by Sadie Black
Tyrone Hinsley was a big man, built like an ox. Broad shoulders, big muscles, a core twice as big as Rocco's, and thighs that could crush a coconut. Rocco had never met him, had never spoken to him on the phone, but he'd seen pictures. Dark skin and a low brow met a large nose with flared nostrils. A shaved head. Big ears. It wasn't easy to misplace a man who commanded as much presence as Tyrone did, yet Rocco had failed to spot him. Their informant said Tyrone was here to celebrate his birthday. If Rocco received faulty info, there would be strong words had with the little rat who'd squeaked so confidently.
But the night was still young, and he still had a lot of ground to cover in the club. It would make sense if Tyrone showed here, in the heart of enemy territory. The informant had sold him coke, and drugs were strictly forbidden within Tyrone's little group. No one would catch him blowing up his birthday if he partied on turf none of his peers were brave enough to set foot onto.
Rocco pushed onward when a girl caught him by the arm. Heart racing, eyes narrowed, he snapped his head to look at her out of instinct. Small tits, wavy brown hair, and big blue eyes. She wore a black lace dress that left very little to the imagination. At not much older than twenty-one, what she revealed was perky, and youthful. What a shame she wasn't after him when he wasn't on the job. The huge smile on her face dimmed with uncertainty when he looked at her, faltering beneath the intensity of his stare.
"Dance with me," she cried over the throbbing beats. "You're hot."
Rocco scowled, pulling his arm back.
"No."
The rejection was cold and absolute. The girl's smile faded in its entirety, and a frown dragged at her lips instead. It looked as though she might cry. A sweet young body like hers likely wasn't used to rejection, but Rocco had no time for games. He didn't care for sugar coating. A woman was just as capable as a man at facing the facts. While he didn't enjoy dragging them into business, he saw no reason to treat a woman, average or attractive, any different. All brains were human, after all. Whether they were processing information or being spilled across the pavement, they all worked the same way.
"What the fuck!" another girl screamed. Dressed up in red, breasts near falling out of her corset top, she glared at Rocco and swung an open palm at him, intending to slap him across the cheek. Rocco's reflexes were quicker, and he caught her by the wrist before the blow could land. Despite the shutdown, the girl in red twisted and screamed at him.
"Lemme go! How dare you turn her down! She's so hot! She deserves a good time!"
Even if the drinks were the best in New York, no kind of alcohol was worth this drama. Scowl deepening, Rocco released the girl in red and pushed her back so she stumbled into the crowd behind her. Still shrieking and furious, the turned on a young man she seemed to know and beat against his shoulders in a tantrum. Whatever drugs took were top notch. He left the scene before he could become further implicated.
The dance floor was running out, and still no sign of Tyrone. Just as Rocco was wondering if he should head back to the bar, he caught sight of him. All the way at the back, near the back exits, Tyrone was on his way out from the hall with the bathrooms. With a line or two snorted, no doubt, the man would be on edge. Rocco needed to be careful.
Rocco wove through the crowd to make his way to the back of the room. Tyrone bumped against a girl carrying a crate of dishes — the bartender Rocco had ordered his drink from — and excused himself. Rocco counted his footsteps as he stepped around her. Ten steps away, he made his move.
Interceptions were always Rocco's favorite.
"You're the collected one," his father had told him. "You have a way with words, Rocco. You're a good boy. When you speak, they'll listen. And so here's what I need you to do."
The very first time he'd delivered a message, he'd felt a high unparalleled to that of any drug. To this day, a spark of that high still burned when he walked away after a successful job. This was the life for him. It was time to tell Tyrone to stop fucking it all up.
He swooped in quickly. Tyrone didn't see him coming until it was too late. Rocco pressed up against Tyrone to speak into his ear. As he did, he pressed the muzzle of the gun inside his suit coat up against Tyrone's side.
"I need a word outside, Hisley. Let's go together."
Tyrone's dark eyes turned on him, narrowed in simmering rage. Despite the danger that lurked in that expression, Rocco did not back down. This was not the first time he'd dealt with thugs, and it wouldn't be the last. Right now the game was his to play, and if Tyrone was smart, he'd stick to the rules.
"On my fucking birthday?" he barked. There was no danger of anyone overhearing over the pounding club music. "You fuckin' low life mafia shitheads have no respect. I shoulda known you’d pull a stunt like this. I have nothing to do with any business, okay?"
"You've got plenty to do with business," Rocco insisted, collected as ever, "and we're going to talk about it outside. Let's go, Hinsley."
Tyrone Hinsley was the son of Lucas Hinsley, one of the larger players in the self-proclaimed Black Mafia. The first time Rocco had heard the title used, he'd laughed so hard he choked. New York City had room for one mafia family, and that space was occupied by the Lombardo line. As it had been for decades. A group of thugs banding together was small fries for the true Don of New York, Vittore Lombardo. But when the group made their intentions to take down the Italian mafia clear, Vittore couldn't cast a blind eye. Rocco's father was forgiving, but he was not a foolish man.
"Aight. We cool. Let's go outside and talk this over, then. It's my birthday, man. Gimme a fucking break."
With the muzzle of a gun pressed to his side, the son of the Don himself there to deliver a message, this was not the time to whine. Instead, Rocco grit his teeth and nudged his gun deeper into Tyrone's side.
"Out," he hissed. Without another word, Tyrone turned and strolled towards the corridor housing the back exits. Rocco followed in his wake, alert and stern. The transition was seamless. It looked like Tyrone was alone, and the job would be done quick and easy. When the Don wanted to send a message, Rocco hated when things got complicated. A Lombardo always came out on top, of course, but the senseless loss of life was a true shame.
Tyrone shouldered the back door open and stepped out onto the metal grating. A metal platform, fitted with a staircase and bordering railings, led down into a dingy back alley. An industrial dumpster opened to the right of the door. To the left was a dead end. As Tyrone took the stairs step by step, Rocco revised his next move.
"To the left," he instructed, "up near the wall and on the side with the dumpster."
Without a word, Tyrone obeyed. The massive brute had gone from annoying to compliant in only a few seconds. Rocco wondered if the man was plotting something.
Rocco followed, the soles of his shoes ringing out loud against the metal grated staircase. With the alley empty, he had no qualms about removing his gun from inside of his jacket, finger on the trigger and ready to shoot. The safety was long ago removed. No living Lombardo was amateur enough with guns to not trust a live one, even when concealed. Rocco had been handling handguns since he was seven.
"Now that we're alone, can you tell me what the fuck this is all about?" Tyrone asked. Near the corner between the back wall and the wall of the club, he turned to look at Rocco. The moon was bright, but the high walls of the surrounding businesses blocked out most of the light. Rocco's eyes were still adjusting, but he knew that Tyrone was no better off. So far, so good.
"I'm here to deliver a message from the Don, Vittore Lombardo." Often, dropping Vittore's name was enough to make a point. When it came to the Black Mafia, however, Rocco enjoyed reminding them of just who his father was. There was no other Don of New York City. Every one of those thugs deserved to be reminded at every chance.
"He's sorry to hear of your cousin's passing, and even sorrier yet that his invitation to the funeral was lost in the mail. Regardless, he wishes to send your family his condolences in this time of grieving. And he wants to
remind you that the best kind of life insurance is—"
Beneath the moonlight, Rocco saw a shift in the glint of Tyrone's eyes. They gave away Tyrone's intentions before he even moved a muscle. As the thug reached back with lightning speed to unholster a concealed weapon, Rocco lifted his gun with frightening accuracy. Before Tyrone had a chance to draw his weapon, Rocco fired off a single shot. The bullet exploded from the muzzle of his gun and tore through the space between them to bury itself in Tyrone's skull. The caliber wasn't high enough that the bullet exited the back of his skull. That was the way Rocco preferred it. With a ricochet, the brain was damaged more severely. In the few rare cases where a target survived a head shot, the brain damage left them in a vegetative state. Vegetables did not talk.
"—not to fucking mess with the Lombardos, you dumb-ass. Shit."
No deaths were supposed to happen, but Tyrone's choices didn't stick to the plan. As blood pooled beneath the body, Rocco glanced over his shoulder and towards the street. The gun was silenced, but in New York, someone was bound to recognize the muted snap of a gunshot in the night. He had precious little time to get the fuck out before someone strung two and two together and busted him. Rocco's ride was waiting at the end of the alley, and if he wanted to make it out unseen, he would need to hoof it. The creak of rusted out hinges ruined everything.
Rocco turned, finger still snug with the trigger, but arm now at his side. On the metal platform, a black garbage bag clutched in hand, stood the bartender he kept running into. She was looking at him with a far off, dreamy expression on her face, like she walked into a nightmare.
Everything was not going to be fine after all.
* * *
Chapter Three
Whitney
The door into the employees only area of The Avenue opened into a long hall that led to several doors. There was the employee room, Liam's office, and a couple other doors that were always locked no matter what the occasion.
Only a few steps into the hall, Whitney heard Liam's voice carrying from a distance. From the way he spoke and then stopped, then spoke again, she pieced together that he was having a conversation. Curiosity getting the best of her, Whitney put her plans to head to the kitchen to drop off the dirty glasses on hold, and headed down the hall towards Liam's office. To her surprise, the door had been left open.
"—you think?"
As she approached, Liam's words grew clearer, and Whitney picked up on another voice. Soft spoken, sweet, and unmistakably feminine. Whitney pieced together who it was at once. Just behind the door of Liam's office was the girl Cassandra had seen earlier that evening.
"I think it looks like a great place," the young woman replied. "I just received my bartending certification, and I'm eager to get some real world experience to go with it. Somewhere fast paced is definitely going to be a good fit for me. I think The Avenue would be an incredible match."
It was a job interview. Whitney stopped just short of the door, fingers tightening against the plastic handles of the crate she carried. If they were talking about bartending certifications, it didn't take a genius to figure out where Liam wanted this new girl to work.
"Let's go over some of the finer details, then, to make sure you're still interested. When you sign on, your job security depends on performance. Sell lots of drinks, don't over pour, and make sure your cash balances, and you've got a long career on your hands. If your performance drops off, so will your hours. To start, I'm going to have you working Thursday night alongside one of my best girls, Cassandra."
It was a blow Whitney knew was coming, but despite it, felt unprepared for. Her lips parted in shock. For the last year she'd been working Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. There was no way Liam was going to pay an extra girl to come in and work when she and Cassandra had the place on lockdown.
"Sounds good. What about dress code?"
"I don't tell my girls what to wear," Liam said, "but here's a tip — show skin. It sells drinks better. A young body can push drinks like you won't believe."
Whitney glanced down at herself. Even at a few months short of thirty, she didn't look old. The black vest with grey pinstripes she wore plunged into a sharp V at the bust and propped her breasts up without use of a bra. The vest revealed her tight tummy and cute navel and the curve of her hips. A pair of skinny jeans took over to cling to her fantastic thighs and killer butt. The girl on the other side of the door had to be stunning if Liam thought she was over the hill. Whitney needed to see her.
Very carefully, she moved towards the door to peak into Liam's office. The tiny gap between the door and the door frame only permitted Whitney to see a narrow sliver of the scene — but it was enough. The girl in question sat with her back to the floor, long black hair falling in waves down her back. Whitney didn't get a look at her face, but if it matched her body, the girl was a solid ten. Model skinny, but with hips, hair that Whitney would kill for, and from the little she could see, a killer sense of fashion made her the full package. Her skin was a shade lighter than Whitney's, and Whitney couldn't help but keep coming back to that fact. Liam didn't have many black girls on staff. Was she too dark for him? The thought stung.
Unable to take any more, Whitney moved away from the door and rushed for the kitchen. She always knew she had a shelf life as a bartender in one of New York's hottest clubs, but now that her expiry date was fast approaching, she wasn't ready. This wasn't how her career was supposed to end. What was she going to do now?
The swinging doors that led into the kitchen admitted her without a fight. Darren, the dish washer, sat on the counter, scrolling through a feed on his phone. When the doors opened he looked up and was about to jump down when he saw that it was Whitney and not the boss.
"Whit. Sup? You're not looking too hot right now."
The shock of confirmation was beginning to wear off, leaving her feeling sick. It would start with Thursday nights being stripped away, and then Friday, until the pittance she was making wasn't enough. Whitney didn't live in a high rise condo — she had a room mate — but she would always need to eat. Three or four hours on a Saturday wouldn't pay rent and afford what she needed to survive, even if she raked in the tips.
"I don't feel well," she mumbled. "I... Darren, fuck, I think Liam's trying to replace me. He's in his office right now talking with a girl he wants to hire on for bar and pair with Cassandra on Thursday night. I need this money. What else am I supposed to do? All I've ever done my whole life is work jobs like this."
"Hey now," Darren said. Concern tensed his facial features, and he stood from where he'd been sitting. The phone disappeared into his back pocket. "You don't know he wants to replace you. Maybe Thursday night is just the best time to train her, y'know, to get a feel for how busy we get. Doesn't mean he's gonna strong arm you out."
A sharp clatter of glass punctuated the end of Darren's speech. Whitney dropped the crate onto the counter and covered her eyes with her hands. Tears hadn't started to fall yet, but she could feel them burning in her ducts, longing to break free.
"We all knew this was coming, I'm just too old," she lamented, trying to keep herself together. "I think it's sweet you're trying to make me feel better, but pulling the wool over my eyes isn't gonna help. Not when Liam takes all my hours away and leaves me stranded. I just... I worked so hard for him. For this place. I still make some of the best money of any of the girls. Why does he gotta go pull something like this?"
Darren laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, his touch awkward.
"It's not about who you are or the work you do," he assured her, "it's that Liam sleeps, eats, and breaths in dollar signs. If he sees you doing this well, I bet he's thinking to himself that a younger version of you is gonna make him that much more money. Don't take what he does personal, Whit. You're still the same person you were last month, last week, hell, the same person as when you walked in the doors today. There ain't nothing wrong with you at all."
The words made her feel worse. Thoughts of worthl
essness clouded Whitney's mind to drag her down.
If there's nothing wrong with you, he wouldn't fire you.
If there's nothing wrong with you, you wouldn't be so afraid of losing this job and moving on somewhere else.
No one wants damaged goods. Not even your mother wanted to have anything to do with the worthless life she created.
No one wants anything to do with you.
Temples throbbing, stomach churning, Whitney drew back from Darren and shook her head. Tonight she'd told herself she was going to live in the moment and not let anything get to her. Wasn't that the whole point of fantasizing over the tall stranger?
If your own mother didn't want you, what makes you think someone like that is going to?
There was no way she could go back to the bar and be on her A game, not until those thoughts stilled.
"Thanks," Whitney mumbled. There was no conviction behind her words. "Um, listen. Do you have lots of garbage or something that needs to be taken out? I really need to get some fresh air to clear my thoughts before I head back out there."
"Uh," Darren looked towards the trash. The bag was overflowing with junk. "Yeah. Yeah, I can hook you up with some trash. Why don't you take some clean glasses back to the bar and bring your trash out, and by the time you get back I'll have this all bagged up for you, okay?"
"Okay." A deep breath. "Thank you, Darren."
"Any time," Darren promised. "Just keep your chin up. You never know what life's got in store for you. Maybe all this is a good thing in disguise."
That seemed a little farfetched, but Whitney bobbed her head in agreement and drew a crate of clean glasses from the cabinet beneath the counter space. Replacements in hand, she made her way out through the kitchen doors.
Liam and the girl were still talking when she left the kitchen, but Whitney did her best to tune them out. Instead, she focused on the distant throbbing beat of the bass from beyond the door into the club. That was where she was headed — back into the midst of things, back into the party she had been so proud to be a part of. Now she felt like she wanted nothing to do with it. The carefree Friday nights of people half a decade younger than she was felt bitter now. Their fun would go on even after she'd left. This was not her world anymore.
