Mick Sinatra: Now Will You Weep

by Mallory Monroe

  MICK SINATRA 6

  NOW WILL YOU WEEP

  BY

  MALLORY MONROE

  Copyright©2016 Mallory Monroe

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  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious. Any similarities to anyone living or dead are completely accidental. The specific mention of known places or venues are not meant to be exact replicas of those places, but are purposely embellished or imagined for the story’s sake.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Chinese madam was hot. She closed down her house for them, losing customers and money too, and this was the thanks she got? She hurried through the curtains and met the men in the dusty parlor. She tried to block their path. “What about tip?” she asked as the men were grabbing their coats and preparing to leave. “Girls good all night long. They deserve more. Leave tip. What about tip?”

  “Here’s a tip for you,” the tallest of the three men said, a smile piercing his handsome face. “Never ask thugs for a tip. They just might tip your ass off the face of this earth.”

  The others laughed, pushed her small body aside, and headed out of the upstairs apartment. The madam, not smiling at all, kept complaining. “You should leave tip!” she yelled after them. “Girls good all night long. Leave tip!”

  But the men put on their coats and kept going. The establishment was a two story row house on a dead end street. Upstairs was a parlor and five bedrooms, and downstairs were stairs that led to the front door. They headed down those stairs exhausted and satisfied. They had been at it all night, and the whores were better than usual. She was right about that. But the reward wasn’t more money from them. The reward should have been, at least from how they saw it, their presence alone. Better hoe houses were up and down the streets of Philadelphia, with better looking women too. But they came because she was close by. They came because she was willing to clear the house of every local stiff trying to get laid, whenever they showed up.

  “How long is he gonna be?” the youngest of the three men asked as they headed downstairs.

  “He’s fucking Malala,” the tall man responded. “As long as it takes.”

  “Think we got time to get a cup of coffee? That chank coffee taste like tea.”

  “He just got started on her again,” Tall said. “His impotent ass takes forever to get it up. We got time. We got plenty of time.”

  He opened the door to exit out of the dark, dank building first, with the two younger men behind him. The burst of wind that defined the night was still present that morning and hit them in the face like a splash of cold water. But just as they were about to lift the collars of their coats and make their exit, another coat, a long, white, flowing coat, appeared in the doorway and blocked their path.

  It didn’t take a genius to know who wore that coat, or why the big man in front of them was standing there, and these men weren’t geniuses. They were longtime mobsters with longtime enemies who knew one when they saw one. And they knew they were standing in front of their biggest. And in a moment like this they would have preferred to face all of their other enemies combined than to face this one alone.

  And every one of them knew if they didn’t act and didn’t act fast, that plenty of time they thought they had was about to be up in a flash.

  “Pull your shit and take this fucker out now!” Tall yelled as he backed up his long body in a stooped position and grabbed for his weapon, and as his colleagues sought to draw their weapons too and meet this unexpected threat with the kind of firepower they were known for.

  But they were dealing with a man who was known for his skills too. And he didn’t come there to be taken out. Nor to give them time to draw shit. Mick Sinatra already had his weapon drawn, and was pointing it at the tall man’s forehead, to take him out first, even as the tall gangster was yelling for them to take out Mick.

  Mick took him out with a bullet through the forehead, and then aided his dead man fall by pushing him aside.

  Tall’s two colleagues, who knew trying to fight Mick the Tick would be suicidal, abandoned their gun-drawing scheme and turned tail. They sprinted back up the stairs like Olympic track stars, seeking shelter from certain death with the very woman they had just derided. But Mick was a track star too, a street track star, and sprinted up those stairs behind them, shooting one in the ass, the other one in the back of the head, as he ran. Then he shot them both several more times, to ensure their demise, as one fell over the banister and landed on his face, and the other one slid down the stairs and landed at Mick’s feet. Mick kicked him aside, and then continued upstairs, heading for the prize.

  He kicked the upstairs door in, causing the Chinese madam, who had heard the gunfire, who was running for cover in the confines of her backrooms, to stumble and fall. But she wasn’t who Mick was after. Not her, and not her whores. He ran through the halls, with his white coat flowing all around him, as he kicked in door after door looking for that one particular door. Sweat was on his forehead. This one-man mission wasn’t without risk, and Mick continued to turn around, aiming his weapon, in case there were more men inside than he had estimated, and they were gunning for him.

  But as soon as he arrived at the right door, and kicked it open, the curtain on the open window fell with its rod, as the wind battled it relentlessly. Mick knew he had found his mark because nobody, not even hookers in the throes of hot sex, would leave a window open on an early morning like this.

  Malala, the Asian hooker in bed, had scooted up against the backboard, her sweaty nakedness only highlighting the stank sex smells that filled the room, as she looked upon the tall stranger now in her bedroom. She looked at Mick not with fear, but with surprise. She even looked him up and down, assessing him at a time like this, as if every man was a potential dollar bill, and she needed the cash.

  But Mick wasn’t thinking about her ass. He was thinking about his target, as he ran to the window and looked out. And that was when he saw him. Jake the Snake Vietti. Jumping down from the fire escape, running across the alleyway, with his pants still half off and his shirt barely on.

  “Scattering like a roach in the night,” Mick said to h
imself, as Jake jumped into a car and the car sped away.

  And then Mick’s harsh look changed. He even smiled. Because this was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want Jake to fall today. He needed him to live. Mick needed that bastard to run for his life, to constantly look behind his back, to tell the others exactly why he feared for his miserable life. Jake’s old man was among the bosses who ganged up and tried to kill Mick a month ago. It didn’t work: Mick killed their asses. But their surviving sons, their family heirs, thought they had him where they wanted him. They thought he had been so spooked by two assassination attempts, and so damaged, that he was as good as dead. Now he was back. Now it was his turn to spook them. And the hit this morning, he was certain Jake would understand, was his opening shot.

  Mick turned to leave. The hooker smiled when he turned her way. “Wanna fuck?” she asked as she opened her legs, with Jake’s thick cum still oozing between her folds. She smelled sour and looked even worse.

  “Tell a motherfucker anything about me,” Mick warned the whore, “and you’ll be fucked.”

  That look in his eyes shook her. She’d been around hardened gangsters all of her life, but nobody that looked like him. She closed her legs and withdrew her body away from him. His words were enough. She suddenly wanted no parts of him either.

  And Mick, never satisfied because his work was never done, left that hellhole too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Cadillac Escalade stood cranked and ready on the circular driveway outside the front door of the Sinatra estate. Deuce McCurry, with the door opened on the front passenger side, stood beside it, ready too. Additional SUVs, a Chevy Suburban and a Ford Explorer, were also parked on the driveway: one in front of the Escalade, one behind it. Pauly Pantangelo, the driver of the Ford in back, had gotten out of his vehicle and was walking over to Deuce.

  “Windy as hell out here,” Pauly said as he walked up. He was rubbing his hands together and then cupping them and blowing into them. “It felt great yesterday, now it’s windy today.”

  “What’s up, Pauly?” Deuce asked.

  “What’s up with you? I haven’t seen your old ass in a while.”

  “I’m glad I haven’t seen yours,” Deuce fired back with a smile. “It’s always bad news when you show up. Now he got you on driving duty?”

  “Can you believe it? No offense to your profession, Deuce, but I ain’t never been no fucking driver in my life. I’ve got men to supervise. I’ve got an entire section to run. But that’s how crazy things are right now.”

  “I’ve been with him a long time,” Deuce said, “and I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s hand-picking the people he wants. He’s taking no chances. Consider it a compliment you got picked.”

  But Pauly, the younger man, disagreed. “Don’t feel like no compliment to me,” he said. “Feels like a demotion to me. Feels like high school when they always singled me out for suspension because I was the poorest kid in the group and they knew my old man wouldn’t care enough to complain.”

  Deuce laughed. “It’s not that bad, come on.” Then his smile left. “At least you won’t have to attend the meeting.”

  The thought of that meeting still sent chills up Pauly’s spine. He knew every underboss that had been ordered to be there. They were calling him, asking if he knew what was going on. They were all terrified out of their minds. It was nuts. “Yeah, at least I won’t have to be there,” Pauly agreed. “But driving around all day? This ain’t no prize. It’s a fucking prison sentence.”

  Deuce smiled and left it alone. Because he knew Pauly had no idea what he was talking about. Deuce wasn’t just a driver. Deuce was the most trusted man in Mick Sinatra’s organization. That was why Mick hand-picked him to be his wife’s driver when he first got married. That was why Mick hand-picked him to be his own driver before he met Roz. That was why, whenever Mick needed protection inside his home, Deuce got that call.

  But his position remained solidified within Mick’s organization, not because he could brag all day to Pauly about his position, but because he didn’t brag at all. Because he let fools like Pauly think being a soldier on the field was more important to Mick than the soldiers he had closest to his family.

  But Pauly was restless. He was an underboss. He wasn’t accustomed to waiting around, or taking orders. He was accustomed to giving orders. “What’s taking them so long anyway?” he asked Deuce. “I was ordered to be here by eight. It’s half past already. What’s up with that?”

  Deuce smiled again. Pauly had a lot to learn. “They’ll come out when they’re good and ready,” he said. “Patience, my man.”

  But Pauly was not only impatient, but was still fuming. “A driver,” he said, shaking his hand. “A driver! I worked my ass off for this? Fucking unbelievable!”

  But what was even more unbelievable was what happened as soon as Pauly moved to blow heat into his hands again. He stopped mid-blow when he glanced across the vast estate and saw, near the far side, a figure in a long, white coat and all black clothing walking toward a side entrance. He quickly elbowed Deuce. “What the fuck?” he asked. “That’s Boss.”

  Deuce looked too, and was as shocked as Pauly was to see Mick walking across his own estate, as if he’d been out somewhere. Alone.

  “I thought he was in the house,” Pauly said.

  “So did I,” Deuce said.

  “Where the hell has he been?” Pauly asked, but Deuce had no answers either, and remained silent. When Mick saw them staring, he made a detour from the side entrance he was about to enter, and headed their way.

  Both men seemed to stand at attention when Mick walked up. Deuce knew his friend from way back, and could tell in his eyes that he’d been on a kill, but he wasn’t about to share that knowledge with Pauly, or anybody else.

  “Good morning, Boss,” Pauly said with a big smile on his face, as if it was his pleasure to be one of the drivers today.

  But Mick looked at Deuce. “My wife still inside?” he asked him.

  “Yes, sir,” Deuce responded.

  “You’ll ride shotgun with Pauly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deuce responded, and Mick hurried up the steps and into his house.

  “What did that mean?” Pauly asked. “He’s going to drive her? Why would he need me to be a driver if he’s going to be one too? Why would he want to do a fool thing like that?”

  Deuce didn’t respond. Pauly was one of those guys who would never understand Mick’s love for his wife no matter what anybody told him. Deuce wasn’t one of those guys who cared to enlighten him. He remained silent.

  Inside the house, Rosalind “Roz” Graham-Sinatra was fully dressed and putting one of the twins, Jacqueline, back in her crib. Unlike Mick, Junior, or Duke as Mick now called him, Jackie had been crying nonstop when Roz kissed her goodbye. So much so that Roz had to turn back around and pick her back up. It was only then, in her mother’s arms, would Jackie stop crying and go back to sleep. Now both twins were asleep, both Nannies were grateful, and Roz was grabbing the briefcase she had sat down at the Nursery door, and was heading out again.

  Mick had entered the house, and was walking across the marbled foyer, just as she was heading up front. They went to bed together last night, arm in arm. But when Roz woke up this morning, he was already gone. Long gone by the looks of it. And she was concerned.

  She was relieved when she saw him, but she didn’t show it. She didn’t want to encourage his non-communicative habits that remained a bone of contention in their marriage.

  “Good morning, darling,” he said to her, as he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She looked gorgeous, he thought, in her form-fitting dress and heels, but he knew his wife. She was not interested in compliments right now.

  “You couldn’t tell me you were leaving?” Roz asked him, her face more serious than sensual.

  “You were asleep,” Mick responded.

  “Then wake me up. I told you I didn’t like that, Mick. I don’t like waking up and you’re gone. Then
I have to spend all morning wondering if you’re okay. Or if I should contact Security. Or if I should try to phone you on your cellphone like I’m some insecure female checking up on her man.”

  “I wasn’t out fucking, Rosalind,” Mick said in a tired, dismissive tone. “So don’t worry about it.”

  The way he reduced her concern to mere insecurity, when he knew she wasn’t that kind of woman, angered Roz. “Fuck you!” she said to him with anger in her voice, and turned to leave their home.

  But Mick, quickly realizing his error, took her by the arm and turned her back toward him. “I should not have said that,” he said. “I apologize.”

  Roz took his response to heart when he said the two words he would never say to any other human being alive. There was a time, Roz remembered, when he wouldn’t even say those words to her. “Where were you?” she asked him.

  “I had to make a run,” he responded.

  “A kill run?” Roz asked.

  Mick hesitated. It was enough of a burden for her to bear being married to him. He wasn’t going to allow her too deep down into that hellhole he sometimes had to wallow in. He kissed her again. His lips lingered against hers as he momentarily closed his eyes and rested in that wonderful feeling of peace and love she always managed to produce in him. He wished he could take her away to a place where his enemies could not find them. But that would require leaving the face of the earth. “A run,” was all he would say in response to her question, and then he added: “I’ve got to get ready for work,” and then left the foyer and headed upstairs.

  Roz watched him hurry up, as he took two stairs at a time, and her heart was heavy. He was still reeling from those assassination attempts. Not because of the attempts on his life, which were bad enough, but because she and the twins were with him. They all nearly died that day. It was a bitter pill for a proud man like Mick to swallow, and Roz knew it. And she knew, just as surely as she was watching him now, that he was not going to swallow it. He was not going to let anybody remotely associated with that ambush get away with it.