A large man is stationed by the door and he steps forward, blocking me from going any further inside.
“I got caught up,” I say, my eyes flicking between Marty and the brute. “What’s this about?”
“Caught up? At the ballet?” Marty asks, raising his brow. “Tell me about her.”
“You wish, kid.” I hold up my briefcase. “I’ve got a surprise for your old man.”
He slides his cards into his breast pocket and pushes off the wall, flicking his dead cigarette butt toward the trash in the corner. It doesn’t make it and lands on the floor several feet away. My nose recoils as I sense his god-awful, repugnant aftershave from six feet away.
“You gotta get checked out first,” he says.
I glance at the new security again. “What for?”
Marty smirks. “Just a precaution. Word on the street says the Lutrova brothers are back in Chicago.”
I shrug, putting my poker face to good work as I file that information for later. “Kid, you know me. I don’t work for Russians.”
“My father said no one enters the casino without getting searched first.” He smiles. “That includes you.”
I fight the urge to rip the fucking lips off his annoying, boy-bandish face. He reaches out for the briefcase and I hand it off to him before raising my arms and letting the security drone do his thing. He waves a magnetic wand along my legs and hips and easily finds the Glock stashed behind me in my belt.
Once again, I shrug. “I’ve never walked in here unarmed.”
“You can have it back when you leave,” Marty says, signaling for the big guy to stash my gun away for me. He lays the briefcase flat in one hand and pops open the buckles to peek inside. “Looks a bit small to hold a man’s head, Hart.”
“Terrance Vaughn paid his debt.”
He scans the stacks of money and he closes the case again. “Check him for a wire.”
“A wire?” I repeat, scoffing. “Come on, kid…”
“Hey, we can never be too careful,” he says, his voice bouncing with delight. He’s so fucking tickled right now, just relishing in the chance to mess with me and get away with it.
“I’m not a damn cop.”
The mound of steroids reaches for my shirt and I snatch his wrist in the air, drawing a thick cackle from Marty’s throat.
“Either you submit to this security check or we find someone who will…”
The threat is very unwise — but so is noncompliance. Casting a spotlight on me in any way isn’t a smart move on my part. If I want them to think I have nothing to hide, then I have to act like it.
I grab the bottom of my shirt myself and raise it to show my entire bare torso. “See? No wire.”
Marty stares at the black cobra etched into my skin. “Nice ink,” he says. “Old gang?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, dropping the shirt back down.
He snorts and tosses the briefcase back to me. “He’s good.”
I catch it with both hands, casting a harsh glance at the guard to urge him to back off. He does and returns to his spot by the door as I step forward and dodge Marty toward the stairs.
I feel him following me up, but he keeps his pace slow. Marty Zappia, my constant shadow. Ever since the day I arrived in Chicago he’s given me shit. It’s easy to understand his hostility, though.
He wants my job.
Daddy’s right-hand man? The family hitman? It’d be the perfect way to cement himself in the family business, but the problem is his stomach.
He’s not a killer. Marty’s squeamish and his father isn’t patient enough to wait around while he develops one. Honestly, all he needs is one hard shove in the right direction. That’s really all it takes to cross that line and become a killer. Just one bad day and suddenly that spectrum between black and white is a pleasant shade of gray.
I rap my knuckles against Zappia’s office door and wait to enter until I hear his old voice bellowing out.
“Yeah, come on in!”
The man himself sits at his desk. His shirt is as wrinkled as his aging face and just as blotchy. Must have been a rough night for business or maybe there’s some truth to what Marty said about the Lutrovas being back in town.
Last time, they almost burned the Zappias to the ground.
Probably should have, to be honest. But that ain’t my business.
“Close the door,” he barks. I cast a quick wink toward Marty’s perturbed face before kicking it closed behind me. “You’re late.”
I do a quick scan for anything suspicious. It’s just the same old office with his cluttered desk, a dead plant, and an empty closet in the corner. The only difference is the brand-new security monitors over his head, so new there’s not even a fingerprint on them.
I lower myself into the chair across from his desk before speaking. That’s unwritten rule number one in the Zappia family: you never speak to Antony Zappia above his eye line.
“I apologize, sir. I was detained.”
“What’s this I overhear about the dearly departed Mr. Vaughn being not as departed as I want?”
My eyes bounce to the security monitors behind his desk giving him a clear view of the entrance in splendid high-definition. The sound is low but individual voices stand out against the gentle hum of games. He must have seen everything — my tattoo included.
I keep a weak smile on my lips, making sure not to go too overboard while staring into his cold, dead eyes. “Mr. Vaughn came into some extra cash, sir. More than enough to pay off his debt.”
“So, you let him go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he pay interest?”
“Yes, he did.”
“How much?”
“Forty-five percent.”
His brow bounces. “That’s good interest.”
“That’s what I said. I apologize if I overstepped and accepted his offer, sir. It seemed reasonable.”
Zappia scratches his white beard. I pretend not to notice as little bits of old food come tumbling out of it. “You could have told me earlier. I have to cancel the flowers I sent to his family.”
“I will do that myself, sir,” I offer.
“Did you…” He pauses to chew on his old, chapped lips. “I dunno. Did you, at least, cut his face or something?”
“I fucked his daughter. Does that count?”
Zappia pauses for several long moments before his lips curl into what I assume is his version of a smile. “I like your style, Hart. That’s good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He brushes me away. “Get out of here. Leave the money.” I lay the briefcase on his desk and he immediately opens it. “Ahh, I love that smell…”
“Have a nice night, sir.”
“You, too, Hart. Oh, wait. I got another job for you.”
I halt my stride while he sifts through a stack of papers on his cluttered desk.
“Tomorrow night,” he mutters. “Enzo’s opening.”
Lorenzo Zappia. The eldest of the three brothers. I’ve never met the middle son, Giovani, but from what I’ve heard, I never want to.
Some forms of crazy are best left alone.
“The restaurant?” I ask, recalling vague details of Enzo’s various business enterprises. All fronts for mob activities, of course.
Zappia finally finds a square flier and holds it out for me to take. “Yeah. Here…”
It’s printed on red card stock with gold lettering. Enzo’s Fine Italian. Admit one, plus guest.
“I wish him luck, sir.”
“You’re going,” he says. “He needs to fill up some tables and I could use the extra gun nearby, just in case.”
I cringe on the inside. Zappia family gatherings really aren’t part of my job description. “Sir—”
“Damn Lutrova bastards wandering around my city again is the last thing I fucking need…” he mutters quietly, ignoring my protest.
I tap the card against my palm. There’s no getting out of this and it’s pointle
ss to even try. “I’ll be happy to be there, sir. Of course.” I spin around and move to leave.
“And bring a dame!” he adds.
A spark ignites in my head and I flash a quick smile back at him.
“I will,” I say.
I smell him already, lingering behind the door before I even open it. Marty lurches out of the frame as I throw the door open and step out.
“You know, kid,” I say, closing it quickly, “if you’re so desperate for attention, why don’t you try sucking his dick once in a while, eh? I hear it works for your mother.”
“Fuck off, Hart.”
He spins away, leaving a cloud of his stench behind as he drags his feet toward stairs to hit the casino floor. I know I shouldn’t say anything to make him hate me more, but I just can’t stand his pathetic, little face.
I glance at the blood-red invitation again.
Bring a dame, eh?
I know just the one.
Chapter 6
Lucy
I sit up and look around, lost and confused for several moments until I remember where I am.
Oh, fuck.
I’m in the bed of the mafia hitman who came to kill my father.
Fuuuuuck.
I fall forward to cradle my throbbing head in my hands. I swear I didn’t even drink that much. Just a few glasses of whatever the hell he kept giving me.
“Dan— Mr. Hart?”
Silence.
I look around his room. It seems so different from last night. Last night, everything was mysterious and covered in dark shadows. Now, the morning sun cracks through the blinds, illuminating everything from the books stacked on the windowsill to the small layer of dust coating his shelves.
“Mr. Hart?”
I search for my clothes as my memory comes back. Wherever my shirt is, I don’t think I’ll be wearing it anytime soon. I definitely remember him ripping it open and the buttons snapping off. There’s no way I’ll ever find them all so I can pretty much assume it’s trash.
A silk, blue robe rests on the foot of the bed. I reach for it and throw it around my naked shoulders, feeling the gentle ache in my wrists. Fresh red and purple lines mark my skin where his tie bound me to the headboard. I bite my lip, forcing the memory down to keep it from exciting me too much.
I step off the bed and my feet sink into the thick carpet. As I move across the room, my sore muscles remind me of the night before. Every bend and thrust comes back to me, along with every kiss and bite of his teeth.
Where the hell is he?
I move down the stairs with silent feet on my way to the main floor. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. He’s nowhere to be seen or heard.
Dante Hart abandoned me in his house.
What a fucking jerk.
I step down the hall, noticing that my broken glass from last night has been picked up and the mess is gone. Even the kitchen has been abandoned. Not one dirty fork or half-finished cup of coffee remains as a clue.
The front door opens and closes.
I spin around. “Mr. Hart?”
Thick steps drift down the hall toward me and I lean against the counter until he comes into view.
My heart lurches. This isn’t Dante.
I hold my robe tighter around me as the man steps into the kitchen. He’s old, but not quite elderly, with hard features and sharp, golden eyes. Black hair. Black suit.
I swallow hard. “Hello.”
He frowns. “Where’s Hart?”
I keep my robe pinched even tighter. His voice is worn and rough like gravel in his throat. “I’m not sure,” I say.
He looks down at my bare feet and his gaze slowly travels upward again. His lips curl and his expression softens to something more pleasant.
I shudder.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lucy,” I answer, too nervous not to.
“Lucy what?”
“Vaughn.”
“Well, Lucy Vaughn, I’m Spencer. I’m a business associate of Dante’s.”
A business associate, meaning…
Ah, shit.
Another mobster.
And I’m all alone with him. Naked.
Fuck.
I nod, acting casual. “Spencer what?”
He smirks. “You should run along home now,” he says, ignoring my question.
Fine by me.
I shuffle forward to exit the kitchen, taking careful steps to stay as far away from him as possible. As I enter the foyer, I notice my black blouse hanging from the banister. I grab it and race up the stairs to fetch my jeans and shoes from the bedroom. I throw everything on as fast as possible, tying off the front of my blouse to hold it closed and hoping for the best.
I keep an eye out for Spencer again as I head back downstairs, happy to see that he’s not lingering anywhere between me and the exit.
I pull open the door and pause. A white envelope is taped to a mirror on the wall with Mr. Terrance Vaughn written in bold, red ink.
Daddy’s adjusted debt, no doubt. I guess I played my part well.
I take the envelope with me and bolt out the door.
“Lucy?!”
Ugh. Crap.
His voice calls to me the second I walk inside the apartment. My apartment. I kick the door closed behind me and grab a sweater off a nearby chair. I throw it on over my tattered blouse before he can notice the state of it.
“You know, Dad,” I say, “I gave you a key for emergencies only.”
My father steps into the living room from the kitchen. There are dark circles under his eyes like he’s been awake all night.
“I’d say this qualifies.” He looks me up and down. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
His mouth fidgets on his contorted face. There must be a million questions on his tongue right now and not a single one of them would be appropriate for a man to ask his daughter.
I hold out the envelope as I pass by him. “This is for you.” It slips from his hands as I drop it, but he quickly snatches it off the floor.
“He didn’t break any toes?”
“Is that all you care about?” I scoff. “God forbid your star dancer takes the season off.”
“That’s not—”
“Look, Dad… I appreciate the concern. It’s sweet, really, but… I kind of just want to be alone right now.”
He furrows his brow. “What did he do to you?”
I fall onto my sofa and rub the bridge of my nose where a headache is quickly forming. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“Were you safe?”
I groan. “Jesus, Dad…”
“I’m just asking…”
“I still have my implant.”
“That’s not the only thing to protect against.”
I bite down. He has a point there.
“I’m all right, Dad,” I say.
“Did he hurt you? Because if he did, so help me—”
“No. He didn’t hurt me. We had a decent time.”
His nose curls. “A decent time?”
“Dad.” I hold up a hand. “Please.”
“Fine…” He huffs, his eyes dropping once to the envelope. “Take the day off. I’ll let Cynthia know you won’t be coming in.”
“I’ll be there. I don’t want to take a day off.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look all right.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well, you don’t look too good yourself, old man. How about you spend the night with the mobster next time if you’re so damn concerned.”
“I’m—” His voice drops. “I’m sorry, Lucy.”
I look at the envelope. “I hope it was worth it for you.”
He says nothing more. He wants to, I can tell, but his face droops down to the floor instead. “I’ll see you later, then,” he mutters as he pulls the door open.
“Yeah.”
The door slams, nearly shaking my picture
frames off the old walls. I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on him, but we’ve never had the best rapport in the first place. Every conversation we’ve ever had has been about one of two things: his vices or the damn weather.
I lie down and stare at the ceiling as last night replays in my head.
Who the hell was that man?
Why the fuck do I even care?
I hug a pillow against my chest, relaxing into the couch a little bit more. It’s still early. I don’t have to be in until ten so I can get in a quick nap before then.
Dante.
What a dick.
He knew just what to do with it, too. He knew exactly what angle to hit and what speed to use to send me over the fucking edge. I’m a girl with experiences and I can safely say that this is the first time since the first time I’ve sat around feeling like a damn virgin afterward. And that mouth. I still feel the little blooms of pleasure breaking out on my skin everywhere he kissed me.
I think I’m going to miss that dick. Too bad it’s attached to a psychotic jackass.
Who the fuck leaves a girl stranded in his house with no explanation? Who the fuck lets his business associate shoo her out in the morning with a note to take home to daddy taped to the door? Who the fuck thinks “you taste like a good kill” counts as dirty talk?
Oh, well. It’s not like I ever have to see him again.
Chapter 7
Dante
I immediately check the mirror as I enter the front door. The envelope is gone. That means Lucy is, too.
Damn. I’d hoped I could make it back here in time before she ran off. Then again, chasing Lucy Vaughn might just be as fun as it sounds.
I raise the bouquet of roses I brought back with me to my nose and smile as I inhale their sweet scent. It’ll take more than a few flowers to convince her to spend another night with me, but they’re a good start.
I take a step inside the house, but I halt before my shoe even touches the floor.
Tainted Love Page 4
