Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance)

by Kara Hart

  “Sorry, Carl,” I muttered, putting my apron on. “It won't happen again.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? It's Carmelo. Carl is my son. This is the third time you've been late this month. Does this job mean anything to you?” He wiped his hands on a dry towel and shook his bald head. Carl had put his whole life into this café. He came to America from the islands of Sicily thirty years ago and never looked back.

  “This job means everything to me, Carmelo. You know I have a daughter,” I said, turning very serious. It was a serious accusation. I may had been stupid in the past, but my daughter was my life and this job meant my daughter could go to a good school.

  “I know,” he sighed. “But no more! The customers need you here!” I looked around the empty room. The only movement around us was buzzing flies at the windows.

  I looked at him as if he were delusional. “What?” He asked me, throwing his hands in the air wildly. Suddenly, the bell above the front rang and the glass door swung open violently. My stomach sank as I lifted my eyes to see the man in black. “There we go! A customer! Good morning, sir,” Carmelo said.

  “Morning,” the man muttered, his deep voice sent waves of warmth between my legs. I took one look at him and wondered what he would look like between my legs, or towering over me even. I quickly dismissed the idea. What is happening to me? Clearly, I needed to get laid.

  He sat down at a table and sighed, now smelling of gasoline and engine grease. I walked over and set a lone menu down for him to look at. “You couldn't stay away, huh?” I asked.

  “Got hungry,” he said. A small smirk pushed his cheeks up. “Anyway. I don't need a menu. I know what I want. Two eggs, sourdough toast, extra bacon cooked extra bone-dry crispy, and a steak on the side. Oh, and coffee. Black. That's it.”

  “Hungry man,” I said, writing his order down. “Okay I'll have it out in 15.” He nodded.

  As I walked away he said, “Work accident.”

  I turned around, confused by his words. “Excuse me?”

  He raised his eyes and looked at me. He looked tired and worn out, as if he had a really tough week. “My hands. You asked me what the blood was from. It was a work accident.”

  “What kind of work do you do? You a boxer or something?” I taped his order above the kitchen opening and walked back to the table.

  “Ha, no. I don't box. I've fought enough people in my life to be one though.” He looked down at my legs. The spandex from my yoga pants molded around my flesh. I blushed, feeling a prickling sensation rush through my body. He was strong. He had this raw, unadulterated power to him. It was rare. Still, his presence was more of a nuisance than anything else.

  “Eyes up here, bud,” I said, getting annoyed by his wandering gaze.

  “I work up in Detroit. In the factories. Lots of things can go wrong. Unfortunately, a screw got loose in the mechanics and a whole row of shipping containers fell on top of one of the workers,” He said. He was nonchalant, as if this happened every day.

  “Oh my God. Is he okay?” I asked, suddenly feeling concern for a stranger. Why the hell did I care? Two minutes ago, this guy was such a prick. Now I was opening up to him? Well, it was a lonely town and I could use some conversation.

  “No. He died. I tried everything I could to get that damn container off him. Mangled my hand trying to save his life,” he said, taking off his jacket. His shirt was smeared with oil and grease from his car.

  “I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. Lucky for me, his order came up. I awkwardly went behind the bar to grab it and set it on the table for him.

  “Well, enjoy your food. Sounds like you deserve it. And I'm sorry for earlier. Even though you were kind of being a dick, I shouldn't have caused such a scene,” I said. “Hope your day is a little better for ya.”

  “It's okay, I get it.” He ate his food like a wild animal, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks and his life depended on it.

  When he was finished he left a hundred-dollar bill and walked right out. “Keep the change. I'll see you around.” He muttered without even looking at me. Something told me I'd be seeing him again soon.

  2

  LUCAS

  L ife in the shadows wasn't always pretty. I hadn't slept in days and I hadn't eaten either. The boss of the family made it absolutely clear I couldn't call him from any cell phones. “Watch out for pay phones too. We don't want trouble from the big guys upstairs. Got it?” He warned me.

  I got it. No calls. I stood inside the factory and observed the workers, rubbing my sore hand. The encounter with that woman yesterday rubbed me the wrong way. The way she spoke to me, as if I was some piss-ant on the side of the road. How about a little respect for once? Was that too much to ask?

  I loathed the modern world. People like me didn't get any credit. I was just a speck of trash to them. No matter. When they saw me bust through their door with a baseball bat, their tone always changed.

  Anyway, that's not what I was aiming for by coming up here. No, I was on the lookout for something more. I wasn't exactly the kind of guy to enjoy the small town kind of life, mostly because I hated eyes on me. Normally, with a job, I went in and got what I wanted. Then I got out as fast as I could, leaving without a trace. Unfortunately for me, this job was a little bigger.

  A drink. I need a drink. I grabbed a bottle of homemade whisky, made in the derelict city of Detroit, poured myself three shots and tossed them back. The burn. That was the kick I needed.

  I walked outside and looked at my old Cadillac. It was a piece of shit. You'd think with all the money I seized that I’d be rich. Hell no. Every cent went to my piece of shit brother Ricky, the “family man.” His wife got caught in a hellfire of bullets one day, and suddenly he was a stand-up guy who deserves all the respect in the world. Ricky lost his wife and, for that, my sympathies go out to him. But honestly, he was a lazy slob.

  I walked over to the front seat and turned the keys. It revved alright, but it wasn't catching.

  “Just my luck.” I scowled. The whisky had set in, causing me to feel upset over the smallest things. I pounded on the steering wheel and dashboard. “Stupid fucking car!” I yelled.

  There was no time to dwell on it, however. I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. I put my right hand on my pistol and gripped it hard. If someone had found me, their face would have new holes in it in just a few seconds. I turned to my left, clutching my gun.

  “Hello!” A voice uttered. An old man stood in front of me. I quickly put the safety on my gun and took a deep breath, placing it in under my seat. “You called a mechanic?” He asked me, still giving me that dumb small town smile.

  “Uh, yeah. The thing died on me. Got it towed here, but it won't start,” I said.

  “Ah, I'll have a look at it,” he said. I popped the hood for him and he looked inside. I couldn't help but notice he was missing a hand. “Cadillac, huh. This is a classic beauty, a luxurious vehicle.” He admired the engine.

  “It's a piece of junk.” I said. “It was my father’s.”

  “Well, your father has some good taste.” He turned a valve and sighed. It didn't take long for him to figure out what was going on. “Well, I think I've figured out the problem.”

  “What is it? Expensive?” I eyed him. Fucking mechanics were prone to their lies.

  “It won't be cheap,” he said, frowning. “Your transmission is shot and you've blown a gasket. I'd be happy to tow you into town. I've got a shop near downtown, I could fix you right up.” He shut the hood and wiped his one hand clean.

  “Back into downtown? Shit, I just came from there earlier.” I shook my head and spit onto the dirt outside.

  The old man straightened his greasy shirt out and wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead. “It's about the closest shop to you right now. There's another mechanic further south but he’ll cost you more and your car will hit the fan again soon enough. Anyway, it's your call. I just tell it how it is.”

  “Why not?” I reasoned. “Better than buy
ing a new car I guess.” It wasn't really about the money. I had some money to spend, but I'd rather not risk getting too friendly with the inhabitants of Monroe if I didn't have to.

  “Take a seat,” he said. I jumped in as he hooked my car to the back and before long we were headed downtown.

  * * *

  T he man had his best mechanic looking at my car as he stood around to make sure all was set. He handed me a clipboard with a piece of paper attached to it and said “This is just to let you know what we’re fixing on the vehicle. Here's the cost at the bottom. It could be cheaper depending on what's wrong with it. We’ll let you know by the end of the day. You hungry at all? There's a nice café you can wait in if you have nothing to do. It's just at the corner over there on 49th street.”

  “I’m sure I'll find something,” I said. I walked outside and pulled out a cigarette. I didn't always smoke, but in this dead-end town, I needed something to pass the time.

  I looked over at the café on the corner and lit my cigarette. I took a long, smooth drag. The whisky was wearing off now. I thought, maybe that place has some booze. I took another drag and decided to walk over. Shit, there wasn't anything else to do.

  That same familiar bell rang above my head, drawing all attention toward me. Someone needed to rip that thing down.

  “You again?” The voice of an annoying bird squawked from the kitchen. I lifted my head up and frowned.

  “Me again,” I mumbled.

  She gestured to a lone table in the corner. “Take a seat. What'll it be this time? Another four course meal?” She joked. It wasn't funny and I didn't laugh for her sake either.

  “Got any booze?” I asked her. “I'm thirsty.”

  “No booze. I have some coffee. Or maybe you'd like an iced tea,” she suggested. Fucking small towns. How could this place not have any booze?

  “Just give me a coffee then. Black.” She gave me an annoyed look and started toward the coffee maker. “Wait. Add a shot to that.”

  “One red eye, coming up.” She announced to the whole restaurant. She pressed one of the buttons on the machine down, waited for the coffee beans to get chopped up, and tamped the espresso. Her cute ass looked as sweet as candy and I couldn’t help but take a gander. She turned and gave me a disapproving look. “What are you looking at?” She asked me.

  “Nothing, miss. Just enjoyin’ you making that coffee.” I laughed.

  “You’re kind of annoying, aren’t you?” She asked me. I shrugged. I suppose I could be when the time called for it. She grabbed the hot cup of coffee, leaned over and set it on my table for me. Her tits, smooth and perfectly round, hung against the soft fabric of her shirt. I couldn’t help it. It was in my nature to fantasize about every good looking woman that came into view. What I would give to have them stuffed in my face.

  “I’m taking my 15 minute, Carmelo!” She suddenly yelled.

  A man from the back came out, wiping his hands on a towel. “You just took your 15!” He yelled.

  “Well I’m taking it again. You can dock me for tomorrow.” She reasoned.

  I got up as well, heading for the door, in front of her. When I got to it, I stopped. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the entrance,” she huffed at me.

  “Sorry, didn’t realize it was dire.” I fished in my pocket for another cigarette. I pushed open the door and held it open for her. “Here you go, princess.” I smirked.

  “Can you just not? My God, you might be the most annoying person I’ve had to deal with this year.” She walked out and sat down on a bench out front. I reluctantly joined her. Hell, why not. Maybe I could get some pussy out of all of this.

  Finally, after some searching, I found my pack of cigarettes. They were smashed under the wad of money I was given for my trip. I fumbled with one of them, pulled it out, and lit up the bent piece of tobacco.

  “Gross,” she said.

  “What? You don’t like cigarettes? What else don’t you like?” I muttered back, taking a big drag. I blew the smoke out in a big cloud and leaned back against the dusty wall.

  “No, I don’t like cigarettes. They’re disgusting. But it makes sense you like them.” She almost laughed, but managed to stop herself. She turned to me and said, “You know, who are you anyway? Why the hell are you in Monroe?”

  “Vacation,” I lied. “Here to see what a small town might offer me.”

  “Bullshit.” She pointed at me and smiled wide. “You’re up to something. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  She was right. I was up to something. But if she knew that, she would have to become very good friends with my 9mm. And I didn’t like hurting ladies.

  “You keep dreaming. This ain’t a movie. No, little lady. I’m just a guy from Detroit, looking for a real kind of life. I’m thinking Monroe might be a good place for a second start. you know?”

  “Little Lady?” She yelled. “You kidding me?”

  “You’re little and you’re definitely a lady, right?” I laughed, staring straight ahead at the mechanic’s place. Some of the guys were messing under the hood of my car. A few other guys sat by the fence across the street. They were staring my way, so I stared back at them.

  “You know you’re an asshole, right?” She replied. “Anyway, I’ll let it go since you obviously lack the social skills of a real adult. So you’re looking for a second start, huh? Sure came to the right place. Not much to do, though,” she sighed.

  “Sounds about right.” I took another deep drag and held out the cigarette in front of me. I turned and looked at her. She interested me. When the average age in town was 66, a broad in her 20’s waiting on tables made me think something might be a little weird.

  “So tell me, why does a guy like you need a second start? You in the mafia or something?” She laughed awkwardly to herself. I didn’t laugh back.

  The mafia. Did she really just call it that? She obviously had good intentions. She didn’t know where I came from. But if she kept making stupid suggestions like that, she may find herself buried under the Detroit International bridge.

  “If I was, I’d have to kill you.” I said, eyeing her menacingly. She looked fucking petrified, so I broke the silence and burst out laughing. “No, I’m not in the fucking mafia. Do I look like Don Corleone or something?”

  “Well,” she reasoned, “you look Italian.”

  “That’s because I am Italian. One hundred percent, full blood Italian. You know what that means, don’t you?” A sly smile fell onto my face.

  “No. Do I really want to know?” She asked with a disgusted look on her face.

  “It means I’ve got a huge—”

  “I knew you’d be gross. I get it, you have a big Italian sausage.” She shook her head and checked her watch. Ten minutes had passed now.

  “I wasn’t going to say that, but if you really think so, that’s mighty nice of you. I was going to say it meant I have a big family. You should see our dinners back in Detroit.” I kissed my fingers like a chef who just made his masterpiece.

  “I’m sure,” she muttered sarcastically. I loved these young women. They really carried that attitude on their sleeve. She was a judgmental broad, and I wouldn’t want to come across her when she got any older, but damn she was hot. I couldn’t stop thinking about that ass and what it would feel like to slide my tongue between those cheeks. I had been out here for a while. A man like me tends to get hungry after a few days.

  Across the street, some hungry men were also getting riled up. Only they were doing it in an unpleasant way. The kind of way I didn’t like. You didn’t get women by calling out to them on the street. That was just rude.

  “Baby!” One of them yelled. “Why don’t you mess with a real man! Get that fine ass over here and I’ll show you how it’s done!”

  “Ugh. Ignore them,” she said, looking embarrassed. “They always do this to me.”

  “Aw, come on, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful. You deserve better. Why don’t I take you out tonight? I promise I’ll go gentle on you.�
�� Another called out. They all laughed and cackled, bragging to themselves. They couldn’t land a woman if they tried all their lives. As much as I could be an asshole, I never stooped to that kind of low. Women deserved a little more respect than that.

  “They always do this to you?” I asked her, confused. “Always? Everyday?”

  “Everyday.” She nodded her head. It was the sad truth.

  I pushed myself off the wall and felt my blood begin to boil. “These fucking mechanics think they can talk to whomever they want, however they want.”

  “What’re you doing? Go back inside. It’s fine,” she said, realizing I was about to walk over there and teach them all a lesson or two.

  “Baby! Why don’t you come over here and sit on daddy’s face!” The first guy yelled back at her. He had a cocky smile draped over his face. That was the last straw. I had to teach him a lesson. No one should talk to women like they’re furniture.

  “Hey, pal.” I felt myself get tunnel vision. Looking straight ahead of me, I walked slowly across the street without checking for any cars. I didn’t care about anything right now, except for showing him what the hand of God felt like.

  “Buddy, sit back down. This doesn’t concern you. This is between me and the fine lady next to you,” he laughed.

  “Yeah,” the other guy jumped in, “sit back down, pussy.”

  Okay, that was the last straw. Despite the lady’s pleas, I couldn’t control what happened at this point. I was already across the street, walking toward the group of morons laughing together like a pack of wild hyenas. It just wasn’t their day.

  “Ever hear of the concept of respect?” I asked him.

  “What the fuck? Calm down pal.” The “leader” said to me. He turned to his friends and said “Can you believe this guy? Thinks he’s the fucking King of Monroe.” They, of course, all broke into choreographed laughter.

  “Not the king. Just your enemy. Buddy.” It was only seconds before my ring met his nose in a crashing display of strength. It was weak to ambush a lady like that. It was weaker to not apologize for your mistakes.