by J. J. McAvoy
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
Author's Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Notes
Ruthless People
By
J.J. McAvoy
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2014
Copyright © J.J. McAvoy, 2014
The right of J.J. McAvoy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this Book – even those sharing the same name as (or based on) real people – are entirely fictional. No person, brand, or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.
This Book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
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(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-319-5
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-320-1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover Images: © depositphotos.com / heckmannoleg,
© depositphotos.com / jayfish
Cover Design: J.J. McAvoy
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/jmcavoy
This book is dedicated to those who said no, and the people who told me to ignore them.
ONE
“There are four kinds of homicide:
felonious, excusable, justifiable,
and praiseworthy.”
~ Ambrose Bierce
LIAM
So, today was the day. I drank straight from the brandy bottle. Fuck the glass. I was too tired to move.
“You plan on sharing?” Natasha asked as she rubbed her body against mine.
Handing her the bottle, I leaned back, watching her pour the liquor down her throat. God, I was going to miss that throat but that was about it.
“This is such a sad day.” She frowned when I took the bottle back. If only she would leave after our “meetings.” But there was no point kicking her out right this second. Our meetings were officially over, or my mother would demand my balls and my father would hand them up to her.
“What’s this girl’s name again?” Natasha asked, rolling on top of me.
Brushing her blond hair back from her face, I thought of all the things I’d rather be doing instead of talking but had to restrain myself.
“Melody Nicci Giovanni,” I said, taking another swig.
She pouted, and it was ugly. Most of her facial expressions were ugly, but I didn’t keep her around for her face, or her brain for that matter.
“Arranged marriages are so circa the eighteen hundreds. How can you get married to a girl you’ve never met before? You don’t even know what she looks like. What if she’s ugly, or fat?” she asked. It would have been a good point if it didn’t matter who my family was and what we did for a living.
“I’ve explained this Natasha. The Giovannis are one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful family in Italy and most of the west coast. My father wants an end to the rivalry between the Irish and the Italians. So, even if she is ugly, or fat, or covered in bloody warts, I will do my duty and marry her.” Pushing her off me, I rose to my feet.
Sedric, my father, had spoken of this marriage for the past twelve years. I was only fifteen and wanted to prove myself, so I was willing do anything that needed to be done to make the family proud, like a bloody idiot. I should have just let Declan marry her, but he had already hacked into his first major Swiss bank account, robbing the Russians blind. Neal was too damn old and had already found himself the perfect arm candy. Like all sons, we wanted to impress our fathers. I thought I had no other option, but like I said, I was a bloody idiot.
“You could just marry me. I am one-quarter Italian.” Natasha laughed and rolled around in my bed. I was going to have to burn those sheets or maybe get a new bed.
“Not even if hell froze over and my mother was six feet deep,” I replied, grabbing a towel.
“And why not?” she yelled, holding the sheet to her chest as if she had any modesty to protect.
I looked her dead in the eyes. “Because you are a floozy, a manky, a whore, a woman of no importance or brains with nothing to note but a good ass and a deep throat.”
Walking over to her, I kissed the side of her cheek before holding on to her sweet throat. “But don’t be sad. We all have our roles to play, and you have played yours. Your services will no longer be needed.”
Letting go of her, I grabbed a few bills from my wallet before throwing them in her direction.
“I am not a prostitute.” She held back a sob.
I hated criers. I smirked at that.
“Yet, you’re going to take the money anyway.”
I headed to the bathroom, and when she didn’t reply, I turned back to her one last time.
“Leg it babe, and if you think of taking anything other than the money I just gave you, I will not hesitate to kill you, sweet throat or not.” And I meant it. I was a Callahan. Our word was law in Chicago and on most of the east coast. The police didn’t even bother with us anymore.
Hearing the bedroom door open and shut, I smiled to myself before jumping in the shower. It would be the last one until I met my future wife.
Did she like showers or baths? I didn’t care, but it just proved that I didn’t know anything significant about her other than her birthday, February 13, 1990, and a few small facts. Everything else, her father kept buried. There were no pictures of her anywhere—no social media accounts or driver license. Nothing—not even a fucking receipt with her name on it. She was a ghost. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she didn’t exist.
It made sense, though. I would do the same if I were to have a daughter. There were some crazy fucks in the world who didn’t understand what it meant to be the offspring of a mafia leader. Family was everything. It was the one thing my father had drilled into our heads since we were children.
Rule One: You kill for family. You die for family. Because you can’t trust anyone else.
In my awkward years as a preteen, some older fool had thought it would be funny to push me down a flight of stairs at school. That night, Neal and Declan burned his house down, but not before beating him within an inch of his life. When they came back and told father what they had done, he gave them the keys to the Porsche and told me to take notes. And take notes I did, very good notes. It was the reason why I was now my father’s right-hand man instead of Neal, despite the fact
that he was older. Neal didn’t mind though—he was the muscle—while our cousin Declan was more behind the scenes. It worked perfectly.
Rule Two: Take no prisoners and have no regrets about it.
Stepping out of my bathroom, there they stood, my father, brother, and cousin, all dressed in the finest suits money could buy.
“Did you read the files I sent to you, or were you too busy with your whore?” my father asked glowering at the files on my desk.
“He probably stopped when he saw no pictures.” Declan grinned from the door as Neal snickered.
“As a matter of fact, I did, but I don’t give a shit where she went to school or what her favorite color is. The one thing I needed to know wasn’t in that file. For all I know, Melody Giovanni could look like an Italian horse.”
Sedric stepped in my path, standing just as tall as I was, preventing me from walking to my closet
“Father—”
“Have you forgotten what is at stake here?”
“How—”
“Do not interrupt me.” He sneered then said, “You seem to forget that the only way you are going to be head of this family is through marriage.”
“There is nothing there about her I care about.”
Grabbing hold of my neck, he glared. “Pick up the damn folder, son.”
Pulling out of his grasp, I saw Declan standing by my desk ready to hand me the folder, while Neal just stood a foot behind, ready to crawl up my fathers ass, if necessary.
“I don’t need the folder. I fucking read it.” “Melody Nicci Giovanni: age twenty-four, born on February 13, in an unknown northern California hospital, only child of Orlando and Aviela Giovanni who both emigrated from Italy as teens. Her mother died when she was young, and since then Orlando has all but locked her away in a tower. She was homeschooled for most of her life, until she went to a small community college in some nowhere prissy town called Cascadia in Oregon. I’m guessing that’s where ice skating and glitter was invented.” I waved Declan off before walking to my closet.
Wrapping the red tie around my neck, both Declan and Neal snorted at my comment while my father stood waiting for more.
“Other than that, she’s a fucking ghost. No photos. No fingerprints. Just fucking breadcrumbs up and down the west coast, while her father killed every rival Italian and Irish family within a hundred-mile ratio, before taking over their streets.” By the time we figured out it was them, the west coast was completely cut off to us. None of our production could get in or out without being busted—the son of a bitch—and now they were working their way south, taking over the Mexican cartels.
Italians always had to spread their shit and put their name on everything.
“The first and last time I met Melody, she was skeet shooting while her father and I discussed the possibility of this contract in his office. Not once did that dark little head of hers miss, and she was nine.” My father said.
“Am I supposed to be impressed? Nervous? Elated? Thank God, she knows how to shoot skeet. She’s still a woman like any other.”
He didn’t speak but walked across the room just as three noisy women began to pound against the door.
“Liam, hurry up. You have to meet Mr. Giovanni in an hour!” my cousin’s wife yelled from the other side of the door.
There had to be a limit to the boundaries an in-law could cross. If Declan didn’t care about her so much and she wasn’t family, I would be tempted to hurt her.
“Handle your woman,” I told him.
Neither of them made any sense to me. Declan was quiet, calm, and paler than snow, while Coraline was loud, outgoing, and well . . . black. My father was pissed she wasn’t Irish for about ten seconds before he realized he had no room to talk, seeing as how my mother was a half caste.
“Liam, stop wanking off,” Olivia, Neal’s ever-so-bold wife said. All three were now infesting my room.
“None of you were invited inside—”
Olivia laughed. “We saw your harlot run out of here like a bat out of hell, so we figured you were getting ready.”
Stepping out, Neal and Declan grinned like mad fools at their wives.
“If you care about their lives, you will get them away from me fast,” I said through my teeth.
“Are you threatening my daughters?” my mother asked.
“Yes, as always,” Coraline said, laughing, before giving her a hug. Of course, my mother returned it, the traitor.
“For the love of God. Get out!” I was going to kill them all.
“Don’t raise your voice at me, young man.” My mother’s green eyes narrowed, causing Neal to laugh outright.
“Tell him, Mom,” he said.
I pleaded with her.
“Those damn eyes of yours,” she mumbled, and I knew I had won.
Thank fucking Jesus.
“I think we have had our fill for now. Let’s let the boy get dressed in peace,” she said, and I would have taken offense to the “boy” comment, but I just needed them to leave without resorting to deadly force.
“Let us know if you need help getting dressed, sweetheart,” she added as they exited.
Where the fuck was I going, prom?
“I am a grown man, Mother.”
Her green eyes narrowed. “Real grown men don’t use hookers.”
At that, everyone laughed before closing the door, but I could still hear them. This was another reason I needed to get married. You weren’t a “real” Irish man until you had wife. Without one, no matter what I did, I would never gain the respect that was owed to me.
I would take this Melody Giovanni and form a woman fit to rule at my side. With her family’s power added to my own, I would own it all before I was thirty. The thought of that, and what else the future held, got my cock up. Only a small part of me cared if she was attractive or not. Her last name and her loyalty would get me off just fine. Thankfully, from what I was told, she already knew what her family did. I didn’t have time to train her on what to expect or why my clothes may be a little bloody sometimes.
I straightened my tie before reaching for my gun and placing my brass knuckles in my pocket. Opening the door, my father stood waiting—correction, hovering. He looked me up and down before nodding in approval.
Rule Three: Just because you sell drugs for a living isn’t an excuse not to dress well.
“Here are the Giovannis’ updated finance and business records,” he said before handing me a thick folder as we walked.
Him and his damn folders.
“How did we get these?” I said without thinking, and then answered knowingly. “Declan is getting better.”
“He broke through the firewall this morning . . . while you were inside Ms. Briar.” He glared at me.
“I ended it,” I said once we reached the awaiting cars.
My mother smiled, kissing us both on the cheek.
“Hopefully, or I will have to get involved.” He kissed my mother back. “Goodbye dear, we will be back in the morning.”
“I know the drill. Let me know when you’ve met her,” she said once Neal and Declan entered their own car. We never used one vehicle. My father and I rode separately while Declan and Neal rode together.
Entering my black Audi, I skimmed through the files, knowing that the moment we started to move he would call. When my phone went off, the driver simply connected it to the car Bluetooth.
“Finished?” my father asked me.
I smirk. “The bastard almost tripled his profits in less than a fucking year.”
“He’s also somehow gotten his drugs into Valero territories—Greece, Russia, and the damn Philippines. He has networks going through most of Eastern Europe, the little fucker,” Declan stated through the radio. Apparently we were on a conference call.
We had tried to put our drugs in that side of the world for the last four years, but the Valero guarded it tighter than a father on spring break. There were three families stronger than all the rest. The Callahan, the Giovanni, and
the fucking Valero. The Valero were nothing but snakes—no, worms crawling in the dirt eating their own shit. Most of them were Russian, some German, all thieves stealing my property and selling it as their own.
“The man’s got fucking horse shoes and a leprechaun up his arse,” I said. That’s the only way they could have pulled it off without the Valero filling them with bullets.
“Not to mention their numbers are growing. When I was in Mexico, I saw at least twenty of Giovanni’s men guarding underground heroin fields,” Neal said, a bit too excitedly. “Fucking underground, can you believe it? I wouldn’t even begin to understand the amount of science shit they need to make that work. Down there, the name Giovanni sends men running and pleading for their lives.”
“Táimid ag titim ar gcúl.1 . . and I do not like to be behind. I will not sit idly by as they surpass us. Do you understand me?” my father replied. “Liam.”
“I know,” I sighed, for the last fucking time.
“Don’t fuck it up. With this marriage we can steamroll the Valero and anyone else,” my father added again.
“Thank God the poor bastard didn’t have a son,” Declan said.
“Nothing is final yet,” my father replied. “Even after Liam marries her, which will take a few days if your mother has her way, they won’t just give us everything. It may take months to make sure it is our name that strikes fear into the hearts of men.”
“Liam, can you do this? You are very vain. What if she is not up to your mighty standards?” Neal’s tone was serious, and I wanted to bust a pipe over his face.
“Piss off.” I wasn’t going to fuck this up. They should know this by now. Orlando Giovanni’s daughter was the key to every door. “If she isn’t up to par, I will drink until I can’t see straight. Or until I can convince her to see Olivia’s plastic surgeon.” I was only half joking. Ugly people didn’t have to stay ugly forever.
“Fuck you,” he snapped.
“Great, thanks Liam, now he’s going to be bitching the rest of the ride.” Declan sighed.
