Run This Town: Complete Series

by Sadie Black

  Embolden by her words, Luka was on the rebound. Ciara smiled and set her fork down, breakfast half eaten.

  “That’s a great start. What about you?”

  “I’ll have security on me for work, and I’ll make sure the men aren’t in Vittore’s pocket. Right now the focus is on making sure you have protection, and that we’re safe at home. Vittore won’t come after us when we’re together out in public. He’s gonna make it look like an accident, he doesn’t want a huge investigation. He’s not going to risk that.”

  Ciara trusted Luka, and she knew he’d see to it that she had the best security money could buy. For now, it was all they could bank on.

  “And after that?” she asked. “What’s the next step?”

  Luka stood and straightened his tie. A quick glance to the kitchen clock showed it was time to go.

  “Tune in to the news at ten,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”

  Luka was in his element. He was rising to the challenges threatening their lives, and here she was stuck at home. What good was a life he fought to protect if it was one without passion?

  Just as Luka resolved to keep her safe, Ciara resolved to lead a life worth protecting. Vittore’s threats weren’t going to stop her from reaching for the stars. If anything, he fueled the fire of her ambition. Neither of them would stop until this battle was won.

  * * *

  Luka

  “Good morning, Mr. Mayor.”

  The front door of Gracie Mansion opened, Luka stood in the doorway and looked across the lobby — his lobby. Men in suits whose names he had yet to learn stood in a group near the reception desk. The receptionist, a pretty redhead named Blaire, sat behind the desk with practiced ease. Her crisp voice greeted him, and despite the early hour and his desire for more sleep, Luka flashed her a grin and stepped into the lobby. The building’s heat warmed his winter chilled limbs.

  “Good morning.” The pangs of exhaustion he’d felt earlier disappeared. Sometimes, as a boy, Luka had seen this change in his father and thought it all an act; now he knew he was wrong. The adrenaline of stepping into Gracie Mansion knowing that it was his, that the team before him were at his command, was thrilling. The rush was better than any caffeine jolt or nicotine buzz, rivaling only the invincibility he felt from a bump of coke. Power. Prestige. Just as his father had once reveled in it, now Luka did as well. If only he could share his experience. Vittore had cut their time too short, but now that injustice fueled Luka’s fire. It was time to get to work. It was time to take a stand.

  “Blaire, I need you on the phone with all the local media stations. Radio, television, newspaper, all of it. I’ll be doing a press release in the auditorium here at ten.”

  “Mr. Mayor,” one of the older men of the group said, words dragging with hesitance, “it’s highly unusual for a new mayor to speak with the press on his first day in office. You haven’t settled yet. Why don’t you take some time to get used to your surroundings? Get immersed in the issues before you go making big addresses? Don’t you think that might be wise?”

  A team unafraid to question their leader was one Luka valued. Once upon a time, resistance like that would have been met with rage. Now his childish tantrums were a thing of his past; just seconds in the office made Luka feel like more of a man than ever.

  “I agree,” Luka said with a nod of his head. Bold footsteps brought him into the reception area, and he stood before his employees. “But, New York has been my city since I was born. I’m aware of the issues we’re facing today, and I’m confident that I’ll be addressing the most pressing issue of the last decade.”

  A stunned silence descended on the group. Luka stood before them casually, shoulders relaxed, chin level, and eyes set with determination. His body language alone spoke of comfort unheard of for a new mayor, and Luka saw the awe and respect flicker in their expressions. New York’s youngest mayor was no fool — Luka knew what he was doing, and how to do it. The charisma that once served him well in the club scene translated flawlessly into political prowess.

  “And what issue is that, Mr. Mayor?” another man asked. All Luka could do was grin; he had them eating out of his hand.

  “You’ll find out at ten o’clock,” he replied. “Until then, I’ll be in my office preparing the speech and dealing with paperwork.”

  The crowd parted before him as he stepped forward, opening the way to his office door. Blaire picked the telephone off its hook and began to dial, wasting no time in reaching out as he requested. He would say what he had to say. His father deserved nothing less.

  Ten o’clock drew near, and the noise outside his door grew louder as the press were directed into the auditorium. The room was small, but it served its purpose. As a boy Luka had stood in the crowd and looked up as his father delivered speeches, and now it was time for him to take Marcello’s place. Ten o’clock arrived, and with it, Luka. It was time to make history.

  There was no fear as he emerged onto the stage. The importance of his message gave him the courage to stand with confidence before the ears and eyes of the city. As Luka arrived at the lectern and turned to face his audience, he knew he’d made the right choice.

  “New York City,” Luka gazed out at the front rows of reporters, “is a city with a long and beautiful history. A city I am proud to call my own. A city I seek to protect and help flourish with every opportunity I have.”

  Huge, dangling microphones occupied the airspace around the lectern. Reporters held voice recorders between their shoulders and their chins while they scribbled notes. A few whispered frantically into their devices, audibly transcribing his speech word by word. Luka saw a few of them disheveled and under-dressed; it appeared as though he’d roused quite a few individuals from bed at lightning speed.

  “But the truth of beauty is in ugliness.” His tone changed, the weight invested in his speech growing heavier and more serious. “We appreciate the beauty because we understand what the city could be, and what the city sometimes is. We thrive upon witnessing the grit and the dirt, because it makes us feel cleaner. In German, the word schadenfreude expresses this concept: it’s pleasure taken from witnessing another person’s misfortune. We see the bad done day to day, and feel better about our simple, lawful lives.” Luka paused as watched the reporters scramble to capture his words.

  “But far too often, we take pleasure in witnessing the misfortuned victims. As reports of crime run rampant in our city, and tell ourselves that we’re blessed. That we would never find ourselves in such horrific situations. We would never go to where we know it’s unsafe. That we would never attract criminal attention. And by doing this, we blame the victim instead of the perpetrator. Rarely do we have the courage look at the head of the problem, preferring to look at the consequences. And we shake our heads as we cast a blind eye to the source. And now more than ever, I feel as though it’s my calling to put this injustice put to an end.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and Luka paused to let the audience settle. Few mayors chose to be ambitious, and it had been a long time since any had stepped up to the plate. Luka was no longer afraid. This was in memory of his father. This was for Ciara’s safety. This was what the city really needed.

  “It’s time to clean up our city.” Cameras flashed, but Luka was used to it. Reporters had followed Marcello to all his public appearances, and now they returned for his son.

  “It’s no surprise to me, or to anyone, that New York has illegal districts run by the Big Five — New York’s most prevalent mafia families. Gambling rings, drug smuggling and dealing, prostitution... Up until now, we’ve has cast a blind eye to the crime festering in her bowels.”

  The shock had not yet abated. Apart from the men and women mumbling into tape recorders, the crowd did not speak. Luka breathed in deep to stabilize himself, then pushed forward with the technical details.

  “Under my supervision, the police force will target known mafia rings and take them down. A hotline will open to offer citizens an anonymous plac
e to tip off the authorities. We will offer protection for those who seek to leave the criminal lifestyles they have become entangled in, in exchange for information. Before the end of next year, I want every street in New York City to be one its citizens feels comfortable walking down, regardless of the time of day. I want to see a culture of love, not fear, blossom from the place where filth once lived. New York has the potential to be great again, and I will not stop until that potential is realized.”

  A vast nothingness consumed the audience. Luka gazed out at them, spotting members of the press unsure of how to act. After a stretch of time passed, Luka leaned toward the microphone, “Thank you.”

  The reaction was immediate. Shrill voices shouted questions, and the still masses before him began to fight their way toward the stage. Photographers snapped shot after shot, searching for key reactions. Luka did not let his confidence slip.

  “Mr. Belmonte!” They cried in staggered intervals. Dozens of voices competed for dominance.

  “I am not taking questions at this time. Again, thank you, and I look forward to providing you with a city as safe for us as it is for the generations to follow.”

  The slow walk off stage was a victory. The groundwork for the future was set.

  Checkmate, Vittore. Luka thought behind his grin. No one fucks with the Belmonte family and gets away with it.

  * * *

  Ciara

  “Have you considered vermilion? It’s such a lively color. If used as an accent, I can’t think of anything lovelier. I assume you will have girlfriends from back home serve as bridesmaids? Nothing looks lovelier on dark skin than a tasteful vermilion. The color is simply exploding in Paris right now. It was popular at fashion week here in New York. But I’m guessing you’ve never been.”

  Miranda Guffro sat across the table from her, one leg tucked under her while her dainty hands rested in her lap. The woman was in her sixties, but fought desperately to conceal it. Long, dark hair pooled over her shoulders and down her back, and dark eyes twinkled at Ciara from beneath sharp, dramatic bangs. The woman may well have been advancing toward senior status, but her look was fresh. The juxtaposition was jarring, and Ciara did her best not to stare. According to Camilla, Ms. Guffro was the best of the best when it came to wedding planning. So far, Ciara was underwhelmed.

  “Vermilion? That’s green, ain’t it?” The baritone of Paul’s voice cut through the delicate, dreamy fashion of Miranda’s parlor and brought a smile to Ciara’s lips. Her new bodyguard sat in a floral armchair by the door, looking like a GI Joe in a dollhouse.

  Miranda had taken their coats at the door, leaving Paul in a tight t-shirt whose sleeves threatened to burst from the width of his biceps, paired with a side holster holding his handgun and some cargo pants. He was blessed with ebony skin, head shaved bald and jaw clean shaven. A broad nose sat above full lips, but it was his defined chin that really gave his face character. Ciara found him gorgeous, but Miranda, was visibly less than impressed. Her feathers ruffled when she spotted the weapon, nearly refusing him entrance until Ciara set her straight — wherever she went, Paul went. Without him, the appointment was off, and Miranda would lose her chance to make the Belmonte wedding her own creation.

  “No, it is not green,” Miranda quibbled. “Vermilion is a stunning orange-red color. Beautiful. Passionate.”

  “Ciara wears red all the time,” Paul cut back. “I wanna see her in green. A nice, emerald green.”

  “This isn’t about what she will wear, because she will, of course, wear white. This is about the bridesmaids. And the decor. Now if you would kindly step out of matters that don’t concern you, we can get this appointment back on track.” Miranda turned her head away from Paul, chin raised high, and rolled her eyes as she engaged Ciara in conversation. “It seems no matter what kind of money you pay, all bodyguards are the same. Not that you’d know, would you? I can’t imagine that anyone would have a bodyguard in Iowa. What is there to protect, after all? Fields of corn?” Her chittering laughter grated on Ciara’s nerves, as did her attitude. Miranda treated her like she didn’t understand the upper class, and although that may have been partially true, Ciara knew she deserved better.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Ms. Guffro,” Ciara said, “I think I’d prefer to go with a vibrant green. Maybe something just a few shades darker than emerald. I think it would look gorgeous against a more monochromatic, elegant setting.”

  The assertion earned a quick shake of Miranda’s head, and she pressed her index finger against the table to make a point. The lace tablecloth beneath it bunched slightly around the impact.

  “You really don’t understand. A wedding as high profile as yours will be needs years of planning to get right. If you really want to have it in ten months, we’re going to have to take what we can get. Vermilion is popular, and we won’t have issues finding the accents we need. Emerald is not. You can either agree to cut some corners, or postpone the wedding, but you can’t have all of your hearts desires with such time constraints! It’s simply unheard of. You don’t want to disappoint the city, now do you?”

  Seriously? Green was too much to ask for? Ciara let her thoughts stew in an attempt to remain polite. As she collected her thoughts, Miranda swirled the toe of her nude heel through the air in slow circles. The dark blue dress she wore cut off below the knee to expose legs suffering with age, but her confidence drew the eye away from them. Behind her, in the tiny armchair, Paul swirled his finger next to his temple in much the same way. Ciara choked back a little laugh. If it weren’t for him, she would’ve snapped by now. Luka definitely choose the right man for the job.

  Camilla had insisted she go to see this elitist woman. Was this what her future held? Ciara wasn’t sure she could manage a lifetime of hoity-toity snobs talking down to her.

  “Alright. We can work on color later. Do you have any ideas on how we should integrate culture into the reception? Luka’s family is very proudly Italian, and I know that he’s going to want some traditional aspects woven in.”

  But even as she spoke, Miranda was shaking her head. The woman’s coral pink lips were winged up in amusement, and she locked eyes with Ciara as she took control of the conversation from her.

  “No, no, bless your heart. The wedding and reception are considered public affairs. There won’t be anything woven in except the culture of New York’s upper class. You want the people to think you’re an elegant, sophisticated woman, don’t you?”

  Plumes of anger spread through her like a peacock fanning its tail feathers, but Ciara didn’t act on her impulses. Camilla had asked her to give Miranda a shot, and Ciara had nothing but respect for her mother-in-law. Perhaps being brought up by a mother that also talked down to her like she was stupid was overshadowing her good sense. However, Ciara stayed put.

  “I suppose I haven’t considered that angle,” she managed at last.

  “Yeah, us working class are a bunch of cavemen. I don’t know how we haven’t all reverted back to cave paintings and grunting yet. I guess with the way kids these days are texting, grunting and shit’s not all that far off.”

  As Ciara held back a snort, Miranda sat very straight in her chair and pivoted slowly to look back at Paul. The rage in her eyes only made the situation funnier, and Ciara had a hard time holding onto her composure. Laughing at her potential wedding planner wasn’t a good idea.

  “If you would like to book an appointment and pay the price of a consultation,” Miranda said, voice pure frost, “then you can make all the crude comments you want. But until then, this is the future Mrs. Belmonte’s consultation.”

  If anything, Paul only looked pleased about the scolding. He sat back in his armchair and smirked. With Miranda’s back turned to her, Ciara flashed him a huge grin. Paul’s commentary dispelled her anger and made the appointment tolerable.

  “Now, if you are done, I’ll be returning my attention to Ms. Simmons’ needs. Is there anything else you need to say before I do so?”

  “Ugga
ugga,” Paul remarked conversationally, then grasped at his throat in mock shock. “Oh shit! It’s happening! Ciara, hurry up and marry this guy before it’s too late for you! It’s happening!”

  Laughter burst from her lips, and Ciara lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she fought to recover. Prim and proper, Miranda turned back around in her chair, eyes sharpened like daggers. The joke had not settled well with her, and Ciara’s enjoyment of it even less so.

  “Please allow me to see him from the room,” Miranda asked of her. “We would both be better off if he waited outside.”

  “Where I go, Paul goes,” Ciara insisted. That was the rule, and it was one she had agreed on with Luka.

  “There are only forty-five minutes left, and I feel that it’s nowhere near enough time to discuss all the preliminary steps. So please, why don’t you continue and ask me other questions you might have? I want to tackle your questions before I move on to my battle plan.”

  There were plenty of questions Ciara had left to ask.

  “Well, what about venue? I think it might be best if we could have the ceremony and the reception in the same place — a cathedral somewhere. My grandparents will be attending, and my grandfather has mobility issues.”

  The laugh was piercing. Miranda sat back in her chair, one hand braced against the coffee table, as she threw her head back. When she had calmed she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue and shook her head in amused disbelief.

  “The ceremony will be at a cathedral, but you’ll rent out a separate venue for the reception. You poor, sweet creature. I’m so glad you came to see me before you made an absolute fool of yourself. Why don’t you give me full control over the planning, I’ll plan you a wedding fit for the man you’re marrying. Fit for the best of the best of New York City! No offense to you, my dear, but you just don’t have the taste to be making these decisions. It’s not your fault; you’ll learn with time.”