Dead Man's Hand: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Renee Rose

  I loop an arm around her waist and pull her in for an embrace. “I know you did.”

  Fuck, she’s enchanting.

  “Thank you, Marissa.” I will her to receive my sincerity.

  She hesitates, then brings her arms up around my neck, like one of the dreams. She smells like coffee and sweet cream. I want to lick her skin to see if she tastes as good as she smells.

  “I’m glad you made it, Gio. I thought you were dead.” Her voice is low and husky. I’ve been telling myself she’s too young for me, and she is, but everything about her registers as a woman who knows what she’s about.

  “Yeah. Me, too, doll.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head and try to ignore the softness of her breasts pressed up against my ribs.

  How much I want to kiss her—which isn’t like me at all. I’m more into fuck ‘em hard and smack their asses when they walk out the door.

  Kissing isn’t really my gig.

  But she saw my death. My near death. The moment that changed everything. She was part of it. So, I’m imagining some kind of connection.

  But that’s stupid.

  I shouldn’t go assigning meaning to things just to try to understand them.

  I got shot.

  Period.

  It’s over.

  Time to start living again.

  Marissa

  “Watch out, Henry’s on a rampage,” I warn my fellow line chef, Lilah, as I stir the marinara sauce. The temperamental chef’s been ripping everyone a new one right and left.

  She rolls her caramel-colored eyes. “When is he not?”

  “Well, I guess if I were head chef, I might be a temperamental bitch, too,” I murmur in an undertone as I pull two stuffed chicken breasts from the oven and plate them. “At least we know what to expect. But you know what I really can’t handle anymore?”

  Lilah chops asparagus on the diagonal making them all the same exact length. “Arnie?” she whispers back.

  “Yeah.” Arnie, the figlio di puttana sous chef is a leering, groping dickwad who somehow thinks all the women in the kitchen are dying to suck him off. “He patted my ass in the walk-in tonight. Patted. It was gross on top of inappropriate.”

  “Yeah, if you’re going to grab-ass, at least make it firm, right?” Lilah grins, dimples creasing her chocolate-brown skin.

  I snort. Lilah always makes me laugh. She’s the only other young person who works in the kitchen. She started here as a dishwasher when she was sixteen and worked her way up over the last five years. She is definitely one of my favorite people at Michelangelo's.

  “Right? It’s like creepy molestation versus outright sexual harassment. I don’t know—all I know is how violated I feel right now.”

  “What did you do when it happened?”

  “I told him to keep his hands off my ass.”

  “And let me guess, he laughed like you said something cute.”

  “Yep. Awesome.”

  “You should tell Henry.”

  “Right. Because that will end well. Henry’s the one who doesn’t seem to think women can do this job. Arnie hired me. I feel like his solution would be to tell me to quit.”

  I plate a steak and spoon some of peppercorn demi-glace over the top.

  “Dude, it’s illegal. Michelangelo's could have a lawsuit on its hands if we report it and they don’t do anything.”

  “Yeah…” And my bosses would also know neither of us have the money to sue. “Maybe I’ll just keep a fork in my pocket and next time he comes near me, I’ll shove it in his thigh.”

  Lilah smothers a laugh. “That’ll teach him.”

  Arnie bustles by and she picks up a fork and looks over at him meaningfully.

  I duck my head to hide my laugh.

  Sadly, I don’t get a chance to make use of a fork the rest of the night. By the time we finish cleaning and putting everything away, my feet are killing me and I’m about ready to drop dead, but I’m happy.

  I love this job, even with all the bullshit. I like joking with Lilah; I like the excitement of putting plate after plate out with the pressure of perfection. I like working with expensive, gourmet ingredients, making the works of art that Henry dreamed up. I’m always on an adrenaline rush that keeps me going long after closing.

  I almost wish the shooting had put Caffè Milano out of business so this was my only job. Maybe it’s snobby of me, but I feel like creating fine cuisine in a top-rated restaurant is where I really belong.

  But that’s selfish. My grandparents raised me and I owe them everything. Caffè Milano is their entire world and they’re getting old. My aunt and I are the ones who keep the place going. Even with Aunt Lori working there full-time, I have to fill in more and more the older my grandparents get. Which means until they die, or until my little cousin Mia is old enough to help—providing she can with her hip situation, it has to be my entire world, too.

  I don’t expect to find anyone up at my grandparents’ when I get home, but all the lights are on.

  “Hey, guys,” I say when I push the door open.

  Both my grandparents and Aunt Lori are awake, sitting around the dining room table, looking like someone just died. My aunt’s eyes are red-rimmed and my nonna’s mouth is pinched into a tight line, defeat written all over her crumpled face.

  “What’s going on?” I ask when they just look at me. “What happened?”

  “This hospital called this afternoon.” My aunt sniffs. “Since we don’t have insurance, they refused the surgery for Mia. They said the only way they’re going to go through with it as scheduled is if we show up by close of business tomorrow with a check for thirty thousand dollars.”

  “What?” Thirty thousand dollars. That’s the going rate for a hip surgery these days. Insane. “Well, that’s bullsh… crap.”

  Aunt Lori tears up again. Her daughter, my eight-year-old cousin, fell on the playground a few months ago and somehow fractured her hip. They did surgery at the time, but the poor kid is still in constant pain and her new surgeon says the screws have come out and are poking her and the whole joint needs to be reconstructed. Again. It’s freaking tragic for an eight-year-old to have to go through this shit.

  “I know. And I just don’t even know what I’m going to tell Mia. We’ve been trying to get her out of pain for so long.”

  Now I tear up. It’s not right for a kid to be in constant pain. To not be able to play with her friends, or even walk around her school. All because our health care system in this country is so broken.

  Working at Caffè Milano, my aunt and I both make too much to qualify for Medicaid but we can’t afford health insurance. At least my grandparents can get Medicare.

  I sink into a chair and kick off my shoes. “We’ll figure this out,” I promise.

  I don’t know how or when I became the person this family looks to for answers, but at some point, I did. My mom abandoned me as a kid, so this is my nuclear family: my elderly grandparents, my aunt—who, like my mom, got pregnant young and out of wedlock—her daughter Mia and me. We stick together and look after one another. We’re family, and we figure things out.

  “How?” Aunt Lori wails. “How are we going to come up with thirty thousand dollars by tomorrow?”

  Sometimes it just takes the right phrasing of a question to discover the answer.

  It suddenly becomes clear as day. Inevitable, even.

  The Tacones have cash. Stacks of it. All there for the asking.

  All I have to do is sell my soul.

  Fuck.

  I don’t say anything in front of my grandparents because I know it would kill them.

  “Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get a loan. I’m sure the bank will give us something with the cafe as collateral.”

  Aunt Lori’s too distraught to notice my lie. Too desperate to grasp on to any answer. “You think so?”

  “Definitely. I’ll get it figured out tomorrow. I promise.”

  Mia needs help. Time to put on my big girl panties and do what has to be d
one.

  Gio

  I wake to the sound of my own shout, the, No! echoing off my bedroom walls, Marissa’s horror-stricken face burnt into my retinas, those bluish green-colored eyes bright with tears.

  Fuck.

  I throw the sheet off my sweat-drenched body and get up, my side pulling with a dull ache. The scar tissue is getting stiffer every day.

  Desiree—Junior’s bride, the nurse who saved my life— says I need to get the fascia worked out. She wants me to see a physical therapist or some other shit, but that bullet hole is evidence to the crime Junior committed, killing those bratva bastards who shot me. So yeah, not happening. I stick to my morning run and lifting weights in my home gym.

  I stand shirtless in the window of my apartment and look out at Lake Michigan. Sailboats cut through the water, picturesque as a fucking painting. Maybe I should learn to sail.

  The thought falls like a brick, like all thoughts for my life. For my future.

  Meh.

  I’m living the goddamn dream here. Penthouse apartment right on Lake Shore Drive, lavish furnishings, the black Mercedes G-wagon in the garage.

  I was already pimping it before got a second chance at life. So why am I the least grateful fuck in Chicago? I should be waking up every day thanking my lucky stars for all I have to live for.

  Except that’s just it.

  There’s nothing to live for.

  Not even the glory of business anymore.

  I’m not saying I miss it. The violence, the danger. The intrigue. But there was a certain adrenaline rush that came with every interaction. The thrill of taking care of business. Watching money multiply. Loaning it. Collecting it.

  Junior shut down a lot of the business after I got shot. Although that may be more about becoming a husband and daddy again than about almost losing me. Not that I think he didn’t suffer over what happened. I know he did. Does.

  His job was always to protect me, from the time I was born. And he has. Even when that meant shielding me from the judgment of our own father. He and Paolo were the badasses, and I was the finesse. I did the smooth talking when it was needed. Played good cop, not that we ever played cops.

  I wander into the living room, still in my boxer briefs and sit down at the baby grand in the corner. My fingers move over the keys automatically, the muscle memory there without thought. I still have my music. Too bad it’s not enough.

  My phone rings beside me, and I stop playing and pick it up. It’s the phone number I use for women, only I haven’t been with a woman since the accident.

  Marissa. I gave her the number before I left the other day.

  Never expected her to use it.

  I pick up. “This is Gio.”

  “Gio, hi. It’s Marissa. From Caffè Milano?” She sounds nervous.

  “Everything okay, doll?”

  “Um, yeah. Well, I need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere? Not at the cafe.”

  I don’t know what I hoped. That she had the nerve to ask me out. Or was calling to tell me again that she’s glad I’m alive.

  That she knows I dream about her every night.

  Of course not. There’s only one reason I get a call like this.

  And I fucking hate the way it makes me feel.

  “Sure, Marissa. Why don’t you come to my home office?” My dick gets hard as I give her the address to my apartment, even though I know that’s not how things are going to go down.

  Just the idea of having her here gets me chubby, though.

  I hang up and give my cock a rough squeeze. Down, boy. This is business, not pleasure.

  Too fucking bad.

  Chapter 2

  Marissa

  Gio lives right on Lake Shore Drive in what must be a million-dollar townhouse on the top floor. I took the L in and walked the rest of the way in my high heels. I have blisters by the time I reach his building, and I’m cursing everything about my plan.

  I dug in the back of my closet for a silk blouse, pencil skirt and these cursed stilettos, but now I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. Am I here to sell myself to Gio? Dress up like a pretty piece of meat, flirt a little and get thirty grand?

  I guess it’s better than my alternative, which is to sign the cafe back over to the Tacones, which would absolutely kill my grandfather. I don’t even know if the place is worth that much, anyway. We don’t own the real estate. I’m not even sure if a bank would give us a loan against our business.

  It’s a beautiful fall morning, but I’m icy cold when the doorman opens the door for me and takes my name to call up to Gio.

  This is for Mia, I keep chanting to myself.

  In the elevator, though, I lose my nerve.

  Gio’s going to want the cafe. I can’t give it to him. I can’t. My grandparents wouldn’t think it’s worth it, not even for Mia.

  Thinking he might give me the money for something else—for me? Was that the idea in the back of my head? It’s—ludicrous. And I don’t want to resort to begging or whoring myself out.

  There must be another way.

  And there is.

  I have dirt on the Tacones. I can leverage it. They already paid us hush money when they overpaid for the repairs to the place after the shooting. They can pay a little more.

  Stiffening my spine, I walk out of the elevator with my head high and ring Gio’s doorbell.

  He answers, dressed to the nines, as usual, in a suit that probably costs more than a car, smelling of soap and aftershave.

  He gives me a cool, assessing glance, taking in my outfit and expression, then steps back from the door and ushers me in. “Welcome, Marissa.”

  The apartment is huge with a wall of windows looking out over Lake Michigan and a black baby grand in one corner.

  “Do you play piano?” The stupid question tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m nervous—saying anything to fill the space. Of course he doesn’t play piano. Some decorator probably put that in here.

  But he surprises me with a “yeah”.

  “Really?” Now I’m genuinely interested. A mafioso who plays piano? Unexpected.

  “Really, doll. Surprised?” There’s a challenge in his tone, and it occurs to me that he might have had to fight that same stereotype his whole life.

  “Um…”

  “My office is through here.” He’s all business, which is more disappointing than I care to admit. But this is business. And I need to follow through on my plan.

  For Mia.

  He leads me to the office, decorated in red leather and mahogany wood. Masculine and comfortable in that rich gentleman sort of style.

  “Have a seat.” He indicates the padded leather chair across from his desk and settles opposite me.

  I sit and cross my legs like a lady. Fight and fail to swallow. My tongue tangles in my mouth.

  “What can I do for you, Marissa?” Everything about him this morning is cool and manicured. So different from the casual charming demeanor he had at the cafe.

  I clear my throat. “The shooting had a big effect on business,” I say, which is a lie. It happened in the evening, when almost no one is around, and the Tacones paid for immediate clean up and repairs, so we were only closed one day.

  The way Gio raises one brow tells me he knows I’m bullshitting. I also sense his disapproval. Like he knows where this is going and doesn’t like it.

  I rush on. “We require another payment of at least thirty grand to make things right.”

  Gio doesn’t say a word. Nothing shows on his face. Even his eyes—usually so beautifully warm are dead.

  My heart pounds so loudly I swear he can hear it. Sweat trickles down my ribs.

  “What for?” he says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What’s the money for?”

  I’m so breathless I can barely speak. But I force the words across my lips. “To keep us quiet,” I say.

  Gio’s mouth tightens.

  “I told the cops it was the Russians. But I could ca
ll them—”

  Gio holds up a finger to interrupt. “Don’t fucking say it.” His gaze is black as night. “Seriously. Nobody blackmails a Tacone and walks away.”

  I choke on my breath.

  Blackmail. Yes, I guess that is what I just attempted. And now I am so fucked.

  Did he just tell me I’m dead? Will he shoot me right here? Or drive me out to the woods and make me dig my own grave?

  I stand up from the chair and start toward the door. “You can’t… I’m… the feds know I’m here,” I blurt. “I’m wearing a wire.”

  “Don’t touch that door.” His command rings out with steely authority. I freeze. Maybe he has a gun pointed at my head.

  Gio reaches me at the door. He catches my wrists and pins them behind my back with one hand and flattens me against the thick, expensive wood. With the other, he burrows his fingers into my French twist and tugs my head back. “Wearing a wire.” His voice drips with disbelief.

  I try to answer, but only an unintelligible sound escapes my lips.

  “Well, I guess I’d better check.” His hand slides across my belly, inside my blouse.

  The moment it does, the air electrifies between us. Changes.

  He knows without a shadow of a doubt I’m bluffing. His touch sears my skin even though he barely ghosts across the surface. He holds me captive as he checks inside both bra cups, between my breasts, down my back. “Nothing here.” His voice sounds deeper than before. Not quite as controlled or angry.

  He pulls the zipper down on my skirt and it falls to the floor at my feet. I’m wearing pale pink thigh highs that match my panties and bra.

  He tsks. “Was this really your plan? Put on grown up clothes, show me a little cleavage and these pretty legs and then threaten me? Very bad move, Marissa.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Tacone.”

  “Our families go way back. We’re allies, babygirl. All you had to do was ask for the money and it would’ve been yours. Instead you point a gun at me.”