Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  Frank is a great right hand. He’s never once shown any discomfort about the things I’ve asked him to do, and more importantly, he’s content to take orders from his little brother. Frankie knows where his strengths lie, and they’re in his fists, not his strategic thinking. But like I said, he gets anxious over stupid little things, things that don’t matter at all in my grand scheme of things.

  “Georgie,” he hisses, but I ignore him.

  It’s that nickname, you see. I hate it.

  The boys have tied Howie into the chair now. I can see where his mouth is because the bag over his head moves in and out with his breath as he sucks in wet air and coughs.

  “Frank says there was some trouble?” I ask Marco. I like Marco, because he does what he’s told, and he’s efficient about it.

  Marco shakes his head. “Nope. No trouble,” he says, eyebrows rising. I glance back at Frank, who rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, his lips moving in silent curses.

  “And you found him alright,” I confirm. Marco nods.

  At the sound of my voice, the kid has gone still, no more rocking around in his chair. Beside him, O’Leary is still crying, but silently. “I’m sorry we’ve had to stoop to this, Howie,” I say to him politely. “And I’m sorry about the punch you got just now.”

  I glance at the guy who threw that punch, and he gives me an ornery glare back. Joey Fuscone has been trouble since he joined my crew. He doesn’t like queers. He doesn’t have to say it, because it rolls off of him every time he looks at me. He’s not alone in this dark world; far from it. But Sam Fuscone, Joey’s uncle, made an exception for me because I’m exceptional. He’s a stupid man, but he’s canny enough to see the smarts in those around them, and take advantage of them. But his nephew, Joey, just hates me.

  I don’t care if he hates me; I just need him to do what I say. And he hasn’t today, so now we have a problem.

  But I’ll deal with it in my own time.

  “Mr. Donovan,” I say, “We’re going to take the bag off your head now, and you’re going to see a familiar face—” but I stop, because Howie has started chuckling.

  More than chuckling. He’s laughing his head off, and that’s when I know he must be flying real high today, and perhaps I should allow for Joey’s gut-punching of the kid after all.

  I shrug at Marco. “Unbag him.”

  Chapter Seven

  FINCH

  My family are the only ones who ever calls me Howie, so that’s how I know these guys don’t know who I am, not really.

  Well. Do any of us really know the people around us?

  Philosophy aside, there’s one man I know, one man who fucking branded his voice on my brain, and when I hear it now, I figure the drugs have finally killed my mind completely, and I’m hallucinating.

  And so I laugh and I laugh, even as someone is pulling the rope from around my neck, pulling the bag off, and I laugh some more, rolling my head around. I can’t help it.

  “Fate, right?” I giggle to the ceiling.

  There’s silence in the room. I swing my head back down, rolling on my shoulders, and look at him, my man Lucifer, standing there looking paler than ever, paler than the night I found him lying in the trash, truly fallen from heaven.

  Even his red lips are gone white.

  “You…” he says.

  Frank trots up. Brother Frank, the faithful lapdog. God, I’ve missed Frank over the years, too. I missed him like a brother. Like Georgie’s brother.

  “Yeah, so,” Frank says loudly, “this is the kid. This is the Donovan kid.”

  “That’s me, Howard Fincher Donovan. And let’s not forget: the Third. What’s your name?” I ask, grinning wildly at my Georgie. “Come on, baby, you gotta tell me now.”

  This is how I know again for sure my man is gonna rule this city: he pulls himself the fuck together.

  “Everyone get out,” he says softly. “And take that asshole with you,” he adds, flicking a hand to my right. Only his eyes don’t leave my face, like if he looks away I might disappear again. The guy who pulled the bag off my head starts dragging away some fat geezer tied to a chair, who starts screaming about how sorry he is.

  It’s Jim O’Leary, one of my family’s regular bodyguards. Huh. I always thought the old bastard liked me.

  I guess liking someone doesn’t count for much in the end, though. I watch as one goon pulls Jim’s chair out of the warehouse into a back room, the chair legs squealing and scraping on the floor as they go. The other men file out after them, except for one: the one who hit me. I can tell which one he is because he hit me a few times even before the bag was in place, when they burst into the place I was staying, and then a few times after that. I’ve gotten to know the landing of his punch in a short period.

  “Don’t pay it no mind, Jim!” I holler after O’Leary. Seems to me like they’re gonna kill him, so I want him to die with a clear conscience.

  My man is still staring at me, but when he talks, he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the guy who hit me. “Joey,” he says. “Get. Out.”

  Joey has a pugnacious look about him, like he doesn’t like being told what to do, especially not by Georgie for some reason. Oh, but I can think of all the reasons and more. This man of mine is no friend-maker, I’ll bet that much.

  Joey says: “My uncle told me to keep an eye on the kid.”

  My man’s nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath, but Brother Frank saves him just like he always does, bustling Joey out of the room and talking to him in a vicious muttering whisper. But over his shoulder, Joey stares back at me, and I see the evil in him.

  I make a kissy-face at him, just to see him fight with Frank to try to come back and belt me, and I laugh in delight. People can be so predictable.

  Except for Lucifer. And finally we’re alone. “Georgie,” I say. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie.”

  “I told you. My name’s not Georgie.”

  “Nope, but it’s the only one I knew, baby.”

  “And Finch was the only one I knew,” he says.

  “And look at us here in a fucking French farce. So, Georgie—you’re looking good, by the way, but first things first—what’s the plan?” Now that we’re alone, he can let go of that suit of armor he’s wearing. Speaking of suits, his is terrible. “Where the fuck did you get that thing you’re wearing?” I ask.

  He’s been walking, pacing, a few steps then swivel, a few steps then swivel, hands on his hips. But when I ask about his suit, he stops and unbuttons the jacket so it hangs open, and I can see his gun strapped underneath.

  Fuck, he’s hot. Even in a cheap suit. Even making veiled threats.

  “Baby, what’s the plan?” I ask again. He shakes his head impatiently. “I mean, like, were you sent to kill me? Is my Dad really in that much shit? Because I’d rather not die if I can avoid it. I mean, God, I want to die, you know, but not by getting shot in the head if I have the choice. Although, if you do have to do that, can you double-tap? Make sure? ’Cause I’d definitely rather die than be a vegetable, or whatever the politically correct term is these days. Baby? Can you do that for me?”

  “Jesus fuck,” he sighs. “I thought I must have made up how much you talked, but I didn’t.”

  “I’m nervous,” I say, and laugh my hyena laugh again. He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s nervous laughter. So tell me true, are you gonna throw me in the Hudson with cement shoes?”

  He raises both hands to his face and rubs vigorously, like he’s trying to scrub away the day. Too late for that.

  “Baby?”

  “Be quiet and let me think,” he says, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  My confidence shakes, just a little. I don’t really think he’s gonna kill me. Maybe he was sent to, but he won’t. Not me. Not after the universe has hit us over the head with this great big coincidence-that-can’t-be. But: “You do remember me, right?” I ask.

  He looks up at that, squinting at me like I’ve said something stupid. “You sa
ved my life.”

  I snort. “Now that’s dramatic. Say, whatever did happen to all those guys who jumped you? The ones who limped out of the alley alive?”

  “I killed them.” He says it simply, impatiently, as though it couldn’t matter less what happened to them. I guess it doesn’t, not really.

  “And now me?” I ask.

  He stalks over to me. “You’ve really fucked things up for me, you know that?”

  “Well, I sure am sorry I screwed up your morning. If it’s any consolation, this wasn’t scheduled in my day-planner, either.”

  He takes my chin and looks my face over. “They hit you when they grabbed you?”

  I nod. “Yeah, that cheeky little monkey—Joey? He punched me a couple times more than he was supposed to, according to your brother, who was super pressed about it in the back of the van. Or at least, as far as I could make out.”

  His mouth tightens as he takes that in, and I take the opportunity to give him a long, appreciative stare. He’s filled out some since the last time I saw him. Still ropy like a panther, gleaming black hair shorter now and slicked back, but skin still pale enough that he could pass as a Victorian consumptive. Under the jacket I can see his shoulders have broadened out, and his tight white shirt strains just the slightest bit over his pecs. I wonder if he still has that gorgeous pelt of hair on him.

  I wonder if his cock is just as thick and juicy as I remember it, and lick my split lip. His eyes follow my tongue, so I do it again, lick my lips, slower this time, and give a twisty smirk.

  “You changed your hair.”

  “Aw, you noticed. Yeah, I got tired of pink.” These days I just bleach it blond and have done with it.

  “I liked the pink.”

  “I mean, I can dye it back if that helps get me out of here?”

  He pulls his eyes away, looking over my head. “The plan was to take you out to send a message to your father that he should pay his debts.”

  “Hm. That would be kind of like nuking a mosquito, I feel,” I say thoughtfully.

  “You feel right, but it wasn’t my decision.”

  “Georgie, you mind untying me? My nose is real itchy.” He ignores me. “Or not,” I sigh.

  He paces around again, but there’s no scrubbing at his face this time, so I figure the bricks are lining up in his mind just how he wants them. I make a mighty effort to keep my mouth shut, for at least a minute.

  “Alright,” he says after forty-three seconds (according to my count, anyway). “The last time we met, angel, you laid the world out before me and suggested I take it. That’s what I’m working towards. Now, you—you could be useful to me.”

  I laugh again. “Okay, baby. If that’s the way you wanna play it. Sure, I can be useful.”

  “Only I need to know your goals, too. There’s no point us making a deal if we can’t be useful to each other.”

  My nose hurts when I laugh too long, so I stop and cough instead. “My goals? I got everything I ever wanted already, babes. As long as I play by my Pops’ rules—”

  He points a finger at me. It’s like I’m looking down the barrel of his gun instead. “I don’t think you like his rules though, do you, angel? I read up on Howie Donovan the Third. He did end up going to Harvard. But then he got cut.”

  I grin. “Ahh, just an unfortunate series of misunderstandings. You know what those places are like; they don’t fuck with drugs. Or maybe you don’t know. I guess you never went to college.” I didn’t mean it as a diss, but it comes out that way.

  But he shrugs it off. “Reading’s free; life is a lesson.”

  I’m glad to hear that. If he’s a reader it means he’s a thinker, and that means I might get out of this alive. And I find, strangely, that I do want to stay alive, now that he’s back in the picture.

  “So what are you suggesting? You gonna let me go, send me back to Pops with a message?”

  I don’t know if I like that idea much. Pops has been tightening the purse strings lately, and threatening rehab again, or even home detention. If I limp back to Boston with a message about how I got kidnapped and almost killed—

  But my man shakes his head. “Can’t do that. I’m under strict orders to kill you. If I let you go…” He spreads his hands with a shrug.

  I give a shaky smile, let out a breath. “At last.” He looks at me, head cocked to one side. “I’m glad it’s you,” I tell him. I really am, now that the time is finally here. “I’m ready to die. Just make it quick.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  “Then what—”

  He makes a sharp hand movement, cutting off my words. “I owe you a debt, and I honor my debts. You saved my life, so I can’t kill you.”

  “Is that the only reason?” He doesn’t reply to that. “I mean, you could just kill me,” my runaway mouth says, even though I don’t mean it to. “Then everything could go back to your original plan. Whatever that was.”

  He looks me over, his eyes contemplative. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “I honor my debts,” he says again. “We’ll go to the Boss, I’ll tell him the score, and accept his judgement. One way or the other.”

  “One way or the other,” I echo. “Seems fair. How about a kiss for old time’s sake? One last kiss before we jump into the void?” I’m shivering, and I don’t know whether it’s because I’m coming down from the drugs, or because I’m genuinely cold, or because I’m genuinely terrified.

  He comes close, and runs a hand through my hair. “You still have the face of an angel,” he says. And he does lean in and brush his lips against my forehead. “Pray to Mary to intercede for us, baby bird,” he advises. “And we might get out of this alive.”

  Wow, such confidence.

  Chapter Eight

  LUCA

  Don Augustino Morelli has always given me more leeway than usual when it comes to my Caporegime, Sam Fuscone. Fuscone is small fry; Tino has always been my model for power. And I like to flatter myself that he sees me as having potential.

  We all file into Tino’s dining room: me, Frank, Fuscone, and his half-wit nephew. Outside in the antechamber sits Howard Fincher Donovan the Third, another bag over his head and surrounded by men with guns. Tino Morelli sits behind the dinner table like a medieval king. We go one by one to kiss his hand and then stand in a line in front of him. We are the prisoners; he is the firing squad.

  “Ah, it’s those damn D’Amato brothers,” he says, smiling at me and then at Frank. We bow our heads respectfully. “You two always seem to be getting into trouble,” Tino continues, wagging a thick finger at us. He’s old, but he still wields the mantle of power like a second skin.

  “Aw, you know us, Tino,” Frank says, looking up with a grin. Frank’s lucky he’s so well-liked. He’s even charming, in his way. I’m not. But that’s alright; I have other skills.

  I raise my head and look my Boss straight in the eye. “My apologies, Don Morelli. We’ve interrupted your dinner with our petty problems.”

  He regards me with calm eyes. I never know quite what he’s thinking, and there aren’t many men I can say that about.

  Sam Fuscone blusters then, furious that those damn D’Amato brothers (he’s the one who started that particular nickname) have begun to direct the conversation. If only he knew how defensive it makes him sound. “This asshole, he don’t do what he’s told, Tino. He’s always talking shit about me and—”

  Tino holds up one hand, and Fuscone shuts his yap. Even he isn’t dumb enough to keep going when the Don calls a halt. “And who is our guest waiting outside?”

  “He’s that mick Donovan’s son, and I want him dead,” Fuscone snarls.

  “I don’t like these slurs you throw around, Sam,” Tino chides him calmly. “We are businessmen. We don’t need to use ugly words to run our business. We are, what is the term they use these days?” He glances at me, but I stay quiet. “An equal opportunity employer,” he says at last. “Are we not?”

  Fuscone gr
owls an apology and Tino goes back to his meal, forking off another piece of his osso buco and savoring the flesh.

  We all wait.

  At last, Tino looks to the back of the room where his bodyguard Angelo Messina lurks. He gives a nod, and Angelo goes into the other room and comes back with Finch. The bag on Finch’s head turns this way and that as he tries to scope out the room even though he can’t see anything. It might even be funny, if I didn’t think I was likely to die in the next half hour or so.

  I pull Finch to me by the other elbow and mutter, “Keep your mouth shut,” to him before I turn back to my Boss and say politely, “This is Howard Donovan Junior’s son, Howard Donovan the Third.”

  “That’s a dead guy walking,” Fuscone mutters ominously.

  “He seems very much alive to me,” Tino says. “Remove the hood, please.”

  I do. Tino puts on his glasses and gives Finch an up-and-down stare. I pray to God that Finch will keep his smart mouth under control, but happily the imminent nature of his death finally seems to have got through to him.

  Once he’s scoped out the Irish kid, the Boss closes his eyes for a moment and thinks. Then he looks over at me. “Would you care to explain why you did not carry out your orders?”

  I hesitate without seeming to. Is it best to do this here, in the open, or behind closed doors? “Don Morelli, I beg your indulgence. Can we have a moment alone?”

  “No, you fucking can’t!” Fuscone barks, just like I hoped he would, while I keep my smirk under control.

  Tino’s glance is enough to shut Fuscone up, and then the aging head of the Morelli Family rises from his chair like it’s a throne. He flicks his head at me in a come on gesture. I let go of Finch’s arm to go after my Boss, but the kid makes a panicked noise and grabs at me.

  “No,” I tell him calmly. “You stay here. Stay with Frank.”

  That bronze skin of his has a decidedly greenish patina to it now. I wonder exactly how far into the drug hole this angel has crawled. But it’s the least of my concerns right now, as I follow Tino into the next room.