Chapter Two
Manhattan. Dead of winter.
It’s so cold I think my balls have closed up shop and gone home. Home, back in Florida, where it’s a beautiful seventy degrees this time of year. They’re basking in the glow of the warm southern sunshine, while I’m stuck here, freezing my cock off out by the East River.
Two o’clock in the morning. Twenty-one degrees. It feels closer to zero with the way the frigid air seeps through my thick black coat, the fake-ass fur-lined hood not enough to keep me warm. My ears are frozen. My nose is running, it’s so goddamn cold. It’s like tiny needles jabbing my skin, over and over, obnoxious little pinpricks, stinging and numbing me.
I’d rather be stabbed with a knife than deal with frostbite.
Snow from a recent storm is still spread out along the worn, wooden dock, layered over patches of slick ice… ice I almost busted my ass on not once, not twice, but three times as I walked along it. I wasn’t made for trekking through slush, that’s for damn sure. My boots are wet, my toes about to join my nutsack far away.
You’ve got to be a fucking fool to be out here at this time of day.
Fucking fool.
That’s what I am.
That’s me.
Lorenzo ‘Fucking Fool’ Gambini.
Say it with me.
Because here I stand on the dock, hands shoved in my pockets, fingertips tingling, struggling to pay attention to the schmuck five feet in front of me as he yammers away about a card game that was robbed last night, like I give a shit about some small-time gamblers in a city rich with, well, riches.
“So, like I said, my boss says the deal is—”
He’s still talking. My teeth are chattering.
How has my life come to this?
“Are you homeless?”
My question comes out in a cloud of breath that lingers between us, like the words are caught mid-air, frozen in the cold night. It cuts off his tireless rambling as he looks at me for the first time since arriving, his eyes widening with surprise… or horror, maybe.
Given it’s me he’s here with, I’d say the latter is likely.
He stares at my face for a second too long and he knows it, because before I have a chance to say anything about it, he averts his gaze, his eyes going straight to a pile of snow by his feet that he nervously kicks at, like a bad little boy that knows he’s about to get a whipping.
“Uh, no, I mean… why would you think…?”
“Because you asked me to meet you here.” Pulling my hand from my pocket, I wave around us, at the graffiti-riddled, bum-infested area. “We could’ve met anywhere… a bar, a restaurant, a fucking all-night Laundromat… but no. You ask me here. Nobody comes here unless they’ve got nowhere else they can go. So tell me, are you homeless?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just, you know… safer here.”
“Safer.” Seriously? “You think it’s safer to meet me right by the river, when it’s so dark that I could just toss your body in and nobody would give a shit?”
“But my boss—”
“Is a fucking fool,” I say, cutting him off again. “More of a fool than I was for agreeing to come to this bullshit charade of a meeting with some underling when I could be at home… in bed… with the gorgeous little blonde still riding me that I had to kick out an hour ago in order to make it here on time, which is saying something, you know, because that’s starting to rank as the second biggest mistake of my life, and I don’t even like that woman. She talks too damn much.”
The guy looks at me again. It’s just a flickering glance, but it tells me that somewhere deep inside of him, he’s got guts. He’s got balls that haven’t yet tucked tail and run. The kind of balls that can withstand all of this goddamn cold. Balls of steel.
He came alone on the instructions of his boss, a man by the name of George Amello. Ol’ Mello Yello was one of many so-called ‘bosses’ to spring up after the great ‘Mafia Massacre’, as the media oh-so-poetically dubbed it, when the heads of the notorious New York crime families were executed in a room over in Long Island, paving the way for me to take over the city.
The competition nowadays? Pretty goddamn dismal.
They’re so inexperienced, so melodramatic, that it’s boring. They think they’re playing a game of The Godfather, pretending to be Michael Corleone when they’ll never be more than a weak ass Fredo. They’re pussies, and quite frankly, I’m growing tired of dealing with any kind of pussy that doesn’t come attached to a shapely female form. That pussy, I’ll spend my life worshiping, but these guys? These buffoons?
They’re not worth losing my balls over.
I happen to like my balls. They accentuate my cock quite nicely, you know. I’d show you, but well... you’ve got to earn that first. So pay attention, okay? There’s work to do here.
“Look,” I say, having had my fill of this winter bullshit. A few flakes trickle from the cloud-coated sky, which is my cue to take my ass inside somewhere. “There’s a bar right down the street, called Whistle something or whatever.”
A throat clears behind me. “Whistle Binkie.”
I almost forgot I brought Seven along tonight. He’s always there to flank me when I need cover but never one to get in the way. I appreciate that. People in my way tend to get run over, and I’d hate to have to run over one of my best men. He’s a bit older than me, mid-forties, and has been calling these streets home since he was just a kid. Dressed in all black from head to toe, he blends into the darkness just like he intends to do.
The man is my shadow.
“That’s the one,” I say. “I’m going to go get a drink at Whistle Binkie before they close. You want to finish this conversation? That’s where I’ll be. But this?” I motion around us again. “This ain’t happening, man.”
The guy just stands there, saying nothing, as I walk away, heading back to my car parked near the dock. Seven keeps up with my stride, not even wavering as I slide on the ice, damn near falling yet again. I hate winter.
Annoyed, I climb in the passenger seat of my black BMW, not bothering with the seatbelt. It’s only a block away. I could walk, sure, but I have a feeling it would be more like ice-skating, and I don’t ice skate.
Not willingly, anyway.
Seven drives. He was smart enough to wear gloves tonight, black leather clinging to his long fingers as he clutches the steering wheel. A ski mask is shoved up, perched on top of his head, mostly concealed by his hoodie, the oversized hood of it up, dropping down over his forehead. Seven’s an average-sized guy, about my height and kind of lanky, his skin a deep olive tone that looks like leather.
He stops the car in front of Whistle Binkie, double-parking and turning the hazards on. “You need me to come in with you, boss?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “Find a spot, I’ll call when I’m ready. Don’t go too far.”
“Yes, boss.”
Getting out, I step around the parked cars, up onto the sidewalk, and pause there as Seven drives away. He doesn’t drink. It’s against his religion, he says. Raised Mormon, he still adheres to some of the principles, like not drinking alcohol or screwing around, although it seems the ‘no killing folks’ aspect is more negotiable with the guy. After he rounds the corner down the block, I push the door open and step inside the bar.
It’s somewhat busy, but that’s not really a surprise, is it? It’s Saturday night in the city that never sleeps and the beer at this place is dirt cheap. I find a stool along the side of the bar and sit down, motioning to the bartender, a young guy, barely old enough to drink.
He wanders over, eyeing me like I’m a rabid animal that might maul him if he comes near.
I’m used to the look. I’ve been getting it for years, ever since I was sixteen and my stepfather beat me half to death with a shovel. Part of my face never recovered, a scar covering the right half, slicing through my eye and running down my cheek. I’m blind on that side, the eye cloudy, a lighter shade of blue than I’d been born with.
So I’m used to it, you know. I’ve had twenty years to get used to it. To get used to the judgment, the harsh glances, the repulsion. Strangers gawk. Kids cower. Most are afraid to look me in the face, like I’m something out of their nightmares.
But while I might be used to it, that doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I’m not tempted to gouge their fucking eyes out and ask them how it feels.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.
“Rum,” I tell him.
“A shot?”
“A bottle.”
He hesitates, like maybe he’s thinking about not getting it for me, which would be a mistake. With the mood I’m in tonight, I’m liable to hop behind the bar and personally take it. He obliges, though, unknowingly saving his own ass some trouble, considering I’d be inclined to knock a few teeth out of his mouth if he made me serve myself.
Grabbing a half-empty bottle of rum from below the bar, he slides it in front of me before handing over a shot glass.
He walks away to tend to someone else.
I carefully pour myself a shot and toss it back.
I shudder. It burns. My insides are coated in flames as I swallow the liquor down. I can feel it thawing me out, smothering the coldness. It’s the cheap shit, so bottom shelf that it doesn’t even deserve a spot on the display along the mirrored wall behind the bar. It’s so vile, in fact, that it’s probably eating away at my insides as we speak.
“You’d be better off just drinking paint thinner,” a voice says. It’s playful and feminine with a tone that makes me think of home. Not that we talked like her in Florida, no, but her voice reminds me of warmth. It reminds me of sunshine. It reminds me of starry nights and cloudless days.
That’s way too sappy, I know.
Don’t tell anyone I said that shit.
My attention drifts to the source of it, diagonally across the corner of the bar, just a couple seats away, meeting a woman’s gaze.
She’s young—early twenties, I’d say—with wild brunette hair, the kind that looks like hands have been running through it, like someone wrapped it around their fist and held on for dear life as they fucked her senseless. Her face betrays that, though, with a set of wide brown eyes, innocent eyes, and a quirky smile, almost sheepish with the way only one side seems to curve. Blood red color shines from her lips, matching the skin-tight, long-sleeved red dress she wears. Either the girl is classy, like a modern day Marilyn Monroe, or she’s the type that’ll suck my cock in the alley if I buy her some liquor.
I’ve found there’s really no middle ground for a woman who wears that much red out on the town.
“You know what they say,” I tell her. “That which doesn’t kill me—”
“Only makes me stronger,” she says, finishing the sentence.
“I was going to say isn’t trying hard enough, but that works, too.”
Her smile grows, genuine amusement crossing her face as she looks at me... really looks at me.
She isn’t turning away. Huh.
Maybe this night isn’t completely fucked.
I eye her and the dingy pint glass she holds onto, half-filled with what I assume to be whatever’s on tap. She doesn’t look like a beer drinker. I would’ve taken her for a tequila girl, if anything. Margaritas. Body shots. Salt. The whole fucking pizzazz.
“So, what’s a woman like you doing drinking cheap beer at a dive bar all alone at this hour?”
She regards me for a moment before saying, “What makes you think I’m alone?”
I look to either side of her. The guy on her left, wedged between us, is so drunk he’s passed out in his seat. An empty stool sits to her right. It’s been empty since I walked in. If she isn’t alone, whoever she came with sure as hell isn’t concerned about her well-being. “Because a guy would have to be a fool to leave you sitting here by yourself, looking how you do, considering he’s liable to lose you.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, without a doubt. I’d steal you in a heartbeat.”
Color rises into her cheeks. She blushes, soft pink accentuated by the crimson on her lips as she tries to fight back a smile but loses... miserably. “Smooth. That line usually work for you?”
“Every single time,” I say, “but I wouldn’t call it a line. It’s true. If you don’t take good care of what you’ve got, someone will be more than happy to take it away.”
She lets out a light laugh, shaking her head as her gaze goes to her beer. “Tell me about it.”
Before I can take the conversation any further, the door to the bar opens and the guy from the dock steps in. Took him long enough. I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to come, that I’d been wrong about his balls, that his boss had already confiscated them.
As much fun as playing with the pretty brunette would be tonight, there’s still business to attend to. I know, I know… my cock is mourning, too.
Sliding off the stool, I snatch up the bottle of rum and the empty shot glass, nodding to the brunette before strolling the guy’s way. I grab a small two-seater table by the door, sitting down in a flimsy chair as I motion to the one across from me. “Sit.”
He listens. He’s obedient. He’d probably roll over and beg if I barked those commands, all in his quest to please his master. Who’s a good boy?
“So, uh, like I was saying,” he mumbles, picking back up right where we left off. “These card games are important to my boss. The people who play in them... they’re important, too. All this trouble that’s been happening is scaring the guys away, so my boss wants to make a deal with you.”
“He wants to make a deal with me,” I say, pouring myself another shot, splashing liquor out onto the table. “What kind of deal are we talking?”
“He’s willing to cut you a share of the profits.”
“How much?”
“Ten percent.”
I nearly choke on the rum as I swallow it down, coughing, the burn taking my breath away. Ten percent. The fucknut is offering me ten percent of practically nothing. Pennies. “Let me get this straight. Your boss got a little problem with thieves busting up his card games. So in exchange for ten percent of what he makes off of it, he wants me to, what? Provide protection? Security? This ain’t a fucking rent-a-cop service I’m running. What does he want from me?”
He pauses. “He wants you to stop robbing him.”
I stare at the guy. Hard. I stare at him until he starts fidgeting, and I wait for him to retract that statement, but he says nothing.
He’s not taking it back.
“You calling me a thief?”
“I’m not calling you anything. My boss is.”
“Like I said… your boss is a fucking fool.” I rip the plastic pouring spout out of the bottle of rum and toss it onto the table, giving up all sense of propriety. Not like people expect it, anyway. Who needs manners when you’ve got a face like mine? They expect the worst, and what can I say? I don’t like to disappoint. “I have no interest in his petty little games of Go Fish with the brats he does business with.”
“Yeah, I told him as much,” he says. “Told him it wasn’t your M.O.”
I take a swig straight from the bottle before pointing it at him. “What do you know about my M.O.?”
“I know it’s not about the money to you,” he says. “The money’s a plus, of course, but that’s not why you do it. For you, it’s about the power. It’s about the respect. You’re not going to waste the energy on something that isn’t worth attaching your name to.”
Huh. He’s got me there. I do happen to be a fan of grand gestures. Go big or go home. He might have more balls than I gave him credit for out on the dock, but it’s obvious, looking at him, listening to him, that his boss takes that for granted. Georgie sent him out here tonight knowing there was a good chance he wouldn’t survive to see sunrise. He’s expendable, a simple go-between, and despite the cliché, everyone knows I’m the type to shoot the messenger.
“Tell me something.” I take another swig of rum. “What did your boss give you for coming here? How’s he compensating you?”
He hesitates. “He’s not.”
“No?”
“It was an order… it’s my job. I’m here because that’s what I do.”
“You deliver messages?”
“Among other things.”
I can hear the hidden meaning in those words. The messages he’s used to delivering aren’t verbal. They aren’t warnings. They aren’t stupid little deals. He delivers messages in the form of a bullet to the eye, telling the world, ‘I see you, motherfuckers. I see you.’
He’s intuitive. He’s got to be, if he was able to read me. That’s a rare quality these days. Nobody trusts their gut anymore, but they ought to. Sometimes wires get crossed in the brain, things get all jumbled, everything gets confused, and your heart… you can’t trust that son of a bitch. It’ll be the first to betray you. It’ll make you feel like the world is a beautiful place. It’ll make you forget all the darkness. It’ll make you hope, and believe, and then it’ll destroy you, just when you start to think maybe it’s okay to not be so goddamn frigid.
But the gut? The gut knows. The gut remembers. You should always listen to it.
After taking one more swig of rum, I shove the bottle aside and lean across the table, closing some of the distance between us. He blanches as I do. Ballsy and perceptive, yes, but the guy is uneasy, nervous about how this is going to end, worried that I might kill him for the things he said.
I can’t say the thought hasn’t cross my mind.
But I’m going to give him a chance, maybe because I’m feeling generous, or more likely because I’m a conniving son of a bitch. Besides, I’m bored. Might be fun to poke the bear a bit.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say. “You’re going to go back to your boss and deliver my counter offer, because this deal he’s offering just isn’t going to work for me.”
He stares down at where his hands rest on the table, clasped together like in prayer, and is quiet for a moment before he asks, “What’s your counter offer?”
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my worn, leather wallet. I shift through the wad of cash, finding only hundreds, and toss one on the table to cover the cost of the rum before sliding my wallet back away.
“Tell your boss he can suck my cock,” I say, shoving my chair back to stand up. “If he does a good enough job, maybe I won’t blow his fucking brains out for calling me a thief.”
Tingles creep along my skin, the hair on my arms prickling from a rush of adrenaline. I should’ve never left my house, should’ve never bothered with this meeting, should’ve never given those schmucks the time of day.
It’s pushing three o’clock in the morning now, the sky pitch black when I make my way outside, the snow coming down harder. I just want to get home and forget I was ever stupid enough to go along with this shit. I curse under my breath when I step out into the air. The cold slaps me in the face, nearly taking my breath away, as I yank the hood of my coat back up over my head to try to block some of the assault.
Grabbing my cell phone, I dial Seven’s number as I pace a section of sidewalk in front of the bar, my gaze out along the quiet street.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
The door to the bar swings open just as Seven picks up. He greets me, but before I have a chance to say anything in response, something rams into me from behind. I stumble, nearly losing my footing, skidding on ice as the phone drops from my hand.
Shit.
It hits the sidewalk with a thud, landing in a patch of snow. I snatch it back up, cursing as I wipe it off on my pant leg. Anger rushes through me as I turn around, about to make some unfortunate asshole’s night something to remember, when a flash of red greets me.
The doe-eyed woman from inside.
The moment I lay eyes on her, she starts stammering. “I, uh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking when I walked out, I didn’t see you…”
Flustered, she wraps her black coat around her tighter. It’s thin, not nearly warm enough to fend off cold of this caliber. Her red dress falls well above the knee, the only thing covering her legs a pair of black pantyhose. She’s petite, shorter than I imagined, barely eye-level wearing heels.
Shivering, she takes an immediate step back, putting a bit more distance between us as she clutches her coat closed defensively, like it’s her armor.
“It’s fine,” I say. “No harm done.”
She pauses for just a beat after I say that before turning to head down the street, scurrying away, like I scared the daylights out of her just by existing. Figures. She had more guts inside the bar. Guess she might be a Marilyn, after all, instead of an alleyway cocksucker.
Pity.
Sighing, I bring my phone back to my ear. “You still there, Seven?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“I’m ready to leave now.”
I end the call and slip my phone back away, grateful the thing still works. My hand lingers in my coat pocket, something off. It takes a second for it to strike me: the pocket’s empty. No wallet.
My gaze darts to the sidewalk, and I search all around my feet, figuring I dropped it, too, like the phone, but there’s nothing.
Nothing but snow, and ice, and battered concrete.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
I pat myself down, looking like even more of an idiot, but I know better. I’m not going to find it. It’s not here. My gaze shifts down the street at where the woman hurries away from me. She turns her head, as if she can sense my attention, looking back at where I’m standing.
And just like that, it clicks.
She knocked into me, catching me off guard, distracting me for the moment...
She fucking pick-pocketed me.
Me.
I’m so damn stunned I almost don’t react. My brain, it just can’t seem to make sense of it. It’s doesn’t compute. How the hell did she pickpocket me? Me. It’s impossible. Unbelievable.
Nobody’s balls are that big.
But yet, there she goes, looking back again, hurrying her steps even more the moment I start to move. My brain is still far from catching up, but gut instinct kicks in, forcing my muscles to work. I head for her, breaking into a sprint, slipping and sliding all over the goddamn place but managing to stay on my feet. She keeps glancing back as she starts to run, nearing the end of the block, that wild hair all over the place, whipping into her face.
She’s fast; I’ll give her that. Even in heels, she manages to navigate the ice with ease. That might impress me if I weren’t so goddamn angry.
Pins and needles jab my face, the coldness stinging. I run as fast as my legs can carry me, closing the distance, each stride sending her more into a panic. As soon as she hits the corner, she kicks off her heels, sending them flying, and runs through the slush out in the street in her bare feet.
Jesus Christ, the woman is crazy.
She’s fucking insane.
She has to be.
I dodge across the street, following, and catch up to her just as she rounds another corner. I’m close enough to snatch a hold of the back of her coat, fisting the material and yanking her to a stop so hard that she barely manages to stay upright. Before she can think to struggle, I swing her around and shove her back against a crumbling brick building, pinning her there, standing right up against her, so close her body heat surrounds me.
She gasps, eyes wide as she stares me dead in the face, like she just can’t believe this is happening.
Me, too, woman. I can’t believe this shit, either.
“I’ll scream,” she says, her voice a breathless cloud between us. “I swear I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if you wanted to scream, you would’ve just done it,” I say, patting down her flimsy coat, feeling for some pockets. “Now give it to me.”
She tries to block my hands. “Give you what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t... I don’t know... ugh, what are you...? Get your hands off of me!” she growls, pushing me. “What do you want?”
“My wallet,” I say, grabbing her hands when she tries to push me again. I press her hard against the brick, brushing the tip of my nose to hers as I lean down, smelling a hint of beer on her breath, but it’s not as strong as the scent that clings to her skin. Vanilla. “I know you swiped it.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I say, an edge of anger to my voice as it drops low. “It’s cold as fuck and I’m fresh out of patience, so this isn’t the time to play games. It’s in your best interest to just hand over the wallet before I drag you into an alley and strip-search you for it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Just try me. I dare you.”
A second passes. Then another. And another. Her expression shifts, the shock melting away as those bright red lips let out an exasperated sigh. She yanks from my grasp and pushes away from the wall, her chest bumping against me so hard that it forces me to take a step back, giving her room to move. She reaches into her coat, into her dress, and whips my wallet out from somewhere along her bra, holding it up between us. “Fine, you caught me. Happy?”
“Fucking ecstatic.” I snatch it, also grabbing her hand, pulling her toward me. Her sleeve moves up her forearm, exposing a tattoo on her wrist. It’s simple, nothing more than a cursive red ‘S’. “What’s this, huh? Your own little Scarlet Letter? What’s it stand for? Sneaky thieving bitch?”
She rolls her eyes. “Funny. If you’re done manhandling me, asshole, I’ve got somewhere to be, so I’d appreciate it if you’d, you know...” She motions with her head toward my hand. “...let go.”
I hesitate before loosening my hold, letting her slip from my grasp. I start to say something about how she’s getting off lucky tonight when a car whips around the nearby corner, coming to a stop.
I turn, spotting my BMW, before my attention goes back to the woman. I barely catch a glimpse of her face, a flicker of a smile on her lips, before she’s gone again, running. She turns the corner of an alley, disappearing.
That was easy. Too easy.
She seemed almost amused by it.
My gaze turns to the wallet in my hand. I flip it open, finding the billfold empty. No money.
Son of a bitch.
After all that, she still robbed me.
Nobody does that.
Nobody.
I walk over to the alley and glance down it, but it’s empty. I’m not surprised. She’s long gone, having slipped into a building or climbed a fire escape or ran out the other side.
Shaking my head, I shove the wallet in my pocket, where it belongs, and make the trek to my car. I pause when I cross the street, collecting the pair of red high heels discarded in the slush, left behind in her haste to get away with my money.
“Boss?” Seven calls out, stepping out of the car. “Everything okay?”
Is everything okay? Hell no.
I turn to him as I approach. “Got a job for you, Seven.”
“Yeah?”
“I need you to find someone.”
“Who?”
“A woman,” I say. “About five and a half feet tall. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
“That describes half the women in New York.”
“Yeah, well, the one I’m looking for is twenty-one or so,” I say. “She’s good-looking, kind of curvy for being so petite... got a red ‘S’ tattooed on her wrist...”
He stares at me, like he expects more information. “What else?”
I shrug, glancing at the high heels, flipping them over to look at the red soles. “She wears a size thirty-nine shoe.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he says, blinking a few times as he looks at the ground. “Only a couple million people in the city.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, slapping him on the back. “Now let’s get the hell out of here so my nutsack can start thawing.”
I climb in the passenger seat of the car, the heat blasting me, bringing feeling back into my fingertips. It takes Seven a moment to join me. He climbs in quietly, putting on his seatbelt.
He starts to drive. I can tell something’s on his mind. He fidgets, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker all around. I try to ignore it. I try. I do. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I was out of patience, and I don’t like my shadow being distracted.
“Say what you’re thinking,” I tell him, “before I take the wheel and shove you out of my car.”
He instantly stills. “I’m just curious, you know, why you’re looking for this broad.”
“She robbed me.”
His head turns my way so fast that he accidentally swerves into another lane. “She robbed you? How?”
“It doesn’t matter how she did it. All that matters is that she pulled it off. So I need you to find her, so I can do something about it. You got me?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Just one more question.”
“What?”
“Are you going to kill her for that?”
I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”