by Blake York
Halfway down the marble tiled hallway, I consider turning around. The last thing I want is a lecture about the duty of a Rossi son. I’ve lied, tortured and killed for my mafia family over the years. I don’t see how marrying some nagging bitch will actually help push the empire to the top of the food chain.
We’re already at the top. We’ve managed to break every other mafia group and gang in the Chicago area. Nobody takes a dump in this town without asking us permission first.
What’s a piece of paper and a wedding band going to do to improve what’s already been achieved?
I’ve been waiting for this day, though. Since the night our father announced that Anders would be married. Arrangements had been made, and I know I’m next in line.
My brothers seemed to have fallen in manure and come out smelling like roses, though. They all got decent women they don’t hate, even if they don’t exactly get along all the time.
I hear fighting coming from Anders’ and Avery’s room, but then it goes silent and I know they’re making up.
And well, I hear other sounds from Kenzo’s room. The sound of the whip striking flesh as he works over his submissive. And Camila fucking loves him for it. Don’t ask me why. I’m not in that life.
I pump my dick in a woman and then walk away. I don’t need her to get on her knees for me. No twisted games here.
I reach the study door and push it inward without knocking. The old man will give me hell for it, but I don’t care.
“You want to see me?” I ask without preamble.
He glances up from a couple guns he’s got on the desk. Even from here I see neither has a serial number.
“You challenging me to a dual?” I quip.
My father doesn’t smile. Never has and never will. He’s a wicked bastard who calls the shots and nobody dares to cross, not even his sons.
Not this time. I won’t give in to his wishes to marry some mafia princess to get control of yet another leader like my dickhead brothers have.
“See this gun?” He hefts one into his hand.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“We need more of them.”
“How many more?” I come forward to inspect what’s different about the weapons. They look like a million others we’ve sold on the black market.
He looks up at me. “All of ’em.”
I pick one up and examine it. “Okay, where do I get them?”
“You’re attending a party—tonight. You’re going to strike a deal with the seller and take all of them off the streets. About a hundred people will be attending this party tonight. We can’t let a single weapon get into their hands. Understand me, Warrick?”
“Got it. What do I pay?”
“Whatever it takes. Just keep them out of their hands.”
“What’s the address of this party?”
He tells me, and I start out of the office, my assignment memorized.
When I reach the door, he calls out, “Warrick!”
I turn.
“Your clock’s ticking down, son. Don’t get too comfy with bachelorhood. I haven’t forgotten about finding you a wife.”
Without a word, I swing out the door and stride all the way to the front of the house, passing a few guards watching the property, before what he says sinks in.
Really sinks in.
My days are numbered. My card pulled, my time up.
He’s going to force me to marry some bitch. I’d like to say I’m strong enough to go against him, but doing that means pain. Maybe death.
No life is important to Vincent Rossi, mafioso of Chicago. Not even his son’s.
I jump in my Jag and take off for the address. Of all my brothers, I’m the best at negotiating, especially when it comes to illegal weapons. Guns don’t even hit the city borders before I’m on it, negotiating for shipments and distribution.
The drive is short, but parking is a nightmare. Whoever’s throwing this party doesn’t know the city very well, or they’d have paid someone to clear out all the cars for blocks to accommodate the guests.
Walking up to the house, I drink it all in and assess what’s going on in a heartbeat.
This is a rental, chosen for the look. The mansion sprawls across the huge lot that’s unusual in these parts. But I know for a fact the place was empty a week ago. The host of this party is an imposter.
And I’m about to knock him down a couple pegs.
I don’t even reach the door before a servant opens it and admits me without any proof of my identity. For all he knows, I could be an undercover Fed here to break up the fun and cart a bunch of assholes off to prison.
People gather with drinks in hand around the modern space. A twelve-foot Christmas tree shoots up to the ceiling, decked out by someone who stages houses for sale.
I grab a drink at the bar and mill about, talking to a few people I know and ignoring some enemies too. When I see who’s at the center of the gathering, I’m not surprised that he’s dressed as flashy as possible.
We Rossis might dress well and show off our shiny new cars, but I just know this guy has a taste for cheap wine on a champagne budget. He’s play-acting, and for some reason that gets me riled up.
I hate fucking fake people like him.
Then a waiter touches his arm. I expect him to shake the servant off, but instead he gives him his full attention. He excuses himself from the two men he’s talking to and walks away.
I follow, for no reason I understand. But I haven’t stayed alive for twenty years by ignoring my instincts.
When I enter a kitchen, I see the servers quickly picking up and dropping off trays, a couple caterers scurrying to keep the guests fed.
The host walks right to the back door and lets someone in.
A massive box precedes the person, and only when she’s in full light do I see the woman.
She’s average height with long, pale brown hair. I swear I’ve seen a thousand women just like her, until she turns and I see her face.
The expression of haughty determination captures my attention. She won’t look at the host as he guides her to a corner of the kitchen, where she sets down the box on a counter.
As she talks, she waves her hands toward the door. He calls out to a couple waiters and sends them outside, presumably to bring in the rest of the goodies from a place called Dream Puff, I see from the writing on the box.
Not unusual for a party to have all kinds of gourmet foods. What isn’t normal is the host’s personal interest. Unless he’s got one hell of a sweet tooth, why would he care how the sweets are delivered?
What do I care if he cares?
I step back out of the kitchen, drink my shot and get involved in some small talk with other guests. When I look up again, the woman who delivered the baked goods is setting up a large tray filled with cookies of all kinds.
I let my gaze rake over her curves. She fills out a pair of black dress slacks and a crisp white blouse, that’s for sure.
I don’t usually slum it with women who don’t offer me a leg up in the world. I sleep with senator’s daughters—their wives too. And I’ve had my share of celebrity pussy.
For some reason, I can’t look away from this woman as she sets up the table. She heads to the back for more, and a guy catches up to her. Her shoulders stiffen but she talks to him and they walk into the kitchen.
I watch the door they disappear through. I can’t look away from it.
I’ve got a bad feeling about her going off with him.
Setting down my drink on the nearest surface, I follow.
It takes me a few minutes to find them, but I hear her cries from behind a closed door.
“No! Please stop! Don’t do this! Stop touching me! I’m a—”
I blast into the room.
“—virgin!” she rasps from under the weight of the guy trying to take advantage.
I barely have time to take in the situation before I’m moving forward, fists clenched. I grab the guy sprawled on top of her with his pants do
wn and hers around her ankles and yank him off. Before he can get out a bellow of protest, I cock my fist and ram it into his nose.
Bone snaps under my knuckles and blood spatters.
I don’t stop there. I shove him against a wall and pummel him with my fists. I blacken both his eyes and bust his lips. I batter his stomach until he’s crumpled in a heap at my feet.
Then I look to the woman. She’s still lying there with her pants down, exposing slender legs, her top hanging down to cover her pussy.
“You okay?”
Her chest heaves.
“He won’t be bothering you again.”
Her eyes bore into mine for what feels like a solid minute.
“I-I…thank you,” she whispers on a shaky breath. “If I can do something for you…”
I stare at her. “What could you do for me?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a bakery owner. But…” She pauses for so long I’m not sure she’ll go on.
Finally, she spits out the words. “I’m a Gallo.”
I recognize the name from another city, another underworld that sometimes touches the one I reign over. “Gallo?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t look away from me.
I give her a nod and turn to go. I kick the guy on my way out, leaving her alone to fix herself, and her attacker to bleed on the rented floor.
Two things I’m sure of—I will be taking down every last man at this fucking party tonight.
And only I will be taking that woman’s virginity, right after I marry her.
Warrick
I follow the sound of my brothers’ voices to the dining room. When I walk in, they’re all sitting there with the old man holding court.
Breakfast is a shit-show on the best of days, but I’m about to enhance that by about two thousand percent.
My father is old school. He still believes you wake up early and dress the part. I guess the mob boss has to keep up appearances, right down to his gold cufflinks.
My brothers are less turned out. Most of them were up half the night on business, me included. I don’t care if I look like a slob in my gray sweats and black T-shirt. When I take my seat, everyone looks at me.
“Well?” Gabriel’s a demanding prick.
I reach for the coffeepot always sitting on the table and drag my mug toward me. “If you want to know if you look like a douche, the answer’s yes.”
Ryker and Kenzo chuckle, but no one else finds me amusing. Not that I give a damn.
“At least I can change my clothes. You can’t grow more brain cells.” Gabrielle’s quip has my brothers laughing again.
The old man leans back in his seat, eyeing me up. “You need to pull yourself together, Warrick. You look like hell.”
I bring my mug to my lips and sip my coffee black. “If you didn’t have me at parties half the night, maybe I could get my beauty sleep.”
“So what happened? Were you able to make the deal?” My father’s tone takes on that no-bullshit edge that used to scare us kids. Now that we’re older, not one of us gives a damn about his rages that used to send us scuttling away. If he raised a fist to us now, we’d level him.
No one speaks while I drink enough caffeine to function. They go back to their scrambled eggs. Only Gabriel is glaring at me. He wants his answers about the weapons.
Finally, I set down my coffee and lean back in my seat. All eyes are on me.
“For Christ’s sakes, Warrick. Spit it the hell out. Did you make the deal or not?” Anders’s black eyes narrow on me.
“It wasn’t easy. There were over a hundred people there wanting to buy those weapons.”
“But you outbid them, right? You could have done that deal in thirty seconds if you pulled the host aside.”
When I think about the host, I again see the woman who was attacked and nearly raped in his house. Under the table, I flex my sore knuckles. I have no regrets for beating that fucker into a pulp. I may be an asshole, but I don’t rape women.
“I approached him about us buying the lot, but he wanted to wait and see what the other offers on the table would bring.”
My old man sits back, disgust curling his lip. “He doesn’t know who he’s up against.”
“No. He doesn’t. He’s a cocky asshole on a power trip. But after I saw the first deal go down, I let it be known to the buyer that I could take the risk of him selling illegal weapons to street kids off his hands if he just sold them to me. After that, nobody even wanted to deal with Moretti.”
“Doesn’t that mean you paid more for the crates?” Ryker scrubs at the black hair on his jaw with his knuckles in that way that shows his disapproval. He’d rub his jaw right before laying into one of us brothers. Man, those were the days when we could scrabble and only come away with bloody lips instead of broken bones.
“About a thousand bucks more, yeah. But it’s nothing. We can get far more profit.” I’m confident that I made the best transactions. What more could the old man ask for? I got him his guns.
Down the length of the table, I meet my father’s eyes. I can see he has something to say. I have a guess at what that could be, but I’m going to beat him to it.
“What else do you have to tell me, son?” His voice is lowered in that warning tone.
I smile. I love fucking with all my family, but him most of all. “I found someone who will fit your specifications. And mine too.”
“Explain,” my father gruffs out.
“I refuse to be saddled with some woman that you choose for me.”
“You found your own?”
I give a single nod.
Anders leans forward to look at me. “One of your whores.”
“When she was about to be raped by some guy at the party, she claimed to be a virgin. So I’m pretty sure she’s not a whore.”
That has everyone’s attention.
Gabriel bites off a laugh. “You’re going to marry a girl who was at the party? Why else would she be there?”
I skip the part about delivering baked goods since I haven’t totally pieced together why she was doing that and go straight to the good stuff. “She’s a Gallo.”
Now all four of my brothers and my father snap to attention. “A Detroit Gallo?” our old man demands.
I nod again.
“She’s with Moretti then. He took over the mafia there after the kingpin took that bullet,” Anders adds.
“She’s not with Moretti. I’d be able to tell.”
“And you just decided you’re going to marry this unknown woman?” My father gives me a scoffing shake of his head as if I’m a little boy with pipe dreams to become a doctor or a police officer, neither of which were possibilities to the son of a mafia king.
I will follow in my family’s footsteps even if they lead to an early grave.
“If I’m going to be forced to marry, then I’m going to choose who,” I grind out.
My father’s barked laugh has my brothers looking away. None of them want to be the recipient of his wrath. It’s okay—I brought it on. I’ll take the heat.
“What do you know about matters like these? You’re a damn kid.”
“If I’m a kid, then I shouldn’t marry at all. But since you’re hellbent on saddling me with someone, then I’m taking matters into my own hands. She’s a Gallo.”
“Yeah, but which Gallo? One of the many bastards the man scattered around the city?”
“I haven’t gotten that far with her yet. I’ll let you know when I do.” I stand to leave.
“Jesus Christ, Warrick!” My father’s bellow follows me to the door.
“I know what I want, and it’s her. Arrange the priest for next week.”
I walk out without a backward glance. I’m a Rossi. When I know what I want, nothing stops me from getting it.
Chapter III
Warrick
When I land in Detroit, I see it’s no different than any other city. Everyone’s in pain.
The homeless people on the corners are i
n pain. The businessman with the dead eyes walking to work is in pain. Women working at the convenience stores are mothers, sisters, wives who’ve seen too much without any support.
Being born into a mafia family has its perks. I’m not in pain—I deliver it.
I hail a cab to take me to the address I’ve gotten after a little bit of digging. As the car makes its way through the dirty streets, I peer through the raindrops on the windows at the ugly despair here.
Everly Gallo managed to escape all this after her father took a bullet from an unknown assailant in a case that remains open to this day. While her mother’s still living, she’s an addict and was proved unfit for caring for her teen daughters after their father died.
So they went to their grandmother, and after her death, hopped a bus to Chicago.
Uncovering these tidbits about her life have given me a small glimpse into her personality. Back at that party when I found her standing up to Nick Moretti and then fighting off a rapist, I saw the strength in Everly Gallo.
I also saw in her eyes that she isn’t totally in the clear from that life yet. She doesn’t want to be a victim, but she’s victimized, by all the doors that have slammed in her face since she struck out on her own.
And Moretti is responsible for those slamming doors.
It wasn’t a huge jump for me to connect the dots that Moretti approached Everly in her bakery, Dream Puff, and coerced her to bring those cookies. I know men like him. They have two methods of persuasion—threats or blackmail.
I’m still mulling over which one of those it could be when the cab stops in front of a big two-story brick home. It might have once been flashy, but it’s worn down. Since the mafioso’s death, shit went to wrack and ruin.
I drop a hundred dollar bill to the driver and climb out, straightening my suit and brushing away nonexistent lint as I make my way to the front door.
After knocking several times, someone finally answers. A thick-shouldered hulk of a security man looks me up and down. “You here to see Johnny Gallo?”
The uncle.
“Yes. And Mrs. Gallo too.” Everly’s heroin addict mother.
“What’s your business?” He sneers at me, and I settle a hand on the door, prepared to shove it open, knock this son of a bitch out and go search for the people I’m here to see.
