Dom's Ascension (Mariani Crime Family Book 0)

by Amanda Washington

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  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

  EPILOGUE

  MAKING ANGEL SNEAK PEEK

  DIAL L FOR LYNDA SNEAK PEEK

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  By

  Copyright © 2016 by Amanda Washington

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  Dedicated to:

  my friend Kim and her mom,

  who asked me to write Dom’s story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dominico

  March 7, 1992

  IT WAS SATURDAY night and I’d been hustling since early morning. Focus fixed on the black Porsche 911 in front of me and the party it would soon take me to, I almost got my ass handed to me in the parking lot of my father’s casino.

  Thankfully, my friend, Mario, was paying attention. “Heads up, Dom. We’ve got company,” he whispered before slipping away.

  I kept walking, pretending not to notice the footsteps closing in behind me.

  “Hey, kid,” said a male voice.

  Even though I stood well over six feet tall and had turned twenty-two almost seven months ago, people over thirty still insisted on calling me “kid.” Annoyed, I spun around, prepared to show the speaker that this “kid” could rearrange his face.

  A fist came flying at my head, attached to an arm of corded muscle that led to a thick-necked man probably in his late thirties who clearly didn’t know how to fight. He’d overcommitted to the punch and when I dodged, it threw him off balance. I countered with an uppercut, striking the bottom of his chin with a crunch and throwing his head back.

  In the seconds it took him to recover, I took a step back and scanned the area, catching sight of a wannabe cowboy I recognized. Dean Jones wore a black felt cowboy hat, a teal western shirt, and a shit-eating grin. He was so busy watching the fight he didn’t see Mario circling back around.

  My attacker raised his fists and came at me again. I kicked his kneecap and he limped backwards. Then the sound of a round being chambered drew both of our attention.

  Mario had never been a fighter, claiming his hands were far too valuable to be busting up faces. And I had to admit, his sleight of hand was a thing of beauty and helped keep my pockets lined. Because he didn’t fight, Mario always came heavy and never hesitated to draw. He currently had the business end of his Glock 19 pressed against Dean’s side, which caused my attacker to limp another step back and raise his hands in the air.

  “Easy there,” Dean said.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Dean.” I tutted. “Having your guard dog jump me from behind in a parking lot? And here I thought we were old poker buds. You should have come at me yourself, and from the front, like you had some balls.”

  “It’s the jeans,” Mario said. “They’re too tight. Probably cut off the blood flow and shriveled his twig and berries right up.”

  Dean looked from me to Mario and spat. “I knew that game was fixed and you two were in on it together.”

  Of course Uncle Carlo’s “executive poker games” were rigged, but Dean was kidding himself if he thought Mario and I were running the scam. Only the high rollers were ever invited, the buy-in was three grand, the alcohol was strong, and the servers were built and dressed to distract. Mario played the part of some dumb kid who’d come to town to blow his newly-received inheritance, and I played the son of a traveling tycoon. We weren’t supposed to know each other, so our chumming it up in the parking lot would tip anyone off. But usually losers slunk back to their room to lick their wounds and reinvest their remaining millions. It was rare for someone to wait for us in the parking lot.

  “Congratulations, Nancy Drew. You cracked the case, but now what?” I moved in to pat both men down. Dean had a knife in his pocket but was otherwise clean. His associate had a pistol. I pocketed the knife and released the safety on the gun before pointing it at my attacker.

  “Just give me back my money and I’ll be on my way,” Dean said.

  I laughed. “Cowboy, you’re in no position to negotiate, and most of your money is long gone.”

  My father—our family boss—took his cut off the top. Next came Uncle Carlo—the underboss—who organized the game. Incidentals and staff were paid, and then the remainder was split between me and Mario. We’d each walked away with a little over five grand. It was a drop in the bucket compared to the thirty-three large we’d taken off Dean and the rest of the shmucks at the table, and there was no way he would get a dollar of it back. Especially not while Mario and I held him and his croney at gunpoint.

  “You’re makin’ a big mistake. I have many resources. You may have gotten one off on me this time, but I’ll find you again. Little punk-ass kids like you guys can’t have too many hiding spots.”

  “He’s got a point, Dom,” Mario said. “Maybe we should just shoot him so we don’t have to worry about it.”

  Dean paled.

  Good. It was time to let him know who he was dealing with. I glanced at my watch. “But that’s messy and time consuming, and we’ve got a party to get to. We don’t have time to wait for a clean-up crew, and we can’t leave their bodies lying around the parking lot. That’s bad for business.”

  “Yeah, the family gets a little pissy about that,” Mario agreed.

  Dean’s cut his eyes back and forth between us a couple times, and then he guffawed. “The family? That’s rich. Just because you’re Italian, you expect me to believe you’re part of some mafia family? Everybody knows the FBI chased the mobsters out of Vegas more than a decade ago.”

  “Everyone knows what the mafia and the FBI want them to know. Helps people sleep at night.” I really hated ignorant know-it-alls. They made my job so exhausting.

  “What do you want to do with them?” Mario asked.

  We were toward the back of the parking lot, but I still didn’t want to chance being seen holding two idiots at gunpoint. That was almost as bad for business as leaving bodies lying around. Shooting them would be stupid. Dean was a guest of the casino and loaded enough to buy friends who’d miss him. And my old man would kick my ass if I brought a police investigation to the doorstep of his casino.

  “Come on, I have an idea.” I gestured them toward the building.

  We herded the two to the back entrance of the casino. I beat on the door until it swung open and a soldier by the name of Dag filled the doorway. Dag was about six feet tall and three hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle. He had the jowls of a bulldog and the legs of a horse. I knew, because I’d been kicked by him before during training. Since his size and constant scowl frightened the guests, Carlo kept him stationed by the back door, which meant Dag spent most nights underutilized and bored out of his mind.

  “Yeah?” he barked.

  I stepped aside so he could see the men behind me. “Mario and I are running late for a…a meeting, and these two tried to jump us.” I pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of my pocket. “I’d deal with ’em myself, but I don’t got time, so I’d appr
eciate it if you could set ’em straight for me.”

  Dag grinned, and I had to force myself not to wince. His eyes lit up as he took my cash and stuffed it in his pocket. Then his two meaty paws reached past me, landing on a shoulder of each of the men. He yanked them forward and shoved them into the casino. “You betcha.”

  “Thanks, Dag. I owe you one.”

  His grin widened. “You don’t owe me shit, Dom. I’m lookin’ forward to this.”

  “Nothing above the shoulders. They’re guests, and you know how Carlo gets when guests come hobbling in with their faces all busted up.”

  The door closed on Dag’s response.

  My old man would bust my ass good if he found out I’d shirked my responsibility like that, but it was Saturday night and I should be half-wasted with a girl on each knee by now. Besides, I’d just made Dag’s night and knew there was no way he’d rat me out.

  “All right,” I said, pocketing the stolen gun and palming my car keys. “Let’s hit that party.”

  As we walked away from the door, I couldn’t help but wonder how many hits it would take for Dean to figure out that the mafia was alive and well in Vegas, and I was just one of her many children.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annetta

  “THIS IS IT, Papa. This is the one I’ve been looking for,” I said, circling the help wanted ad. “Chef needed ASAP, knowledge of classic Italian dishes a must, come prepared to cook. It says nothing about prior work experience. That has my name all over it!”

  My father smiled down at me, patting the back of my head. It felt a little patronizing, since I was twenty-one and searching for my first full-time job, not six and excited about being a butterfly in the school play. The part-time grocery clerk position I’d held since high school wasn’t exactly a cocoon I could build my wings in.

  “I thought we decided you were going back to school first,” Papa said.

  No, we most definitely had not. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I reminded him of our last conversation about my future. “I told you I finished every program the Culinary Academy has to offer, remember? Now I need a real job so I can start paying off the loans you took out to make it happen.”

  “You let me worry about the loans while you focus on getting the best education you can.” He picked up the University of Nevada Las Vegas course catalog, which conveniently kept finding its way to our kitchen table, and thumbed through it like he didn’t have the whole thing memorized. “I know you want to cook, luce dei miei occhi.”

  Light of my eyes. The term was sweet, endearing, and made me worry that his love for me was leaving him blind. “Want to cook? Papa it’s much more than that. This is my dream, and I’m good at it, you know I am. You promised you’d support me in this.”

  He sighed. “I know, and I do.”

  Hearing the hesitancy in his tone, I eyed him. That sure as heck didn’t sound like support. “Papa.”

  He let out another long, drawn-out sigh. “You’re right, it sounds like a great opportunity.” He walked over to the coffee table and picked up the phone, untangling its cord as he carried it to the table. “Call them and request an interview.”

  Since I was an adult, I didn’t need my father’s permission, but knowing I had his support made me feel like I could leap over even the tallest of hurdles. And no work history in the food industry had been an ankle-breaker for sure. “It says come ready to cook. If I could just get the opportunity to prepare some dishes for them…”

  “You’ll not only get the job, you’ll win over their hearts as well.” He handed me the phone, his endorsement giving me the courage I needed to make the call.

  ***

  The position was at Antonio’s—one of two five-star Italian restaurants in Vegas. Unable to contain my excitement, I practically pranced all the way from the bus stop and through the mahogany and glass doors, where I skidded to a stop. It wasn’t quite nine thirty a.m., so the restaurant wasn’t open yet, giving me the chance to gawk at its beauty in peace. I’d spent my entire life in Vegas, but had never seen the inside of Antonio’s. Crystal chandeliers hung over mahogany tables draped with red and white checkered tablecloths to maintain the Italian feel. Pristine hardwood floors were accented with classy rugs that played off the colors in the drapes, the dark upholstered booths, and the custom moldings. It was exactly the type of place I’d dreamed of working.

  “Can I help you?” someone asked.

  I snapped my jaw closed and turned to find the suited maître d’ watching me, his lips turned up in amusement.

  Feeling shabby and underdressed in my standard white chef coat and pinstriped pants, with my hair pulled back in a bun and a backpack of my mother’s old recipes slung over my shoulder, it was an effort to keep my back straight and my chin up.

  Confidence, Annetta, pretend you belong here.

  “Hi.” I gave him my friendliest smile. “I’m here to interview for the job. The chef job.”

  He nodded at my clothes. “I gathered that. Résumé?”

  I opened my backpack and pulled one out for him.

  He looked it over then nodded. “You’re early. Stay here and I’ll check and see if they’re ready for you.”

  He drifted behind a mirrored wall, leaving me standing in the entrance with no clue what to do with myself. I picked up a menu and scanned the salads, appetizers, and entrées. There were a few dishes I didn’t recognize, but for the most part nothing sounded too difficult. I even had a few ideas for dishes they didn’t have on the menu.

  What if they don’t want my ideas? Would they think I’m presumptuous for offering them?

  Since I certainly didn’t want to come off as presumptuous, I vowed to keep any advice to myself, put the menu away, and leaned against a booth. Three other people dressed in chef coats showed up while I waited. They clustered around me, checking out the restaurant.

  The maître d’ returned and showed us to an immaculate kitchen full of stainless steel industrial appliances. A few chefs were working on food prep, but we stepped around them and went to empty stations. A silver-haired stocky man with a slight overbite laid down his knife and turned to address us.

  “Hello. My name is Frank. I’m one of the chefs here and I’ve been asked to explain the job to you. If selected, you’ll be responsible for directing the preparation, seasoning, and cooking of all dishes while you’re on shift. You’ll be expected to participate in the planning and pricing of menu items, the ordering of supplies, and keeping of records and accounts. You’ll supervise and participate in cooking, baking, and the preparation of food, as well as the scheduling and monitoring of kitchen personnel. This is not an entry-level position. However, we find ourselves down a chef unexpectedly and need to hire someone today. But only if we find the right candidate.” He paused and his gaze drifted over us. I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. “We are aware that sometimes skills speak louder than experience, so management is giving each of you a rare opportunity to impress their taste buds before they look at your résumé. You will be expected to prepare an original Italian entrée, not on our menu.”

  He then proceeded to show us where all the ingredients were kept before dropping the biggest bombshell. “You have thirty minutes. If you’re not done by then, throw your work in the trash and see yourself out to make room for the next round of candidates. If, by some chance, you have created something edible, your dish will be presented to management and you will continue on with the interview process.” Frank didn’t even give us a chance to ask questions before starting the timer and returning to his station.

  The other applicants snapped to work while I stood there staring at the time. Thirty minutes to impress. What could I whip up in thirty minutes that would knock their socks off? Especially in a strange kitchen? I washed my hands and put on gloves while I thought about the recipes in my backpack. Their presence served as more of a security blanket than a necessity since I had all of my mother’s recipes memorized, complete with the revisions I
’d made over the years.

  My favorite recipe was one I rarely made because the ingredients were pricey. Linguine di Mare, linguine of the sea, called for a well-seasoned mix of calamari, mussels, scallops, and shrimp in a garlicy white wine sauce. Assuming I could find everything I needed, I could have the dish made in the time it took the noodles to boil. Determined to make it happen, I put a pot of water on to boil and got to work.

  Twenty-six minutes later I handed Frank my offering. He eyeballed it, then me, before grabbing a fork out of the drawer and tasting a sauce-drenched noodle wrapped around a scallop. His eyebrows rose as he chewed. Then, without a single word to me, he turned on his heel and whisked out of the kitchen. Wondering what to do next, I started cleaning my station.

  The applicant across the table from me looked as if she was about to burst into tears. She bent to collect her belongings, casting a furtive glance at the large garbage can at the end of the stations before heading out the way we’d entered. Curious, I took my scraps to the trash and peeked in.

  “He took one bite and had her toss the whole thing,” said one of the two male applicants, his own entrée plated in his hands and ready for Frank to evaluate.

  Before I could reply, Frank returned and took the dish from the applicant.

  The buzzer went off.

  Frank looked past us to the second male applicant, who was still working on his creation. “Throw it away and see yourself out,” Frank snapped before disappearing again, plate still in hand.

  The applicant didn’t even bother to clean up after himself before storming out, leaving only two of us.

  We didn’t have to wait long before Frank returned and extended one long finger toward the other remaining applicant. “You, come with me.”

  I didn’t even get the chance to ask him what I should do before he disappeared again.

  “Good luck,” I whispered as the other applicant followed Frank.

  “If you’re looking for something to do, there are some onions there that need to be chopped.”