Stroke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Gabby Grace

  STROKE

  A Bad Boy Romance

  ~

  GABBY GRACE

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 by Gabby Grace. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission request, email gabbygraceauthor@gmail.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely incidental.

  ____

  Edited by: Sara Long, Write Way Creative, LLC, http://www.linkedin.com/in/saralong

  Cover Design: Gabby Grace

  Table of Contents

  Contact Me

  1 Vito - 12 years ago

  2 Vito

  3 Vito

  4 Bella

  5 Vito

  6 Bella

  7 Vito

  8 Bella

  9 Vito

  10 Bella

  11 Vito

  12 Bella

  13 Vito

  14 Bella

  15 Vito

  16 Bella

  17 Vito

  18 Bella

  19 Vito

  20 Bella

  21 Nero

  22 Vito

  23 Ricci

  24 Bella

  25 Vito

  26 Bella

  27 Vito

  28 Lucenzo

  29 Bella

  30 Vito

  31 Bella

  32 Vito

  33 Bella

  34 Vito

  35 Vito

  36 Vito

  37 Bella

  38 Vito

  39 Bella

  40 Vito

  41 Bella

  42 Vito

  43 Vito

  44 Bella

  45 Vito

  46 Bella

  47 Frankie

  48 Vito

  49 Bella

  50 Frankie

  51 Vito

  52 Frankie

  53 Vito

  54 Bella

  55 Frankie

  56 Vito

  57 Bella

  58 Valentino

  59 Frankie

  60 Vito

  61 Frankie

  62 Vito

  63 Valentino

  64 Vito

  65 Bella

  66 Vito

  67 Bella

  Contact Me

  Author's Note

  CONTACT ME

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  1

  Vito - 12 years ago

  The bitter, dreary December morning greets me like a cold, wet towel wrapped around my shoulders, chilling me to the bone. It’s the day of my brother’s funeral. Another victim of drugs. Heroin.

  Carlo was my younger brother. He had left the straight and narrow for the windy, dark streets where every turn leads to another dead end, and I could do nothing to stop him.

  Carlo and I had always been close. Like my shadow, he was never far behind and followed me everywhere. When we were kids and he was too young to play football with me and the older kids in the sandlot, he used to pace the sidelines, his shrill voice breaking through the grunts and sounds of cleats on the sand and gravel, cheering me on. On Sunday afternoons, we would go see a matinee at the Multiplex, stuffing wads of Bubble Yum, Twizzlers and Raisinets in our pockets, and sneak into a handful more movies, laughing and snickering the whole time like kids do. He was what a younger brother should be.

  Then the accident happened, and my father disowned me. I had shamed the family name by getting Cirincione listed in the paper under the local police blotter, letting everyone know what a degenerate Anthony Cirincione’s son had become. My mother tried to patch things up between us, but my high-powered federal prosecutor father, the renowned Anthony Cirincione, had turned against me and against his people, working his fingers to the bone putting them all away for good.

  He put away Jimmy “Knuckles” Carcaterra, the long-time boss of the Boniello crime family, for life on trumped-up racketeering charges. I know because I used to hide in his office closet and listen for hours while he talked on the phone with colleagues, calling in favors and figuring out the most devious ways to put men away for the longest periods of time. He was ruthless in his pursuit of every honest person’s right to justice, and stereotyped everyone who was not on his side of the law. There was only black and white, no gray, and that has been my father’s single greatest weakness as a human being.

  And then, when I made a mistake, he shut me out, stripping me of any future I had. It was a big mistake, though not unforgivable, but as far as my father was concerned, I had shamed the family name and could no longer carry the title of Cirincione.

  With me out of the picture, my brother had nobody to shadow, no big brother to look up to for the guidance and support I had always provided. Carlo, always the follower, found others to shadow. He spent most of his time hanging with lost youth, degenerates, and drug addicts, all hell-bent on escaping the unforgiving pain in their lives by turning to drugs as their salvation. God knows my father was too busy putting bad guys in jail to give any of his children what they really needed: love and acceptance.

  The funeral was tricky. I had been staying at a friend’s house – if you can call him that – but had to face my father down. He was surrounded by my family, all of my cousins, uncles, aunts and everybody else, while I stood there alone with my fists clenched and taking shallow breaths, directly across from him right alongside the edge of my brother’s grave. I stood as close as I could get, the freshly dug dirt piled into mounds, waiting to act as an eternal blanket for my little brother, forever hiding him from my view. I didn’t back down, meeting my father’s stone-cold glare and steely-faced eyes with my own bitter ones, both of us refusing to look away. My mother clutches to him, but her eyes are hooked on me, filled with sadness and grief at losing not only Carlo but her only remaining son, as well.

  I can see my breath in front of me, a sign of the red hot rage burning within my chest. I should feel nothing but love in my heart for my lost brother, but I feel something else. A deep hatred and contempt for the degenerates who fed my brother this poison that took him away from me. Like the cold wind that is sure to blow come winter, I will dedicate myself to getting drugs off the streets by any means necessary. It will go down my way. Not the Anthony Cirincione way of ego and corruption.

  He was responsible for this. My brother died because my father pushed me away, and Carlo had no one to guide him. I decided right then and there that I liked this position of being disowned. I would show him that I could make it on my own, not only shunning his existence, but walking opposite his footsteps in a show of utter contempt for everything he represents. He’s not my father and I am no longer his son.

  I picked up a handful of freshly dug soil and ground it together in my numb hand, noticing how the bitter cold air was slowly hardening it, stripping it of life, just like the shell of my brother’s body. As I threw the dirt onto my brother’s casket, some of it sliding off the oak casing into the cold, deep, empty hole that would be
Carlo’s final resting place, I thought of all the ways I would snub my father.

  Standing over my brother’s grave in those final moments, I wept tears of deep regret, remorse flooding my heart at not having been there as Carlo’s guide when he needed me most. Once my grief was spent, I forced myself to take control again, not wanting to show my father any sign of what he would perceive as weakness. I lifted my eyes to meet his, and what we exchanged chilled me to the bone.

  Pure. Bitter. Hatred.

  It didn’t take me long to decide on my first step. By three o’clock that afternoon, I had a plan. The friend I was staying with was connected, and he understood what I had to do. I took the first job he offered me and never looked back. I was proud to be Vito Cirincione, enemy of the people, and most importantly, enemy to Anthony Cirincione.

  2

  Vito

  Fuck this line. Fuck all this shit. We’re the best fucking country in the world, hands down, but our airports suck ass. It’s bad enough I had to contend with the Van Wyck Expressway, that north-south highway running straight down through the heart of Queens that is legendary for its traffic snarls, this afternoon to get to JFK Airport.

  The guy who’s in line in front of me must be filled with metal. He’s tried three fucking times to walk through the metal detector and now the agent has him turning his pockets inside out. He probably has a metal plate in his head and doesn’t even know it.

  Some hot, young chick with a wand approaches me and I lift my arms like all the other cronies in here. If you want to get a closer look, honey, maybe you should take me to the back room and strip me down naked. She’s a petite blonde, maybe just out of college, and her perky breasts are smashed up in her tight-fitting, TSA-issued blouse. She could use a good fucking if anyone could.

  “Step through.” She waves me forward like she owns the place. You could smile, honey. I could make you smile by fucking the shit out of your hum-drum monotonous world.

  Being a mobster has its perks, like travel, excitement, near-death experiences, the ability to connect with other people – particularly with left and right hooks – and, of course, there’s the money. Or I could be like her, waving a wand around people’s genitals all day, wearing a blue blazer with a huge patch on the front of it and acting all important in hassling people who just want to get on a fucking plane and go somewhere.

  No thanks. I like my job.

  Not to be a bitter fuck or anything, but I hate airports with a passion. At least I’m through security now and can go grab a gin and tonic before boarding in half an hour.

  So, what’s my job? My boss, Joey Gentile, a Captain in the Antolini crime family, sent me down to Miami to figure out how drugs are getting into our neighborhoods. Through recent incursions, we’ve come up with damning evidence that one of the families has broken its truce with the alliance set up between the five families and is working against us.

  It appears as though those fucks in the Sirico crime family are deep into building a heroin ring, all right. That factory that me and Tony Rizzo busted into just a week ago, with boxes of comforters stacked neatly from floor to ceiling, is one of three locations throughout the five boroughs of New York City that will be launching-off points for distributing heroin to drug addicts all over the tri-state area, and the entire eastern seaboard, for that matter.

  So why am I heading to Miami? We found a bunch of shipping receipts in the files when we ransacked the office, and that helped us figure out Miami is where the heroin is coming into the country. From there, the drugs are making their way by plane, car or boat up to the distribution centers in New York.

  Joey Gentile, a man I deeply respect, called me to his house last night, and after we discussed our options for a few minutes, we both decided that I would go solo down to Miami to see what I could find out about these operations. We thought it would be best if I worked alone to lower any level of suspicion that might come from a motley band of mobsters converging on Miami.

  He doesn’t know my brother was lost to heroin, and he doesn’t need to. I would wage my own private war against Sirico and shut that fucker down myself before he profits from another person dying. That’s the bottom line. Profits. And for every dollar made, someone loses his life to that poison.

  I locate the airport bar about a few hundred yards from the gate. It’s called the Sam Adams Bar. The name is prominently displayed in gaudy white script along the burgundy-topped wall just above the taps and cash register.

  I locate an open seat next to a middle-aged, salt and pepper-haired airline pilot nursing some kind of dark brown liquid. By the looks of the guy, it’s not his first. Should I be concerned, or maybe this loser is just getting off work? Stupid fuck. Go pick somewhere away from the airport to drink, not the fucking bar 200 yards away from a loading gate.

  I sit down on the wooden stool, rest my elbows on the counter, and scan the room for any women who may catch my eye. Old habits die hard. The bartender, a guy who’s maybe forty with a bushy mustache and outdated glasses, steps over to me. “Can I get you something?”

  “Gin and tonic.” I’m not going to specify what type of gin as the meager display of bottles lined up behind him against a large mirror tells me they only stock just one brand of everything.

  “Coming right up.” He scoops some ice out of a metal container – too much ice, you fuck – pours the gin and tonic water simultaneously, and then tops it off with a pathetic-looking lime.

  I oughta’ stick this guy in the neck right now with a rusty fork for making me that shitty drink. I don’t even need to taste it. I know it will be crap.

  He pushes the drink toward me, the glass cold in my hand when it makes contact with my palm. I lift it to my lips and take a sip. I put the glass back down on the bar and push it toward him with three fingers. I point to it. “Top me off with some more gin.” The clueless fuck just looks at me.

  “I can’t do that.”

  I lean in and growl at him. “Why the fuck not?”

  “It’s policy.”

  “How about this policy? You add some more gin, so I can actually taste the alcohol in my drink. This shit is watered down, and I don’t put up with that.” My eyes are cutting into him like daggers, and this guy knows it’s not wise to push me any farther.

  He grabs the bottle of Tanqueray from behind him, and with a shaking hand, nervously pours until the gin is overflowing the top of the tumbler, spilling onto the red counter.

  I take another sip, my eyes still zeroed in on him. “Better.”

  I glance at my phone. Boarding time is in ten minutes, so I make short work of my drink, leave the guy a better tip than he deserves, grab my soft black leather bag that’s been resting on the old-fashioned stool next to me, and make my way toward the gate.

  There it is: Concourse D, American Airlines.

  And shit.

  There she is.

  Drop-dead gorgeous, she’s looking straight at me, her left hand settled seductively on her hip, her long, dark hair flowing down wildly over her smooth shoulders. Her pouty lips are pursed together, her eyes slightly squinted in a sexy way. Her complexion is flawless, and she’s not heavily made-up, just the way I like them. She’s Latina, I think.

  Her intense, dark eyes follow me as I walk, and the bold bewitching hint of attitude cloaking her face makes my cock bounce a little in my drawers. She’s wearing a sultry snow white skirt cut more than midway up her thighs that accentuates all her curves. The flirtatiously cut neckline of the body-hugging red sweater she’s wearing plunges down provocatively between her perky tits, teasing me with only a profile of the treasures within.

  I return the heated look, never breaking eye contact with her, and take a seat on one of those plastic-connected seats only found in airports and DMVs. I casually sling my arm over the back of one of the chairs and try to look as cool as possible. She smiles alluringly at me, and my cock hardens in response. She coolly turns her head and sashays away, shaking her healthy
ass at me.

  Is that it? I thought we had some chemistry going here, and she didn’t even give me any time to flirt with her. Fucking tease.

  I lose sight of her as she turns the corner, so I go back to my business of scoping the area around me – a natural thing for me to do – and try to push that tantalizing Latina beauty out of my mind.

  Trouble is, I can’t.

  3

  Vito

  A middle-aged woman with failing blond hair, obviously a looker in her time, scans my boarding pass as I approach the door to the jet bridge. She waves me through, her smile for me laced with a little extra. I’ve always been confident with chicks dating back to my teenage years when I was muff-diving long before most guys. I just smile, sweet talk them a bit, and I’m in. Plain and simple.

  I walk the length of the bridge connecting the terminal to the plane, pausing before I board to touch the red and blue American Airline logo on the outside of the access door. It’s an old superstition of mine dating back to when I was a kid: the plane won’t crash if I touch the fuselage before boarding.

  Once onboard, I find my seat, 18A, right next to the window. I take a moment to scan the people around me. Nobody better fucking talk to me. Last time I was on a five-hour flight to San Francisco, this woman talked my ear off for the first hour. She told me all about her grandkids, and showed me pictures of them on the phone she could barely figure out how to use, and then asked me if I had anyone special in my life.

  Because I couldn’t stand having the conversation for another second, I answered with, “I have a different special person in my life almost every night.” For good measure, I winked at her. Couldn’t resist. I was only telling her the truth. That shut her right the fuck up. Not that she wasn’t a nice lady or anything – she actually reminded me a bit of my grandmother – but I had a job to contend with as soon as I landed in San Fran, and I needed to get my game face on. Talking about little kids with an old lady, and then gutting a guy like a fucking deer a few hours later, are like mixing oil and water. It just doesn’t work.