14

SLADE

Fuck.

I exited Margo’s building with a raging hard-on. Not so easy to walk with my cock ready to burst right out of my pants. Luckily, there were few people around to be offended. Besides, if they’d met Margo—and ran their fingers through her silky hair—they’d understand.

Blue balls were apparently my reward for being a nice guy tonight. For giving Margo what she needed after her stressful night. I doubted she knew how much I wanted to pick her up and take her to bed. To satisfy my cravings and hers. To lick her creamy body from top to bottom and devour her. And then, feed all eight inches inside her, to give her a night she’d never fucking forget.

But no.

That couldn’t happen.

I couldn’t have her. The last thing she needed was to get more involved with the shadowy world we inhabited. She was already on the fringe just by living around here. I’d been reckless with women’s hearts in the past—I knew that, and that was on me. But with Margo, it wasn’t just her heart that might be on the line. She’s already been exposed to violence a couple of times in the last few weeks because of us.

The trouble was, I wasn’t sure she understood that. I’d seen the hunger in her eyes—for me, and a few times, for Rocello and Jumaine. The question was why. I never did well in school, but even I could understand a little of the mindset. We represented danger. The unknown. Maybe a wholesome girl like her secretly craved something more than the safe men she’d dated?

Or maybe I was full of shit and fooling myself about the way she’d responded to my touch.

Either way, she needed protection—from us. WE weren’t saints, but we tried to leave the people in the neighborhood out of it unless they wronged us or our bosses. Margo hadn’t done either. She was a good, hard-working girl and she deserved better.

So I put her out of my mind—or tried to—and two days later, I received word from Rocello. He’d talked to Roscano. Not the kind of conversation I would’ve had though. With me, it would’ve been more like, “Why the fuck did you try to blow us up and then our favorite bar?” And I would’ve let my 45 do most of the talking.

That was why Rocello was in charge, not me. It still killed me, though. That my friend had to speak civility to the weasel who’d tried to have us killed. To pretend everything was fine. To give that bastard respect he didn’t deserve.

Rocello’s news was that Don Gambini was throwing a party over at his mansion. Roscano was invited, and as his enforcers, we were going as part of his fucking entourage. Yeah, because that’s what you did when someone tried to kill you… you escorted him to a party.

I sighed. In this fucked up world, that was what you did. Sometimes. Until you eventually snapped.

When I reached that point, Rocello or Jumaine were usually there to rein me in.

Usually.

So that was fucking great. I was going to a party. One where there would be good food, good music, and, possibly, bloodshed. There was always a chance of another crew attacking us—that was why we were coming along. The idea was simple. You take out a Don’s men, he’s defenseless and summarily whacked. His businesses are up for grabs. Vultures would take over them without any regret. And by “vultures,” I mean other Dons.

Still, the odds of that were slim. Roscano had a knack for pissing us off, but, as far as we knew, he wasn’t doing that to a fellow boss. He’d been keeping his house in order. He hadn’t trespassed into anyone else’s turf and had been following the rules in general. The odds of anyone attempting anything besides getting drunk and harassing the waitresses were low.

But not zero.

On the other hand, this sort of party was a Don’s wet dream. For one night, he would show off his wealth and power—so Gambini wouldn’t hold back. He was big shit in this city, and he knew it.

Nick would eat that shit up. He felt he was an up-and-coming mob boss, even though everything he had was something his father had built. Not him. But he’d still show up, and act like the big man.

Which pretty much guaranteed that we’d have a miserable time.

Still—free booze. And the good stuff, too.

The night of the party, I had to hand it to Gambini. His mansion in Sands Point was a thing of beauty. It was huge, but that was expected of him. The pathway in the estate made me feel I was in some expensive Miami hotel: Two hundred yards, lined with palm trees. The sea breeze hitting my face was the icing on the topping. Right behind me and my boys, Gambini’s security made sure to let his guests in and keep any outsiders out. Three of his goons were manning the gate, facing a rather long queue of cars.

“Don’t you guys wish you owned this place even for a day?” I asked, strolling down the pathway between Rocello and Jumaine.

“A summer’s day? Yeah.” Rocello paused as a group of old people, including an elderly Don, passed by. “A winter’s day? Hell, no. It’s too cold around here.”

“What would I do with a house this size?” Jumaine said. “Give me Gambini’s money for a day. I’ll buy Roscano’s house and his whole fucking block, just for the hell of it.”

I chuckled. “I like your thinking, man.”

“Winslow!” I heard someone calling out my name behind me. It was a prissy voice I didn’t hear often, but I recognized it, and my hackles rose as Brad Connors, Don Roscano’s consigliere, came into view. “Don Roscano and Don Gambini wish to speak with you. They’re waiting for you inside.”

Great.

“He’ll be right there.” Rocello answered for me as Jumaine pulled me aside.

“You know what this is about,” he said in a low voice.

“Baxter. Gambini’s still butthurt about the death of that waste of space.” And as the hot head of the trio, he was eyeing me for it.

“He’ll want to know if we had anything to do with it. You…”

“I know what to say,” I snapped. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” I loved Jumaine like a brother, but sometimes, he also annoyed me. Like he was the straight A golden child in the family, and I was the black sheep who was failing all of his classes—which, I had to admit, had generally been the case when we were kids.

At least, when we actually showed up for school.

I strode over to the consigliere, believing this was just a formality. For all our expendability, Dons didn’t like to lose their men. It wasn’t a matter of love. It was more of a matter of loyalty and experience. Their replacements just didn’t have the experience. They had to learn things from scratch. Dons also had no idea whether the new guys would stay loyal to them or not.

I found Roscano and Gambini in living room the size of a fucking ballroom. They were smoking Cuban cigars as well as whiskey. Gambini turned to me, giving me a nod. I couldn’t say I loved the guy, but he was a damn sight better than my boss, who was ogling a passing waitress like the fucking loser he was.

“Mr. Winslow, nice of you to join us,” Gambini was polite to me. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Can’t complain, Don Gambini,” I addressed him in a steady tone. “What about you?”

“Not bad, but I’ve been concerned lately,” he confessed. “You see, one of my men was killed. Violently killed. And much to my surprise, it happened not far from your place.”

“I heard that,” I said calmly. “That blast woke me up, Don Gambini. I went down to check it out, but I had to stay away because of the cops. I only found out it was Baxter the next morning.”

The expression on his aging face tightening, he furrowed his brow. “So, you’re telling me you had nothing to do with it? What about your buddies?”

“It wasn’t them, either. They were at home,” I lied. I had to, or else none of us would see the light of day again.

“And are there witnesses to that?”

“I don’t know, sir.” My tone was as sincere as I could make it, but I wasn’t sure Gambini was buying it. Honestly, I had no idea if the guys had been alone. Rocello would’ve been home because of Thomas, but there was no fucking way I’d bring that up. Rocello kept his son as far off the radar of men like these as he could.

“So, if I check your phone records, I won’t find any calls between you at the time of that blast,” Gambini continued. Roscano said nothing, but he was paying attention to my responses. “Correct?”

“Jumaine called me,” I said, keeping eye contact with him. “He wanted to see if I’d heard the blast. He read online that it had happened near my building. Plus, he knows I have a sweet spot for the Rusty Bucket.”

“Slade,” Roscano began, taking a couple of steps toward me in what was probably supposed to be a menacing way. “If I find out you were behind that bombing, I’m going to the fucking zoo and feeding you to the lions. Probably even they know not to insult Don Gambini like that.”

“He said he didn’t do it, Nick.” Gambini put his hand on my boss’ shoulder. Then he turned to me. “That will be all, Mr. Winslow. Thank you.”

Fucking prick. Roscano, not Gambini. I couldn’t tell if Gambini believed me or not, but in the absence of hard evidence, he’d maintained the peace. Unlike Roscano. I would have loved to throw that asshole through the glass that lined the entire room and provided a spectacular view of the water. We’d served his fucking father for years, yet the son still treated us like shit.

I plucked three bottles of imported beer off a tray as I strode out of the mansion. Roscano was a prick, but I couldn’t lay a hand on him, unless I had a death wish.

Finding myself back out on Gambini’s lawn, I scanned the area. There was no sign of Rocello or Jumaine. There were just groups of men in cheap suits like me, surrounding their bosses like the fucking secret service. As I looked for my buddies, I kept an eye on the front gate. It was the closest means of escape unless we wanted to go for a swim.

A silver Mercedes was idling there, and from the way the men had snapped to attention, the guy inside was a VIP.

Except it wasn’t a guy, it was a girl. A super fucking hot girl.

The woman left her car to a valet and walked along the path toward the house. She had on a red, ankle-length dress, but the slit that went almost up to her waist showed almost the entirety of a very shapely leg every time she took a step. Gambini’s men were certainly paying attention as she strode away, but she never looked back.

Her hair, a strawberry blonde, cascaded down her shoulders, her silver purse glimmering in the lush moonlight. As she came closer, though, my heart jumped in my throat. It took me a few seconds to recognize her, but, once I did, I cursed.

What were the fucking odds of this happening?

She’d noticed me, and zeroed in. “Slade Winslow?”

“Yes?” I said cautiously. I knew where I’d recognized her from—the pictures in Margo’s apartment. But how the fuck did she know who I was? “Who wants to know?”

“Me,” she said, making me feel like the dumbest student in the class again. “When I find out that three bloody men show up on my doorstep, I make it a point to find out who they are.”

Oh shit. “You’re the one who owns the house Margo and that nurse were staying at?”

“Yes.”

“My compliments on what you’ve done with the place.” It was a crappy thing to say, but couldn’t she at least have torn down that ridiculous wallpaper?

She glared at me, but I saw a small crack in her façade. My guess was that she didn’t like living in a place that looked like a cross between a nursing home and a Hallmark store any more than I would. “I’ve been on tour. I haven’t had much time to do anything with it.”

More pieces fell into place. She was a singer. Now that I thought about it, I’d heard a thing or two about her. She sang at restaurants, local festivals, and sometimes, events like tonight. “It’s Chloe, right?”

“Zoey.” She stepped off the path, leading me toward the trees, and I was amazed that her five-inch stiletto heels didn’t sink into the ground. “We have a friend in common. I don’t think I have to say her name, do I?”

No, since I’d done nothing except think about Margo the last few days, she certainly didn’t. “No.”

Zoey studied me in the low light. “She mentioned you, you know. Before all this. She mentioned the three hot guys who came to her bar and kept to themselves.”

I tried not to react to the fact that Margo had mentioned us to her friend. “So?”

“So, now she’s mentioning you three more. A lot more. I don’t know everything that’s been going on, but I know how things work with guys like you.”

“Guys like me?”

“Don’t play dumb. “I’ve been singing at parties like this for years. They’re full of mobsters and their henchmen. You don’t strike me as a mafia boss.” Zoey’s green eyes seemed intent on tearing a hole through me. “So stay away from Margo. She doesn’t know much about this world.”

“She’s a big girl,” I said, as if I hadn’t spent days telling myself to stay away from Margo.

“She is, but she doesn’t know this world. She doesn’t know what you and your buddies are and what you’re capable of. See that it stays that way.”

I bristled. “Is that a threat?”

The look she gave me was very steady. “It is.”

“Just checking,” I said in a casual voice designed to piss her off. “Because usually the people who threaten me don’t look as good as you do.” I deliberately let my eyes travel down her body and back up again, and let me tell you, it was quite the trip.

But Zoey didn’t take the bait, and I could respect that. She was doing her best to look out for her friend. So I went against my principles and told the truth. “I know I’m no good for her.”

“And your friends?”

I sighed. “They know, too.”

She nodded crisply. “If any of you forget that, I’m telling Margo everything I know. That you’re criminals, that you’re killers, and that you all have super tiny dicks.”

Zoey strode off, and I stepped aside, walking her storm away. She was determined to look out for her friend, and I’d place my money on her talking to Margo whether we behaved ourselves or not.

I downed a beer before resuming looking for my Rock and Jumaine. Two things were certain. The singer knew how to make an exit—and she wasn’t above delivering one hell of a low blow.