Dirty CEO: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Windy City Bad Boys Book 1)

by Mickey Miller

  “Kel, you’re kidding, right?”

  I crossed my arms, suddenly frustrated with him and unsure why he was challenging me.

  “Why would I be? Not sure if you recall, but there’s a fucking feud between our families and people are dead, all because—” I stopped myself midsentence, putting my hand over my mouth.

  “Because my family runs the city and we aren’t afraid to be ruthless.” He took a step toward me, covering the ground in no time flat. He gripped my wrist and removed my hand from my mouth as he raked his other hand through his hair. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  I struggled to bring my eyes to his while his fingers gripped my wrist. Tommy’s warning rang in my ear that Vince couldn’t be trusted. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He squinted at me, his eyes darker and stormier than usual. “Well, then please enlighten me on how you meant it.”

  I tore my hand from his and returned his gaze. A rush of confidence came over me.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that our families are feuding. I thought it would just be a fun meet up. But sure, now that you mention it, I feel like we haven’t exactly talked too much about your past since we’ve started…this.” I spiraled my wrist in the air, making a general motion between the two of us. Sal stood fifteen feet away or so, and I couldn’t tell if he was within earshot. If he was, at this point, I didn’t care. As wild and crazy of a ride as this week had been, there were times when Vince seemed lost in his thoughts.

  Like right now. The smirk had quietly disappeared on his face. His eyes moved across me like he was examining me for a point of entry.

  “You want to talk about my past.”

  I gulped. He’d said it without drawing up the final syllable. It wasn’t a question, it was fact. He knew I was curious. Hell, who wouldn’t be? Everyone was. “Yes.”

  He nodded. The summer sunlight was fading, and people were rushing by us on the sidewalk. I took a deep breath, bracing for what he was about to tell me.

  I knew Vince had a checkered past—much of it while I’d been away at Notre Dame, sheltered from the goings on in the city proper.

  “We’ll talk about this, but I don’t think a busy New York City sidewalk at dusk is the place for it.”

  A car zoomed by on the street. “I agree.”

  “Where is Connor inviting us to go? Did he name a place?”

  I pulled out my phone again. “Some place called Saint Satan? What a weird name. Have you heard of it?”

  Vince adjusted his collar. “Heard of it? I fucking own it.”

  “Sounds like a weird name for a bar.”

  His smirk returned to his face. “It’s no bar, honey.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s one of New York’s finest strip clubs. Nothing but the highest-class ladies there.”

  I tipped my chin up and exhaled. I didn’t know who was worse, Connor for the invitation, or Vince for owning a club like that. “You men are such dogs.”

  When we arrived at Saint Satan, the sun had fallen but the early June temperature had risen. I could feel the sweat on my brow. Apparently, a heat wave was coming over the city, starting tonight.

  I watched Kelly hand the doorman her ID. He examined it.

  “You can go in,” he nodded, handing it back to her.

  She stood framed by the door, waiting for me. Her body was half turned so she had her ass pointing at me while she looked over her shoulder. I actually got distracted staring at her legs.

  “M-Mr. LaRosa?” Came the doorman’s shaky voice. I straightened and smoothed my expression and set my gaze on the man.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m a new hire, just last week.

  “What’s your name?”

  “J-Jackson.”

  He waved Sal and me in. I put my hand on Kelly’s lower back and guided her through the doors and into the main hall. I didn’t like a man who was easily intimidated, especially a doorman. I thought about telling the general manager to let the guy go because he was soft.

  “Vince,” Kelly whispered, flashing her big eyes up at me as she glanced over her shoulder. “You look tense.”

  I realized I was clenching the hell out of my jaw, and it wasn’t at all because of Jackson.

  It was because of what Kelly had said to me before we headed here.

  Without even realizing it, she’d stumbled onto the part of me that I was absolutely not going to tell her about—my violent past. All the death and ruin I rained down on her people during my stint as “the Executioner” would stay buried with the rest of the bodies. She might have been protected from the rumor of my work while she’d been at Notre Dame, but it would only take a well-posed question to Pops or the Kennedys to blow the lid on my secret life as the Executioner sky high. They might not know I was him for sure, but the rumors had swirled around me the past few years.

  I shook hands with the manager once we were inside and he waved us through to the back room of Saint Satan. Although most people knew only about the strip club part of the establishment on the first floor, they had no idea about the high-class restaurant on the second floor that catered to the celebrities who came through town. Prices were astronomical, the food was impeccable, and you could come by invite only. It was a terrific strategy to keep the riff-raff out.

  The general manager pushed a button and a bookcase in one of the private strip rooms in the back slid away, revealing a staircase. Upstairs, the smells of gourmet food wafted into our noses. Connor and his entourage of several people sat at one of the tables in the middle.

  Our group of three approached. Connor stood up to meet us.

  I held my hand out to him. “Vince,” I said, deliberately neglecting mentioning my surname.

  Connor shook my hand in a bone-crushing grip as he examined my face with a carefulness that surprised me. The man was always so bombastic, constantly making the SportsCenter headlines or being featured in a viral YouTube video for some impulsive thing he did. Yet when he squinted his eyes at me, he appeared much more calculated and analytical as opposed to loud-mouthed for no reason.

  “Pleasure, Mr. McGrath,” I said, returning his gaze.

  Connor hugged Kelly, then spoke to her upon releasing her. “What a pleasure to see you, Kelly, even if it is off with a strange man in New York for the weekend. And such dark eyes. Are ye one of the black Irish now?” he looked back at me.

  The table laughed. I had no fucking clue what he was talking about. I wasn’t Irish in the slightest, though I was clearly darker skinned than Connor and Kelly. “Black Irish?”

  “Well, then let me tell you about the black Irish. A Spanish schooner shipwrecked on the west coast of the island hundreds of years ago, and the Spaniards had nowhere to go. So they settled in and mixed with the general Irish population. Gives them the black eyes, so the legend goes.” He motioned for us to sit. Luckily Kelly and I got a seat right next to Motor Mouth himself. Sal sat on the other side of the table, far away from us. He relished being able to chat with a fun group of people while keeping an eye on me. Seeing as we spent almost every minute of every waking hour together, I didn’t blame him.

  “I’m not Irish,” I informed him.

  “Christ, Kelly. What’s that father of yours got to say about this?” Connor roared, appearing outraged. Yet I wasn’t sure if I could take him seriously, or this was just part of his act.

  Kelly blushed. “Can we not talk about the family tonight, Connor? We’re kind of having a situation right now.”

  “A situation? Ah, okay.”

  Surprisingly Motor Mouth let the topic drop as soon as Kelly mentioned it. The man was so very different in person than the persona I’d come to know. Sure, he knew how to kill a man twenty ways before he hit the ground, but he wasn’t the dumb lout he portrayed.

  Our dinner came with a blast of steam and a sizzle of cooking beef, someone had ordered fajitas, and the table was enveloped in warmth.
I’d chosen a filet mignon, medium rare, and Kelly had gone with the same. The waitresses—who were beautiful enough to be strippers, and probably did double as them—didn’t let our wine glasses fall below the eight-ounce mark, and by the end of the meal we were all in raucous laughter.

  My belly was full, my buzz was rolling, and Kelly was at my side, my hand on her thigh. Everything was right with the world, for once.

  “So I’ve got a hoodie and sunglasses on, and this fucking guy bumps into me. Like he was looking for someone to beat up, the fucking bully. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he says.’” Connor mimed the story as he told it. When he was in street clothes, you wouldn’t know he was the world’s most sought-after prize fighter. His build was lean and he maybe broke six feet tall with his dress shoes. But being slim and light on his feet was one of his keys to victory. “So my jaw drops as this guy mean-mugs me on Sixteenth Street. People start to stare. I whip down my hoodie and take my aviator sunglasses off, and I say, ‘You just bumped into me, sir. How about you apologize and I won’t punch you so hard your girlfriend will be feeding you from a tube for six weeks.’ This fucking bully, he wasn’t expecting that shit. But by this time, a circle of people has formed around us. Somebody starts filming on their phone, people recognize me. The guy gets this panicked look in his eyes. I step up to him with my crazy eyes, you know the look.” He widened his eyes for us to demonstrate. We’d all seen it on national TV many times. “And he starts shaking—literally—shaking. Finally, he gets down on his knees and bows. He fucking bows like I’m a god while he apologizes! From in-a-hurry-New-York-prick to a man bowing before another man.”

  Maybe it was the wine, maybe the guy was a great story teller, but I was dying with laughter more than I’d been in years. Even Sal had cracked a smile at the other end of the table. Hell, Sal appreciated a good fight story more than anyone I knew. We were all in stitches. If there was one thing the Irish had perfected it was their sense of humor.

  Kelly wiped her tears out from beneath her eyes. “That story is unbelievable, Connor.”

  Connor held his hand up. “Swear on my mother it’s true. You can look it up on YouTube.”

  I hid my grin behind a sip of wine.

  Connor leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. Damn, if I wasn’t suddenly a bug beneath a thumbtack. I held Connor’s hazel eyes. He was doubtlessly used to being the alpha dog, but we were going to butt heads if he thought I would be cowed.

  He broke into a grin. “So, if you’re not Irish, you don’t look German or Russian. Well, shit, that means you gotta be Italian if you’re in Chicago.”

  Kelly choked on her drink. “Are we really doing this, Connor?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Might as well. I’ll be hearing it from my daddy soon if yours is running his mouth.”

  Kelly sighed.

  “You’re right.” My voice was easy and smooth. Under the table I squeezed Kelly’s thigh, reassuring her that things would go better than they did with her immediate family.

  “Damn, you got some brass balls. How’d this whole thang come to be?”

  “We’ve known each other since high school.”

  Connor cocked his head. “You look moneyed. If you’re in that sort of family business and wearing an ISAIA suit like it’s no big deal. That means you’re used to very expensive things and don’t give a fuck if you spill something on it.”

  I tipped my wine glass his way. “You know your designers.”

  “I like to be stylish. Helps take away from my mug.” His hand waved over his entire face made up of his squashed nose, the bridge flattened from numerous blows, and his cauliflower ears. “So, you’re high up in the Outfit. How do you know a little Irish girl and claim you were friends in high school?”

  “Connor,” Kelly protested.

  I stroked her leg beneath the hem of her dress. “It’s okay. I got this. My dad got promoted when I was a teenager.”

  Connor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I know who you are, then. I’m not sure I’m too thrilled you’re doing my cousin, but I know you’ll keep her safe. The Chicago part of the family holds a huge grudge. Out here in the real world, what country your parents were born in isn’t that big of a deal.”

  There was no way Connor McGrath knew who I’d been. I called his bluff, barely hiding my cocky smirk. “And just who am I?”

  Connor leaned in closer, his voice low enough that only Kelly and I heard his words. “Ain’t it a piss. You’re the Executioner. You almost killed me once, before I got my shit together and got out of Chicago.”

  Fuck. Me.

  I glanced to Kelly and watched the information flow over her. I was hoping she’d never heard of me. But being she’d been groomed to take over for her old man, that hope was sunk.

  Her eyes widened, shock and revulsion mixed on her face. Her eyes darted toward mine.

  “Kelly,” I said.

  She jumped up and bolted.

  Shit.

  I stood up and buttoned my jacket.

  “Looks like you got to handle that.” Connor gave me a huge, shit-eating grin, and winked.

  “Fuck you, McGrath.”

  I turned and stalked after my girl.

  Vince was the Executioner?

  Oh, my God. I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. When Connor spoke the boogeyman’s name, I was sure It had all been a joke.

  Until the blood drained from Vince’s face and I saw the panic in his eyes. He at least had the decency not to lie to me. But I wasn’t sure I could forgive the huge motherfucking lie by omission I’d been dealt.

  How had Vince become the city’s top hit-man? Why had his father let him become a monster?

  I almost twisted my ankle as I all but ran down the VIP stairs and out into the club. The music and lights sparkled around me, a dizzying kaleidoscope which mocked me in pops of color and bass.

  I pushed past one of the scantily-attired waitresses and finally made it through the thick, studded door and out into the summer air.

  I heaved a breath, tasting the New York smog on my tongue, and the ashes that had been my relationship with Vince.

  No. Not a relationship. Not a real one. It had all been fake. No wonder he was paying me for his services. Who in their right mind would be able to love a killer?

  I had.

  Tears gathered in eyes as I surveyed the street. I didn’t know my way around New York, fuck if I could find my way around. Thank God there was Lyft. In a haze, I veered right and opened the app.

  “Kelly,” Vince yelled behind me.

  I froze like a damn deer in headlights.

  “Kelly, wait, please.” His footsteps hit the pavement with a subtle click of dress shoes.

  I glanced down at myself. It had only been hours since we’d gotten dressed for the fight. Yet it felt like years. The night now had an unsurpassable chasm in it: before and after.

  I shook my head and turned. Vince had his hands up, palms flat as if he were approaching a scared animal. The thunder in my heart told me he wasn’t far off the mark. My arms quivered, my legs had turned into spaghetti noodles.

  He stopped a few feet away and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Why?” My voice cracked, and so did my heart. I wanted the information now boring a hole in my brain to go away.

  “That’s a really broad question, Kel,” he said with a twitch of a smile.

  That smile set me off. I flew at him, slapping his chest with all the pain and fury housed in my body. “Don’t you dare joke with me. Don’t you fucking dare.”

  Vince gripped my wrists and pulled me close. “Shh, I’m sorry. I never wanted you to find out. And if you had to, not that way.”

  I buried my face in his shoulder. “You…you’ve killed so many of my family. There was a funeral every fucking week, sometimes two a week when I was in high school. Why do you think I jumped at the chance to go to fucking Indiana for college? To get away from the specter of ‘the Executioner’. He—you—were a
boogeyman, a ghost story moms and dads told their kids about. You massacred my family for years.”

  Vince’s hand palmed my spine, soothing me with slight circular motions. “I didn’t have a choice. They weren’t innocent. It was a fucking war, Kel. Shit, that wasn’t even a war. It was the battle that almost turned into a war. Why do you think I want to end this feud? I couldn’t then. The boss wouldn’t let me. But now? Now, it will end.”

  “Your…dad turned you into an assassin?” I couldn’t wrap my head around that. While I hadn’t known Vince’s dad very well while we’d been growing up, he hadn’t seemed like a monster who would pimp his own son out to be a death-dealer.”

  “Yeah.” Vince’s voice was hard. “He felt he had to prove something to the Underbosses and the old timers in Sicily. He liked the old ways. If he could have had me use an old submachine gun, he’d have outfitted me with it. He wanted the respect, and felt he had to use muscle to get it.” Vince’s voice grated over word ‘respect’.

  I stepped out of the warm circle of Vince’s embrace and wrapped my arms around my waist. It was the middle of summer, and there were goosebumps darting up and down my skin.

  Vince was the Grim Reaper, and I’d slept with him.

  I swallowed the burn of tears which threatened to drown me. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Vince raked his hand through his hair. “Fuck no, Kelly. No. I’m not that guy. I had to do it. It was a job. Nothing more.”

  “Do you think that makes it easier for me to hear? Killing my family was a job?” My upper lip curled.

  He took a step closer. “No. I know it doesn’t make it easier, or even right. It was a clusterfuck. They raided the warehouses or got caught pushing dope in our territory. The Boss sent me in to leave a message. I know you love your family, but don’t make them out to be angels. Don’t forget you had your own killer, or have you forgotten about bàs.”

  Vince butchered the Gaelic word, but I understood what he was saying. The Italian’s had him, the Executioner, and we had bàs—death personified. Even I didn’t know who he was, though it was rumored one of the Kennedys was behind the pseudonym.