by A. C. Bextor
At the age of eighteen, my parents met and fell in love while attending the same university. Going into their love affair, they both knew the likelihood of ever being openly together was unlikely. But even with looming threats beyond their control, they never detoured from their dreams of starting a life of their own, away from this one.
Eventually, they sought out and reluctantly received both of Chicago’s most powerful mob family heads’ blessings to marry. Their joining was the catalyst in nearly ending a methodical and manipulating mob war that is still rumored about today.
Before a tragic car accident claimed their lives, my uncle swore by my mother’s wishes and promised I’d never be tainted by or forced to serve in the dredges of his criminal, albeit lucrative, lifestyle.
His oath to her hasn’t stopped my uncle from “offering” me positions, though. I’ve always denied them, and so far, he’s reluctantly accepted my refusals. But the time will come when I fear he won’t afford me that option anymore; I’ll be forced to decide between loyalty to the family who has loved and protected me and a life I’ve worked hard to keep outside of it.
As with many, family is family, and you’re expected to hold your position no matter the personal cost.
“How’s your work for others coming along, anyway?” Ciro questions, keeping me on the phone and away from what I need to be doing.
“Work is good. My patients are keeping me busy,” I sharply return.
“Have you given any more thought to my offer to come home for good?” he pries with hope. “Liam, I really—”
“Ciro, no,” I deny. “My life is in the city now.”
I was still considered a child when my parents perished in that fiery blaze while on their way home after what would be their last night out together. Being so young, I hadn’t realized how deeply their deaths would change the course of my life.
One evening, I was existing as an average kid, spending my time doing normal, everyday things. The next, I was being guarded by men with guns and escorted from my family home to my uncle Ciro’s mansion.
A short time later, after I came to live with Ciro, I realized life as I knew it would never be the same.
As a child, I knew my life’s dynamic was different. The other kids I grew up with were lucky to have loving parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I was blessed with them as well. But the men who surrounded me carried sharpened knives and loaded guns. The women and children were often held captive in their own homes for safekeeping. Some members of the family hardly seemed affected while others struggled, however quietly, against the ties that bound them to it.
I don’t regret my upbringing, nor do I look back with a sense of loss. I only have a sense of wonder.
What would it have been like to grow up with men of blood relation taking me to the park to play catch rather than those who were paid to watch over me taking me to the shooting range for target practice?
Thankfully, even while suffering through the loss of his sister, Ciro’s words of promise to her held true. He took me in, raising me as his own, just as he swore to her he would. However, he did it with an understanding that the Irish blood of my father no longer had a place within his Sicilian family. He despised the Dawsons, along with their peaceful agreement with his greatest enemy, the Russian Zaleskys.
After clearing his throat, Ciro demands, “Once you’ve finished with what needs done today, you’ll call. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“I’ll do that,” I assure. “Until then, stay out of trouble.”
His sardonic laugh gives me pause.
“I’ll stay out of trouble, Saint Liam.”
Because of Ciro’s hate for my father’s family, after my parents’ passing I lost all contact with my grandparents on the Dawson side. As I remember him, Killian Dawson wasn’t as soft-spoken or gentle as my father, but no doubt the love for his family was pure.
The accidental loss of his youngest son, then years later the murder of his oldest, left his Irish dynasty in ruins. Years have passed, and I’m not sure he’s ever recovered—a cold fact I know my uncle continuously revels in.
Finally disconnecting the call, I open the front door where I’m met with the angry eyes of my fourteen-year-old neighbor, Mac. Her pointed look of annoyance is something I’m familiar with.
I’ve known Mackenzie Gold a while, and she considers me her “unorganized mess” of a neighbor. Not long after we met, I decided Mac was an emotionally draining teenage man-terrorist in the making.
Her parents are good, hardworking people who moved in the condo next to mine shortly after I did. Mostly, they keep to themselves. Since they both work full time, sometimes late into the evening, it’s common that Mac comes knocking at my door for any odd, ridiculous reason. I soon came to understand that Mac doesn’t like to be left alone for long, so I’ve allowed her to loiter here as time allows, mostly when I’m not busy with work.
Mac’s small arms are crossed over her chest and her hip is cocked to the side as she bounces her foot on the gray marbled floor in my foyer. Not recalling the specific reason for her visit this early on a Friday morning, I study her snide look of disdain, buying the time needed to remember what I’ve apparently missed.
Giving her further consideration, I lift my eyebrow while bracing for her wrath.
“Well hello, mio dolce Mac. How are you this morning?”
“I’m here to take Cliff for his walk,” she petulantly informs, sans a proper greeting. “You told me to be here at seven o’clock sharp, so here I am.” She holds up the leash, proving she’s prepared to do what I’ve forgotten.
“Right. Shit.”
“Shit shouldn’t be a real word,” she expresses tightly. “The word itself is found in the dictionary, but a person shouldn’t use it as much as you do.”
“Good to know,” I dutifully return.
Reaching into the pocket of my suit, I pull out my wallet in search for cash. I wince as I look down at her fiery red locks and generously freckled face. I have nothing of small denomination.
“All right, Mac. Fair is fair, I suppose.” When I hand over a fifty-dollar bill, her angry expression shifts, and she blinks up in surprise. “You don’t need to take him out this morning. I’ll do it when I get home later.”
Mac rips the cash from my grasp and smiles with her usual orneriness. I’d much prefer this than the moody teenager so willing to spit in my face.
“Gotcha, Doc. Want me to come by Sunday, then?”
Glancing at my watch, I note that I’m now really running late if I have any hope of starting my last workday of the week where I had intended.
“Yes, Sunday’s good. Let’s go. I’ll walk you out.”
As we head further into the hall, Mac nudges me with her shoulder.
“Ya know, Doc, Cliff’s still considered a puppy and should be walked more than three times a week.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. And the sad fact is, the price of goods and services are going up dramatically in this country. Dad says the cost of Internet alone is increasing at a ridiculously rapid rate. Not to mention the value of our dollar is weakening more every day, causing monetary inflation this country just can’t afford.”
I stop in place, not about to point out my confusion.
Once I have her attention, I look down at her freckled face and piercing green eyes to respond with a direct accusation of, “So, your dad says?”
“Yep. Somethin’ for you to think about. Just sayin’.”
I narrow my eyes. “Mac, is this your way of telling me you’re due for a raise?”
“Nope. I’m just explainin’ the way of the world so it doesn’t come as a shock later when I do. That’s all.”
I grab Mac’s shoulder and squeeze gently, which in turn causes her to giggle.
“Then I’ll consider myself educated in regards to the cost of Internet access and the price of dog walking. Now run off to school and learn more about math and art and less about ‘the way of the
world,’ as you call it.”
“I can do that,” she cheerfully replies. “Now teach me!”
Teach her? It’s become painfully apparent that I’m the one being taught.
“Hanno un bel giorno.”
She scrunches her nose. I’ve stumped her.
Throughout my time getting to know Mac, she’s gotten to be fairly good at guessing the varied Italian phrases I’ve tried to teach her. After losing fifty dollars this morning, I’m enjoying her confusion with satisfaction.
“No idea. I give up,” she tells me.
Feigning disappointment, I prod, “You’re giving me nothing? Not even a guess?”
“Nope. What’d you say?”
“I told you to have a good day.”
“Back at ya, Doc, and arrivederci.”
She smiles and holds up the fifty bucks I’ll never see again before opening her front door and walking inside.
“That man is a walking, living, and breathing god,” Marki, my partnering waitress, claims, her focus aimed toward the front door of Ed’s Diner. “And let’s just thank Jesus that he’s wearing the black suit, dark shirt, and delicious gray tie today. Ohhhh, so Fifty Shades!”
My friend has always been dramatic.
“Who in the world are you talking about?” I challenge. Turning in place, I find her distraction. And to any woman with a beating pulse, the man she speaks of is the epitome of distraction.
Liam Dawson.
His face is cleanly shaven, and his hair is styled to perfection. He’s wearing another suit, which means he’s either on his way to work or just finished an overnight shift.
He’s also not alone.
Liam’s friend Pete came with him today. The two have become regular customers at Ed’s Diner. At least once a week they come in during one of my shifts, requesting my section every time.
Pete’s older, but unless you look closely at the lines around his mouth and the wrinkles near his eyes, you’d never guess he’s in his sixties. That’s what’s on the outside. Inside, he’s incredibly kind and genuine, and funny in his own quirky way.
His dark hair is quickly fading to gray, and his once tanned skin has paled. Cancer has taken a toll on him, body and soul, but there are times when he stops in to visit that he’s back to how he used to be before the disease took its terminal effect.
My boss, Ed, greets them at the door as they enter, taking Pete’s hand first before moving to Liam.
Ed is an overprotective ex-Marine. He’s incredibly honest, blunt, and even knowing he’s soft and mushy on the inside, as I do, the fierceness he conveys while watching over those he loves can be overwhelming. Whenever he’s around, his deep voice, stocky build, and uneven temper impart a sense of safety.
His wife, Georgia, didn’t come from a structured and gratuitous background. I found after knowing her for a little over a year that, as a child, she had been emotionally neglected and sexually abused. My heart ached for the caring older woman who sat across from me in a booth that morning.
“You know, if you’re really not going to take your shot at him…,” Marki starts, surveying Liam with further admiration, “I’d be happy to take him off your hands.”
“You’re married.” I turn, hating her continuous gawking. A thread of unwarranted jealousy strikes as I tersely remind her, “And you have three kids. All of whom are under the age of five.”
“I’d leave ’em all for a single night with that man. Those hands. Those full lips. Bet he talks all that hot Italian in bed, too.”
I think my red-haired, five-foot-seven friend with the God-given D-cup chest just swooned.
“You’re so full of crap.”
“Try me, honey. Spend your mornings getting bitched at and spit up on by your sacred spawn. Then be treated like a human sex target by your husband. Trust me when I say, if you were me, you would dream of someone like Liam, too.”
None of her personal life’s description sounds appealing, so I offer a simple “No, thanks.”
“Liam,” Marki greets once he’s reached where we’re standing by the counter. She continues studying him lustfully, impatiently waiting for him to acknowledge her.
He doesn’t.
His eyes are only for me.
Liam Dawson is beautiful, smart, elegant, and masculine.
He’s blessed with thick, shiny, dark hair that holds natural waves just long enough to hang over his ears. The back brushes against the cuff of his usually pressed shirt.
He’s tall—six-foot-one, I would guess—with a broad chest and toned and comforting arms. His beautiful olive-colored skin boasts a perfect complexion. Even his hands are magnificent, his fingers long and smooth.
His brown eyes are deep, dark, and soulful. A woman can only imagine how many stories he has yet to tell and live based on what she sees in their depths.
But he’s more than just his outward perfection. Inside, Liam is fierce, strong, and emits more confidence and surety about himself than anyone I’ve ever met. Having structured his own path, he chooses to follow it regardless of outside influence. He’s passionate about his work and dedicates himself to helping others.
All this said, he can also be extremely bossy and over-the-top protective—attributes he blames on both his Irish and Sicilian roots.
More to my concern, his Palleshi roots.
“Leonessa,” he greets, calling me the nickname he coined the first day we met over a year ago.
Though I’m curious, I’ve never asked why he chose the name. I fear if I do, I’ll never hear the way his voice grows soft as he says it again.
When I look up, Liam continues to walk closer. Standing in front of me, his chest nearly brushes against mine. Thankfully, I no longer get tongue-tied in his presence. There was a time I could hardly speak because I didn’t want to interrupt all of his magnificence with my simple words.
“Hi,” I finally utter, managing to forget Marki swooning at my side, as well as Pete standing behind Liam.
“How are you this morning, caro?” he questions, using a single finger to move my fallen bangs out of my eyes. “You look like you’ve had a long night. Sorry I missed that.”
Small talk with Liam is comparable to foreplay. With the sound of his voice, the rugged smell that’s only him, and the visions I’ve created of what the two of us together would be like, I get more from a casual greeting with him than I have sexual response from any other man in my life.
“You and Pete want your usual?” I ask, fighting to keep my eyes open.
“That’d be good,” he quietly returns with smirking lips and laughing eyes.
I know who Liam’s family is, just like everyone else in the city. Not to mention what his criminal mastermind of an uncle does for a living.
To outsiders, Ciro Palleshi is known as the cornerstone prince of underground drug dealings. Rumors spread regarding how ruthless the man can be. How incredibly manipulative and vile he’s always been. He has “workers” I’ve heard called “soldiers,” who comb the streets looking for new customers and recruits.
“Take Pete and find a booth. I’ll bring coffee.”
Ed’s restaurant’s theme is dated. The red-and-white color scheme, along with the black-and-white checkered floor, give the family owned establishment a fifties feel. Kids enjoy throwing their parents’ money in the jukebox and listening to music they’ve never heard. Parents also allow their children to run amuck, playing with the décor as though the diner is a museum.
“Christ, my little oblivious friend,” Marki scolds, watching Liam walk away. “Are you really so ignorant to the way of men, or do you practice that act?”
“What are you going on about?” I move behind the bar to get drinks and put in their standard order.
“That man wants you. I mean, really, how the hell have you not clued in already?”
“He doesn’t.”
Sighing, she places her order pad on the bar and takes the seat across from me. “All that gorgeous dark hair, honey. My God, those big
tawny eyes of yours. And that smokin’ hot little body,” she points out. “Girl, he’d be a fool to miss all that.”
Grabbing two cups from below the counter, I set them in place before moving toward the coffee. As I pour, I keep my eyes down.
Liam and I don’t run in the same social circle. I’m an average waitress, working to pay bills and living from one paycheck to the other. Liam is a doctor. He’s well-known and highly regarded. We’re not a match in any way.
I decide to straighten Marki out. “He’s like that with every woman in here and you know it.”
“Oh my God. You are so oblivious!”
When I look up, all heads are turned in our direction—including Liam’s and Pete’s. Liam smirks again, both dimples deepening as he gives me a clear view of his perfectly straight white teeth. Pete smiles and shakes his head, but he’s doing it while staring at Liam.
Gah, my friends!
Before I’m able to lecture Marki about lowering her voice, the bell above the door rings. Ed’s growl from the kitchen comes first. Georgia’s string of quiet curses come after.
It isn’t until Marki moves from my view that Chase has already made his way to stand in front of me.
Freaking hell, not now.
Chase Avery is my ex-boyfriend. He’s also serving to act the same as any ex-boyfriend would— a pain in the ass.
Hence the ex.
My parents died a violent death. They were shot at close range as they held hands while entering a gas station near my childhood home. I was a few months shy of eighteen at the time. I had no other family to speak of, which sucked because the state required someone to care for me. No one wants a seventeen-year-old victim of such a harrowing loss living with them, and I refused foster care, so I was forced to live out my time in a halfway house.
I met Chase around that time, and looking back, if we’d met under any other circumstances I wouldn’t have ever considered him.
Now he’s a problem.
There were moments, when we first got together years ago, that alongside his trouble, Chase was very sweet, fairly attentive, and somewhat caring. But just as many other relationships, ours dissolved, though the ties weren’t severed quickly.
