a small shrug.
“He isn’t coming for the drinks. Before you started working here, he was hardly around, and to be honest, I preferred it that way.” She sauntered
off, her hips swaying from side to side as she expertly maneuvered past tables on her high heels.
I sighed. My mother’s knack for troublesome men had obviously been handed down to me. Perhaps there was a way for me to shirk Fabiano’s attention. The problem was part of me didn’t want him to lose interest in me. Some twisted, idiotic part was eager for his attention. That a man like him had even a flicker of interest in me boosted my meager self-esteem. Back in school, boys had only showed me attention because they thought I’d give it up easy being the daughter of a whore. They weren’t interested in me because I was pretty or clever but because they thought I was easy. Fabiano didn’t know about my mother, and with the way he looked, he certainly had no trouble finding willing women.
Cheryl shot me a glare across the room. I’d been lost in my thoughts and ceased working again. I pushed Fabiano out of my head. If I didn’t want to lose this job, I’d have to get a grip.
That night after work, Fabiano wasn’t there to drive me home. And I realized I’d been secretly hoping that he’d come in after he handled business ... whatever that meant.
I swung my backpack over my shoulder and gripped the straps tightly as I began my walk home. Few people were around at this time, and those that were made me want to run. I quickened my pace, checking my surroundings. Nobody was following me, and yet I felt as if I was being hunted. All this talk about the Camorra had been fuel for my imagination.
It was ridiculous. I was used to walking on my own. My mom had never picked me up from anywhere back home, not that we even had a car. I had been the one who had to search for her on more than one occasion when she didn’t return home. Often, I’d find her passed out in one of her favorite bars or in an alley.
When I finally made it to my dad’s, I released a relieved breath. The lights were still on in the living room.
“Leona? Is that you?”
Dad sounded drunk. I hesitated. I remembered the last time I’d seen him drunk when I was twelve. He’d had a huge fight with my mother and hit her so hard she lost consciousness. She left him after that. Not that the men got better. For my mom, life was a downward spiral that never stopped. Perhaps she’d put a stop to it now, her last chance rehab.
