Captivated

by Bethany-Kris

  Joe kind of liked it here.

  The ding of the entrance bell drew Joe’s attention to the front door. At the sight of the two men who came into the café, he straightened a bit in his chair. A man like him, in the business he dabbled with, could tell when someone was connected just by the way they entered a room. Their posture, even. Or perhaps the way they stopped to let their gaze take in their surroundings before choosing what to do next.

  And even if none of that hadn’t been the first thing on Joe’s mind about the two newest patrons, he still knew who they were just from sight alone.

  Johnathan and Andino Marcello.

  Cousins that rarely ever seemed to be apart for very long, or at least, that’s what Joe had been told about the two. Marcello principes given both men had fathers who owned two of the highest seats in the Marcello Cosa Nostra.

  Some might even call them mafia royalty. Joe didn’t know if he would. People considered him mafia royalty, too, but he wasn’t exactly very fucking fond of the title.

  He killed people for a living.

  He didn’t wear a fucking crown while he did it.

  Over the years, Joe had run into the two Marcello cousins when they occasionally came to Chicago for business. The Marcellos were known for sending others to do their business for them when it came to organizations they didn’t particularly like, or had problems with.

  The Marcellos had long since had problems with the Chicago Outfit. An incident from decades back that put a rift between the two, although some kind of peace had been made that allowed the two to do business.

  John was likely a Capo now—who knew if Andino was, or if he was still working his way to that position. It was inevitable, though.

  Andi—as Joe knew he preferred—would be a Capo eventually. Like his father had once been before moving up in la famiglia.

  So was the way of their life.

  Soon, the Marcello cousins found Joe sitting in the back, and came his way. They didn’t even bother to make an order before coming for business.

  Perfetto.

  “Joe,” John greeted as he neared the table.

  “John,” Joe returned.

  Neither man offered their hand, and Andino was the first to take a seat. John followed right after.

  “How long has it been, man?” Andino asked.

  Joe shrugged. “A year, maybe. Last time I saw you two—one of you was dragging the other one out of a club.”

  John nodded appreciatively. “Truth.”

  Andino chuckled. “Couldn’t have John causing trouble in Chicago.”

  Yeah, Joe didn’t know very much about that, so he just moved on to the next topic at hand. The elephant in the room, so to speak.

  “You called me here—what do you need or want?”

  “It’s for you, actually,” John returned.

  The older of the two men pulled a few items from the inside pocket of his blazer, and slid them across the table. A phone—a sleek, black burner by the looks of it. A hotel key with a tag that told Joe exactly which business he would be staying at, and a folded up piece of paper.

  John tapped the phone first, saying, “Burner only. It’s safe—we have a hacker who will regularly monitor and scrub it when needed.”

  “All right.”

  “Turn your phone off, and leave it that way until you’re done in this city.”

  Joe shrugged. “My phone is at home. I grabbed a burner before I left the city, anyway. I didn’t know what I was coming for, and I don’t like to take chances. Only a few people have the number.”

  John and Andino passed a glance between one another.

  Andino spoke up first. “Use that one for your family, then. Ours for us.”

  “Sure.”

  John moved to the next item; the hotel key. “The boss—”

  “Dante.”

  “Yeah, the boss.”

  John’s maybe.

  Not Joe’s.

  Still, respect was important, so Joe said, “The boss, yeah.”

  “The boss has a permanent room at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan that he and his wife like to use on occasion. They don’t expect to need it anytime soon, so he figured you might like it for your stay.”

  “Under his name?”

  “Do you think he’s that stupid?” John returned.

  Joe smirked. “Had to ask.”

  “It’s safe.”

  Picking up the piece of paper—the last thing on the table—Joe unfolded the paper at the creases, and looked at the statement in front of him. “I hadn’t checked my account to see if he paid like I told him to, but half of the money is in my account now.”

  Andino nodded. “Time to get to work, I guess.”

  “What did George Earl and Martin Abraham do to the Marcellos that your boss is willing to have them both whacked?” Joe asked. “And mind you, lots of people die because of affiliations to the mob. I know this better than anyone. Not usually people who are this high profile, though. That spells bad news, you know?”

  John cocked a brow.

  Andino’s face went passive.

  “Your job is to do what you’re told,” John replied quietly, “and not ask questions.”

  Yeah …

  Because that didn’t make Joe suspicious at all.

  Jesus Christ.

  What was going on?

  Joe scanned the Manhattan Waldorf Astoria hotel room with an appreciative eye. Apparently, the Marcello boss didn’t like to cheap out when it came to places he stayed. The cost of this suite likely ran in the tens of thousands a month, if Joe had to guess.

  He wasn’t complaining.

  Rich, expensive tapestries and rugs gave the main room a nice decorative touch. A white leather chaise rested near the window with an afghan blanket tossed over the back. A loveseat and chair made up a sitting area in front of a flat screen television that nearly covered an entire wall. Gold chandeliers hung from high ceilings, and glinted from the lights.

  In another room, he found a small kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a private bedroom with a four-poster bed, and an attached bathroom the same size as most of the other rooms. There was even a safe hidden behind a mirror in the bedroom, although it was tightly closed.

  Joe didn’t have any interest in that, anyway.

  Coming back out to the main room, Joe dropped his bag onto the loveseat, and moved toward the windows. Staring out below, he found the Manhattan street was busy. Lots of people, and lots of shit happening.

  Nothing unusual.

  Good for him, though.

  If his goal was to stay under the radar during his time in New York, then Manhattan was a great place to be. A melting pot of people and tourists, it was unlikely anyone would be able to pick his face out in a crowd.

  He would go ahead and count the view and room as a bonus.

  At least for now.

  “Home sweet home,” Joe muttered.

  Turning away from the window, he shrugged off his coat, and reached for the phone sitting on a nearby decorative table. Since he was already here, he might as well make a call down to the dining room and get his dinner—

  It was only the ringing of his own phone that stopped Joe from making that call. And not the burner phone that Johnathan Marcello had dropped off earlier, but his own that he brought along. Moving to the couch where he dropped his bag, Joe found the phone, and took a quick look at the caller ID before he bothered to pick it up.

  D, it read.

  His father.

  Joe picked up the call with a, “Hey, Dad.”

  “Son. Why aren’t you answering Cory’s calls?”

  “Because you fucking know what he wants,” Joe replied. “And what he wants is to be here with me, and not in Chicago where he needs to stay while I get this done.”

  Damian sighed. “He’s driving me crazy.”

  “Better you than me.”

  Only a dry chuckle answered Joe back.

  Truth was, he loved his brother to the ends of the ea
rth and back. Only being a year apart in age, the two had practically grown up like twins might. Constantly together, and stuck at the goddamn hip. Joe was a little more reserved than Cory, but sometimes that worked out, too. He looked out for his brother, and kept him levelheaded. Cory, on the other hand, pushed Joe to take a few risks once in a while.

  It … worked.

  Yeah, that was a good way to put it.

  “I’ll give him a call,” Joe said after a minute, “but he’s still not coming here. You know Cory wouldn’t be able to keep his head down, and not draw attention to himself.”

  “Not even if he tried,” Damian grumbled.

  It was funny.

  Because it was true.

  “Oh, is that Joe?” he heard his mother say in the background. “Give me the phone, Damian.”

  “Lily, I am trying to—”

  The phone crackled before his mother’s voice came on the line, and her sweet, happy tone made Joe smile. Out of everything back in Chicago, he probably would end up missing his mother the very most.

  Italian boys and their mothers.

  It was all true.

  “Joe,” his mother said, “I miss you.”

  “You, too, Ma.”

  “New York is being nice to you, isn’t it?”

  His mother didn’t even try to hide the underlying threat in her words. It was as if she would personally make her way over to the state if she thought someone was fucking with her son. Any of her kids, really.

  His mother probably would, too.

  “New York is treating me fine,” Joe assured.

  “Better be. Try to have fun—bring me home something nice.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  “There, you talked to him, now give me the goddamn phone, Lily,” Damian muttered in the background.

  “Love you, bye!”

  That was all he heard from his mother before his father was back on the line once more. Joe rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all, but that was just his family. That was his mother, and she was never going to change.

  Her kids were everything to her. Even now that two of them—Joe and Cory—were grown men, and out on their own, none of that mattered to his mother. She liked to baby them, and keep them as close as she possibly could. Or, at least as much as the two would allow.

  Frankly, Joe and Cory didn’t have much of a choice. Their father made sure of that—Lily complained about anything, and Damian fixed it. That included her sons when she thought they weren’t coming to visit her enough, or whatever the case may be.

  It was what it was.

  Joe learned not to fight it.

  “Oh, good,” Damian said quietly, “Mon is distracting her for five minutes.”

  Lily, he meant.

  “Say hey to Monica for me,” Joe said.

  “I will later.”

  His little sister—and youngest sibling—was accustomed to Joe coming and going a lot of the time. He wasn’t even sure if she noticed he was gone, to be honest. She didn’t say much about it, but she always liked when he came back after a spell of being gone, and took her out to do whatever she wanted for an entire day.

  Something else his father demanded.

  Family was important.

  Always.

  “How’s it going there?” Damian asked. “Any news?”

  “The Marcellos have me settled in now.”

  “How so?”

  “Phone; hotel; money. A car is on the way for me to use, too. Not sure how long they want me to be here, or how long this is going to take, rather, but they’re making sure I am comfortable for the duration. Have to respect that. Usually, it’s me figuring that shit out when I go underground for a while.”

  Damian whistled low. “Taking care of you, then.”

  “Too bad that doesn’t exactly make me feel any fucking better about this whole thing, though.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A Senator and a Chief of Police—it’s a little concerning, Dad, that’s all. And by the sounds of it, there’s some kind of problem or reason the Marcellos want them gone. Mind you, a fucking reason they can’t be bothered to explain to the rest of the class, so I might have to dig into that myself.”

  “Don’t go digging into the Marcello family’s business. That isn’t your place, Joe.”

  Not his place and not able to do it were two very fucking different things, though. Joe didn’t say that out loud to his father, however.

  “You know how I feel about these kinds of kills,” Joe muttered.

  At least, if Joe understood why a person had to die, and they had earned or deserved the death, he didn’t feel quite as guilty the next time he went into confession. Or even when he had to pray, and ask for his own forgiveness.

  Fucked up, sure.

  But that’s how he was.

  A killer with a goddamn conscience.

  Lucky fucking me.

  “Point is—they likely already have attention from whatever issues they have with these people,” Joe said, “and that means the Marcellos will be the first people looked at when the marks are dead.”

  “I don’t think they care. They chose someone outside of their organization for a reason. They did explain that to you.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Joe, it is literally none of your business why they want to do this. What is your business is that it is done, and you follow their orders while they are paying you to do so, and nothing more. Do you understand me?”

  “Who knocks off two high profile figures like that, huh? Tell me.”

  “Tommas did it once.”

  “When was that?”

  “Years ago,” Damian replied, “back when he first took over.”

  “And how long did the attention and feds stay on the Outfit’s ass?”

  Damian laughed—a bitter sound that echoed in Joe’s ears. “Longer than you care to know, son. Pretty sure if there was still a Public Enemy Number One, your uncle would own the fucking spot.”

  Technically, Tommas was a cousin of Joe’s … but he grew up calling the man his uncle, and that wasn’t going to change.

  “You know I don’t like to make a hit like this,” Joe said. “And it’s not even one, it’s fucking two. It kind of feels like they might be playing with fire, and I don’t want to be the hand that gets burned in the process. That is all I am saying.”

  “You’re there to do a job, Joe.”

  “Quite aware, yeah.”

  “So, do it.”

  His father hung up the phone.

  That was that.

  The last thing Joe wanted to do was be called to the Marcello mansion at just after ten in the evening. And yet, here he was.

  “Joseph, correct?”

  The old Marcello who greeted Joe at the grand entrance of the mansion was the man who owned the place—Antony. The man’s kind smile belied the fact that Joe—like most Mafiosi—had heard all the stories of the infamous Antony Marcello, and just how creative and dangerous the man could be when crossed.

  “Antony,” Joe greeted, “nice to see you again.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.” Antony waved a hand, and said, “Come, my sons are waiting for you upstairs.”

  Joe’s brow lifted. “All of them?”

  “Two—Lucian, and Dante. I think Giovanni had a thing tonight. He doesn’t like to miss his wife’s special days.”

  “Understandable.”

  Joe followed behind Antony silently as the man led him through the mansion. Despite having explored a week earlier, Joe still didn’t feel familiar enough with the place not to get lost again. And wouldn’t that be just fucking grand, too.

  “You’ll have to say hello to Cecelia for me,” Joe said. “I’ll probably miss her.”

  “Little late for her, yes,” Antony said. “My wife likes to sleep early when she can.”

  At the bottom of the stairs leading into one of the upper wings, Antony turned to Joe with a shrug.

  “
I assume you can find your way from here, can’t you?”

  “I can,” Joe said. “Thanks.”

  “Good. I don’t feel like climbing stairs tonight. Keep the noise down to a minimum. Remind my sons if you need to.”

  Joe thought to scoff at the idea of him telling any made man anything, but the look on Antony’s face told him the man was damn serious. He chose to keep his sarcastic comment to himself.

  “You got it,” Joe said.

  Antony waved two fingers over his shoulder, and then he was gone, too. Joe took the stairs two at a time, and barely made a sound. He found the same office he had visited the last time he was at the mansion, and stepped up to the open doors. Inside, the two oldest Marcello brothers stood next to a window, and overlooked the back property as they talked quietly between one another.

  Too quiet for Joe to hear.

  Apparently, they didn’t hear him, either.

  That wasn’t exactly unusual.

  Joe cleared his throat, and tampered down his urge to smirk when the two men spun fast on their heels to face him. “Sorry, but I didn’t think you wanted me to stand here and listen to the two of you mutter on.”

  Dante cocked a brow. “How long were you standing there?”

  Lucian, on the other hand, stayed silent.

  “Long enough to see you, and let you see me,” Joe said.

  “He is just like his father,” Lucian said quietly to Dante, although never looking at Joe directly. “Same thing, I swear.”

  Joe scowled. “I can hear you.”

  “That was the point,” the man returned.

  Dante ignored the exchange between the two, and waved a finger at Joe. “Come in, and sit down. Or don’t sit—whatever the hell you prefer. We have a problem.”

  Great.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Joe said as he moved further into the office. He didn’t take the offered seat, but that was only because he preferred to stand when bad news was delivered.

  “Sit where we do, and then we’ll talk,” Lucian muttered.

  “What?”

  Lucian gave Joe a pointed look and said, “Exactly.”

  Right in that moment, Joe decided Lucian Marcello was probably the most dangerous out of all the Marcello brothers. The man was like whiplash, and he wasn’t very fucking easy to figure out. Which meant it would be hard to predict any of his upcoming moves, and he probably liked to keep it that way.