by Sam Mariano
Surviving Mateo
(Morelli Family, #2)
By Sam Mariano
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Surviving Mateo (Morelli Family, #2) Copyright © 2017 by Sam Mariano
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
Jen Curtis, this one’s for you, lady. You are all kinds of amazing. It’s hard to believe the Morellis ever existed without you! You’ve been such a rockstar, and I so appreciate all your help in the promotion of this series! If I had Mateo’s wallet, I’d buy you some Louboutins to hate. :D
Chapter One
There’s too much food.
Moving foil pan after foil pan, I try to find my countertop. Somewhere buried under all this food, I have the phone number for my computer repair person that Evelyn needs, but I just… there’s so much food.
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to get that now,” the older woman says, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“No, it’s here, somewhere, there’s just so much goddamn food!”
Her eyes widen, clearly horrified, and she honest-to-god clutches her pearls.
Bracing myself against the counter, I force myself to mellow. Turning back to her, I say, “I’m so sorry.”
She doesn’t know how to respond, torn between her sympathy for me, and her obvious disapproval of my being a godless monster who swears at her dead husband’s wake.
Which I guess I can understand.
I go back to looking for the phone number, but with much less enthusiasm. Evelyn backs out of the room, probably to call child protective services on me.
I finally give up, opening one of the containers and finding pepperoni bread. “Oh, score,” I say to no one, ripping off a chunk and taking a bite.
A few minutes and two pepperoni rolls later, I make my way back out to my living room. On the way, I overhear Dorothy telling some other busybody, “I still think she should’ve had a funeral. This isn’t a funeral. It’s not right.”
Sliding behind her, I state, “He didn’t want a funeral, Dorothy.”
She flushes, being caught talking about me. I give her a little wink and keep walking.
I finally get to the only person in this house I want to see—and she’s less than three feet tall, with cute little white dress shoes and a pink velvet dress on. I’m sure they’ve been wagging their tongues about how inappropriately I dressed our three-year-old, but I just don’t have it in me to give a damn.
Rodney liked her in this dress.
“Momma!”
I scoop up my little girl, placing her on my hip. “Hey, sugar.”
Giggling, she says, “I’m not sugar.”
“Ice cream?”
“No!”
“Popsicle?”
Laughing again, she shakes her head.
“Cookie?” I ask, in earnest.
“I’m not cookie! I’m Lily!”
“Oooh, that’s who you are,” I say, tickling her until she begs me to stop, then pulling her in for a hug.
I earn several more looks of rebuke from the strangers gathered in my living room, mostly friends of Rodney’s mother—people who didn’t even know my late husband, and if they would’ve, they wouldn’t have liked him.
I don’t care what they think. Lily doesn’t understand what this is. She doesn’t even understand Rodney’s gone yet, and I’m damn sure not going to condemn her to an evening of solemnity to make everyone else feel better.
So I’m not coping the way they think I should. Fuck them.
Unfortunately, Rodney’s mother approaches me next. She stands less than five feet tall, and she walks a bit hunched, making her appear even shorter. She has a cloud of somehow-brown hair, frizzy and dead-looking, but she gets it styled every six weeks, so I guess it must still be alive.
“Meg, honey, why don’t you let me take Lily tonight?” she suggests.
I shake my head, forcing a smile. “We’re fine, thank you.”
“I really don’t think it’s hit you yet,” she says, gazing at me with sad eyes.
I do feel bad about this. She’s a fairly nice woman. She’s always been pretty good to me and Lily; she just raised a shitty son, and will go to her grave denying it.
I wish I could give her the broken, grieving daughter-in-law she obviously craves, but I just can’t.
While I’m sick that my little girl has lost her father, and even a bit sad for myself, the overwhelming relief I feel knowing he can no longer ruin us… well, I don’t blame his mom for not being able to understand that.
I’m a godless monster, after all.
She’s only a lifetime enabler.
Patting her hand awkwardly, I hoist Lily and head off to mingle with some more strangers, waiting for the blessed moment when I can remove them all from my house. Once they’re gone and Lily’s in bed, I’m going to plop my ass down at my kitchen table with a glass of wine, the checkbook, and a calculator, and come up with a plan to get out of this financial pit Rodney’s left us in. It won’t be easy, it won’t be quick, but eventually I’ll get out, and with him gone—God rest his soul—we will never fall back into it.
I’m also going to finish those pepperoni rolls. Those things are really good.
---
The guests gone, Lily in bed, wrapped in a satin bathrobe and fuzzy socks, I finally take a seat at my kitchen table. I decide to turn on some Frank Sinatra while I drink my wine, and I feel better than probably any wife has ever felt on the night of her husband’s wake.
As Frank tells me the best is yet to come, I munch, drink, balance, and believe him.
There’s a knock on the door and I sag with disappointment. You’ve got to be kidding me. Who shows up to a wake this late?
Wrapping the robe around my waist, I approach the door with a scowl on my face. It’s nearly ten. Come on.
I see a shadowy figure through the foggy glass of my front door, but Rodney knew a lot of night owls, so I don’t think twice as I open it up to greet the latecomer. I won’t invite him in, whoever it is.
An older man with salt and pepper hair stands at the door, expression neutral when I first arrive, but taking in my attire, he looks a little more interested.
Gross. He’s literally my father’s age. I assume. Mom never actually told me how old my dad was.
He has a big, long nose and bushy eyebrows that only old men can get away with.
Kindly ignoring the way his gray eyes rake over my body, I inform him, “Uh, thanks for stopping by to pay your respects, but the wake ended a couple hours ago, and my daughter’s already in bed, so… this isn’t a good time, but thanks.”
I nod at him, backing up to close the door, but a large man in a leather jacket and jeans suddenly appears, apparently having been backed up against my house, off to the side where I didn’t see him. His hammy arm stops the door before I can get it shut, and a shot of fear runs through me.
My gaze jumps to the older man; he’s not afraid.
The older man walks right into my house as his giant sidekick walks me backwards until I run into the closet door. I look up at him, swallowing, then look back to the older man.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Mrs. Gellar?” the old man asks, taking the hat from his head and holding it in
his hand, in a mocking show of respect. “So sorry for your loss.”
Obviously that’s not sincere, so I don’t bother thanking him. His giant goon steps away from me, since I’m proving docile, and picks up a picture frame I have displayed on the end table by the stairs. Glancing at it a moment, he passes it to the old man.
The man takes it, his gaze landing on my sweet daughter’s chubby baby cheeks and he smiles—sort of. It doesn’t quite look like a smile, but I don’t know what else to call it.
“Cute kid,” he tells me, dropping the frame on the floor.
The glass doesn’t shatter, but I glance down and see it did crack, right down the middle of Lily’s face.
Swallowing, still with my back against the closet door, I ask, “What do you want?”
The older man’s bushy brows shoot up his forehead. “You don’t want to know who I am?”
“Fine, who are you?” I ask, not interested in a guessing game.
“Antonio Castellanos. You know who I am now?”
My stomach sinks, because I do. Of the two crime families who essentially own Chicago, I know little, but I do know the names of the bosses: Mateo Morelli, and Antonio Castellanos.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Antonio smiles, looking at Giantman over here. “She’s fun. Isn’t she fun?”
His tone as dead as his eyes, Giantman looks at me and says, “So much fun.”
“I don’t like fun broads,” Antonio informs me. “But that’s okay. You’re not for me.”
“No shit,” I say, before I can help myself.
The old man looks like he’s going to respond, but then he pauses. “Are you listening to The Best is Yet to Come?” he asks, listening to the end of the song playing in the kitchen. “Your husband just died, you’re listening to this?”
“You knew him, right?” I say, rhetorically.
He shrugs. “I did. You’re right. Not a lot to miss. Surprised you know that though, on account you’re his woman.”
I can really only stare at him for that one.
“Anyway. I guess I don’t have to tell you, your husband was quite the gambler. Spending money all over town. Just happens, he owed me a lot of money when he died.”
Whatever amusement I’ve been able to maintain drains out of me now. I knew Rodney borrowed money to supplement his gambling habit when my paychecks ran out, but from Antonio fucking Castellanos?
“You know Mateo Morelli put the hit on him,” he adds, watching my face for a reaction.
I keep it completely blank as I reply, “I’ll have to send him a card; he saved me a lot of money.”
Regarding his large friend, Castellanos points to me and says, “Cold as ice, this one. Jesus Christ.” Then, back to me, he says, “I’ll be honest, honey, I liked you for your face and your tits, but I think you’re even more perfect than I expected.”
“Can I quote you on my dating profile?” I quip.
Giantman snorts at that one, and I glance up at him, since I really didn’t think he’d been amused by me thus far.
Still smiling at me, Antonio Castellanos tells me, “The debt your husband owed me didn’t disappear with his death. That’s not how debt works. It passes on. Rodney’s debt? That’s yours now.”
I can’t lie and say I’m not disappointed, but I square my narrow shoulders, nodding. “That’s fair. I don’t know how much he owes you, but I’m working on a payment plan to get us out of the hole he left us in right now. Me and Ol' Blue Eyes, actually,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the kitchen. “I’m sure I don’t have it all right now, but if you can give me a balance, obviously I’ll prioritize paying you off first.”
Castellanos shakes his head, popping his hat back on his head. “I don’t want your money. You ain’t got that much.”
Watching him warily, I ask, “Then what do you want?”
“A favor.”
I don’t get involved in this shit myself, but it’s not hard to guess a favor doesn’t come cheap in his world. This isn’t going to be “water my plants while I’m on vacation.”
“I’m not sure I could be of much use to you. I live a very straight and narrow life. I’m not my husband. I don’t do the kind of shit he does—did,” I amend, shaking my head at the slip.
“You don’t need to. You don’t need any special skills; a pair of tits, your smart mouth, I think you’ll be good to go.”
“And what mission, exactly, is this?”
Antonio Castellanos smiles at me, his creepy not-a-smile again, and my skin crawls, but I keep my cool, ‘cause I’m good at that. “Seduction.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Ugh, seriously? No thanks. Men are gross.”
He looks a little thrown by that, his eyebrows rising. “You eat pussy?”
I manage not to snort. “I might start, if the Rodneys of the world are what’s left out there.”
I’ve finally caught Antonio’s interest, despite being fun, I guess, but now Giantman is the one staying focused. “This isn’t a request,” Giantman tells me, lifting his foot and stomping the framed picture of Lily beneath his shoe, shattering it this time.
Sobering, I swallow, looking at Antonio Castellanos. “Okay. I need more information. Who am I seducing? And to what end?”
I get the feeling he’s reveling in what he’s about to say, but it doesn’t make me any less comfortable—because I’m already fucking uncomfortable, I just don’t see the point of cowering. If they want a favor from me, they want a favor—let’s get down to brass tacks so I can agree to fuck some asshole and get them out of my house.
“I was a little misleading. I mean, you’ll have to seduce him, but that’s not where the job ends.”
Of course it’s not. Remaining stoic, I ask, “So, what’s the job?”
His mouth catches somewhere between a smile and a sneer, and despite insinuating he likes me, I get the feeling he very much doesn’t as he says, “You’re going to kill Mateo Morelli.”
Chapter Two
I don’t mean to laugh.
Really, it’s not funny.
It’s horrifying, and impossible, and a lot of other things—but not funny.
“No, I’m not,” I say, shaking my head.
“Yes, you are.”
“What next, you want me to blow OJ?” I ask, eyes widening. “He killed the last woman he fucked. His wife or whatever—I don’t know, someone he was fucking, that bitch sleeps with the fishes now. No way.”
Reaching into his pocket, Antonio draws out two photographs. I expect this to be some kind of blackmail, some added “incentive” to do his bidding—or at least a picture of Mateo Morelli, in case I don’t already know about his dreamy eyes and muscular build. Obviously that makes me feel better about the wife-killer thing. Obviously.
“That’s not true,” he says, showing me a picture of some girl instead. “This is the last girl he fucked. She’s alive and well over in Evanston. I can’t get to her though, she’s with some nobody family member of his. Anyway, you look alike,” he says, holding her picture closer to my face.
I take it, frowning at the picture. “I mean… not really,” I say. We’re both thin and pretty with good hair and blue eyes, but that’s really not looking alike. I’m also older than this girl; apparently, he’s also cradle-robbing these days.
“Close enough,” he says, taking the picture back. Then he shows me another picture of another girl at a club, dancing in a strapless black dress, more tanned with dark hair. “This is the one he killed. You don’t look like her.”
“Oh, well, good; I’m sure he won’t kill me then.”
Antonio nods, like this logic makes sense, but probably just because he doesn’t give a single fuck. I’m super expendable.
“Look, I can’t… even if I could get to Mateo Morelli—which I can’t, because again, I am not a part of this world. But even if I could, I can’t kill a man. I don’t know how to fire a gun, and these ones?” I hold up my thin, unimpressive arms. “Not gonna take down a mob boss.”
/>
“You’re okay with your husband getting whacked but not the boss who put a hit on him?” Antonio asks, bushy eyebrows drawn together. “Whatever your husband was, honey, I promise you, this son of a bitch is worse.”
“I do not doubt that, but this son of a bitch is not my problem.”
“He is now.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just stare, wishing my floor would open up and swallow this guy. How the hell do I get out of this?
“Can’t I just pay you the money?” I ask.
“Debt just doubled,” he states coldly. “You got $30,000 tucked away in your freezer?”
I want to say he can’t just double a debt like that, but I guess he can.
“You don’t say yes in the next few seconds, it just might double again. You might owe me more than the one favor, if that happens.”
“Okay,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. I don’t know what I’m agreeing to, exactly, but I don’t want favors piling up. Catching my head in my hands, I exhale slowly, trying to figure out where to go from here. “How am I supposed to do this without getting killed?”
“It’ll be risky, but long as you time it right, you’ll be okay. I’ll have a crew following you, they can help you. All you gotta do is slip something in his drink and your job’s done. He drinks his drink, you go home. Whatever it takes to get to that point, you do. Once he’s been dosed, my guys clean up the mess.” He brushes his hands several times. “Done.”
I’m cold all over at this point, but I try not to appear shaken. The idea of actually killing someone… I don’t think I’m capable of that.
“They’ll know it was me.”
“Could’ve been a bartender. Server. Lot of people hate him. Use your maiden name though, just in case.”
“I can’t do this,” I say quietly, shaking my head.
“Then you better get ready to have another funeral, honey,” he tells me, kicking the ruined picture frame with the toe of his loafer. “You won’t need a big casket for this one.”
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