Ruthless: Mob Boss Book One Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 by Michelle St. James aka Michelle Zink

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Isabel Robalo

  Formatting by Caitlin Greer

  ISBN 978-0-9966056-0-1

  1

  Angelica assumed she was just being paranoid. She’d run errands before her shift at the Muddy Cup, stopping at the grocery store, picking up the heeled boots she’d sent in for repair, and paying a past due parking ticket. None of it was unusual for a Wednesday afternoon, but she’d had the heeby-jeebies all day, dogged by the feeling that someone was watching her. She was relieved to finally step inside the coffee shop that night. Surrounded by the overstuffed sofas, old chairs, and worn counter, her paranoia faded into the background.

  She’d been working at the local coffee shop since before graduation, and while she knew deep down that she needed to figure out a long term plan, she couldn’t seem to take a step in any direction. She was paralyzed, frozen and embarrassed by the post-grad apathy she despised in her generation.

  She spent the next few hours slinging coffee drinks and retrieving the key that everyone seemed determined to leave inside the bathroom. By closing time, she’d completely forgotten her earlier unease and was contentedly mopping the floors when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from the pocket of her jeans, smiling when she saw the name on the display.

  “Hey, loser,” she said, propping the phone between her ear and shoulder while she continued mopping.

  “Very funny.” Her brother, David, laughed on the other end of the phone. “Especially since you’re still working that shitty job.”

  “Touche,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Just finished mid-terms.”

  She reached back to tighten the hair tie holding her long, blonde hair in a half-assed ponytail. “Fun.” She hesitated. “Is everything okay?”

  She and David were close, but they usually texted. Calling was reserved for relationship and life crisis.

  “Yeah, sure.” He said it a little too quickly, then sighed. “Have you heard from Dad?”

  “Not for a couple of weeks. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. She could almost see him drumming his fingers, an old habit from childhood, on the beat up desk in his dorm room. “I left him some messages. He hasn’t called me back.”

  She chewed on her thumbnail, measuring her words. David’s relationship with their father had been strained since David came out last year. In an age when it seemed everyone and their mother had accepted homosexuality as no big deal, their old-school, Italian father could barely look David in the eye. She hated it, but there was nothing she could do about it other than make her feelings known. Which she’d done. On several occasions.

  Their relationship had been distant since he sent them to boarding school after their mom died, but David’s admission had only increased the tension. Their father was avoiding both of them now, and Angelica spent half the time thinking he could go fuck himself and the other half desperately trying to come up with a way to bridge the gap.

  People will tell you who they are if you listen.

  It was one of her father’s favorite sayings, and she was still trying to figure out if he hadn’t yet told her, or if she was just too stubborn to believe what he was saying.

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she said, “I haven’t heard from him in at least that long.”

  “It doesn’t,” David said. “I’m sorry.”

  She used the mop handle to push the wheeled bucket toward the kitchen. “It’s not your fault Dad’s a homophobe.”

  He laughed, but it sounded hollow to her ears. “Good point. So what else is new?”

  She balanced the phone on her shoulder while she wrung out the mop and dumped the water. “Literally nothing. My life is about as exciting as watching paint dry.”

  He seemed to hesitate before speaking again. “You can change that, you know.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I just don’t know what to do next.”

  “You have a degree,” he said.

  “In Philosophy.” It felt like the punchline to a bad joke, and she laughed as she turned on the faucet.

  “True, but I’m sure you could find a job somewhere. You could teach. Maybe overseas?”

  She thrust her hands under the hot water. “Maybe. I’ll figure it out.”

  “If you say so. Just promise me you’ll get out of there, Ange.” David always used the nickname, even though everyone else called her Angie. Everyone but her father, who used her given name, Angelica. “You’re too good for them.”

  “Now you’re just kissing my ass,” she said.

  He laughed. “You wish.”

  For a split second she could see the smile on his face, and she missed him so much it hurt.

  “Visit soon?” she asked.

  “I’ll see you next month at Thanksgiving.”

  “Sounds good. I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” he said.

  She hung up and slipped the phone in her pocket, then grabbed her jacket, turned out the lights, and headed for the door.

  It was only eleven, but the streets were nearly empty. She remembered what David had said about mid-terms. All the state colleges were on the same schedule, which meant business would be slow for at least the next week.

  It was late October, but winter was a ghost in the air, and she drew her jacket more tightly around her body as she turned to lock the door. She had just put the key in the lock when she felt the gun against her temple.

  “Move and you’re dead.”

  She felt a pinch in her neck just before some kind of bag came down over her head. Then everything went dark as unconsciousness claimed her.

  2

  Nico Vitale was kneeling in one of the pews at St. Monica’s, praying for his mother and father. They’d been gone two years, but the pain of losing them still lingered. He had only been twenty-eight when they’d been killed, and he’d expected to have them for many more years, to give them the daughter-in-law and grandchildren they had wanted.

  Their future had been stolen. From all of them.

  He forced down the fury that had become all too familiar. Anger was good. Productive. It’s what drove him to seek justice, to right the wrong perpetrated against his family, against the honor code that had survived decades under the rule of some of history’s most violent men.

  But this wasn’t the place for anger. This was the place for peace. Repentance. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

  His mother had always gone to St. Patrick’s, but Nico made a point of moving around the city, sitting in any church with an open door. He liked the anonymity of it. Liked knowing that no one would know him or remember his parents.

  His faith was only a shadow of the belief that had sustained them. Nico didn’t believe in the edicts of the Church. It had been organized by man to benefit man. He worshipped his own god, and his god didn’t turn the other cheek. He might forgive, but that forgiveness didn’t preclude a punishment justly earned. Still, he liked to sit in silence and remember, to send love to his parents, wherever they were, and to stand on the side of any god who believed in vengeance.

  He was reciting the Lord’s Prayer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He instinctively shook off the hand. When he turned to see who had interrupted him, he was even less pleased.

  “What is it, Dante?” He forced his voice even as he took in the leather jacket and jeans worn by the man in front of him. A dress code was part of Nico’s organizational reboot, but keeping cool was a point of pride, part
of his mission to remake his father’s business for the twenty-first century. And having a reputation for being calm only made him more formidable when the situation called for his wrath.

  Dante shifted in his seat, his face flushed, eyes feverish with excitement. “We got her,” he said. “We got the girl.”

  Nico looked around before tipping his head at the church’s massive double doors. “Not here.”

  Dante stood, hurrying down the aisle. Nico followed slowly, letting the peace of the church wash over him as he made his way out the door.

  He took his time following Dante down the steps of the church. When they reached the sidewalk, they stepped back to stand near an adjacent building.

  “Any trouble?” Nico asked.

  Dante shook his head. “She didn’t see it coming.”

  Nico didn’t like the note of excitement in Dante’s voice. Nico’s father had ingrained old-fashioned chivalry in his bones, and Nico never sanctioned hurting women. These kinds of things were a necessary part of doing business, not something he enjoyed.

  “You didn’t hurt her.” It wasn’t a question.

  Dante sighed, and Nico caught a hint of annoyance in the other man’s face before he could hide it. “We did it just like you said. Knocked her out, put her in the van, took her to the basement. She’s fine.”

  Nico nodded. “Good. Make sure she’s comfortable.”

  “Comfortable?” Dante’s laugh was bitter. “Why do we care if that bitch is comfortable?”

  Nico clamped a hand on Dante’s shoulder and squeezed until he flinched. “We don’t call women bitches in this organization. Ever. Understand?”

  Dante nodded, his eyes lit with the fire of indignation.

  “Good.” Nico released his grip. “Now go make the pick-up.”

  “Will do.” Dante rolled his shoulders, like doing so would free him of Nico’s grip when they both knew only death or dishonor would do that. “Want a ride back to the office?”

  “No.” He didn’t owe Dante an explanation.

  Dante nodded and headed for the car double parked at the curb. Nico watched him get in and drive away. He waited for the car to disappear into traffic before he started walking.

  Dante was a problem. Nico understood it, but he was still trying to settle on a strategy for dealing with it. He knew Dante resented him. That Dante believed his father, Gabriel Santoro, should have been Underboss to Nico’s father before his death. If that had been the case, Dante’s father would be Boss now, and Dante himself would be the crown prince of the New York territory.

  Instead, a year before his death Nico’s father had inexplicably turned to Nico, pleading with him to step in as Underboss. Only twenty-seven at the time, Nico wasn’t ready to take on the mantle of responsibility held by his father. He didn’t even believe in the mob. Not the way it was then; stealing and killing and raping in the name of money. In the name of power.

  But his father had been unsettled. Even Nico, as young and wrapped up in himself as he’d been at the time, could see that. And his father -- his family -- meant everything to him. So he’d gotten his act together and joined the business, learning it from the inside out. He was just beginning to feel like he had a handle on the basic operations when his parents were murdered, execution style, outside the restaurant where they’d met over three decades ago. They had been celebrating their thirty-second anniversary.

  Nico had spent the two years since remaking his father’s legacy. Raneiro Donati, head of the Syndicate that acted as governing body to criminal organizations all over the world, had stepped in as a mentor and father figure, guiding Nico through the early stages of grief and the rage that threatened to undo him. Gradually, Nico had found a focus for his fury, and he’d poured every ounce of his energy into targeting that focus and reimagining his father’s legacy.

  Some of Nico’s soldiers embraced the change. Others, like Dante, clung to the old ways. Nico understood, but the reorganization wasn’t optional. They would comply or they would be gone.

  Nico didn’t like taking the girl. A decade ago, something like that would be off the table, a blatant breaking of rules that had been in place since before the Syndicate formally existed. But nothing could be rebuilt without first dismantling the rotting foundation of what had come before.

  And unfortunately, the girl was part of that foundation.

  He checked for traffic on 2nd Avenue and crossed just before a taxi barreled through the intersection. He felt liberated by his time at the church. Lighter on his feet. Maybe he would call one of the women who acted as a physical companion when he felt the urge.

  After all, he wasn’t a saint.

  3

  The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the sledgehammer chipping away at her brain. She had a sudden flash of memory; the man’s voice in her ear, the gun at her temple. It was dark, and she thought the bag might still be over her head, but when she made a concerted effort to open her eyes, everything slowly came into focus.

  She was laying on a mattress, surrounded by four nondescript walls. She groaned as she sat up, putting a hand to her head like that might stop the war waging inside her skull. Nausea rolled through her stomach, and she took a few deep breaths, willing herself to pull it together. Someone had kidnapped her, drugged her, brought her to this room. She needed to figure out what was going on.

  When the worst of the nausea passed, she slowly stood, bracing herself against the wall with one hand. Then she looked around, taking inventory, trying to figure out where she was and how she could get out of here.

  The room was tiny, but surprisingly neat and clean, although there were no windows. A writing desk stood next to a twin size bed, but the room was otherwise devoid of furniture. There were two doors, and she felt a a flare of hope when she realized one of them was open about an inch. She crossed the room, hoping it was a way out, and was disappointed to realize it was tiny bathroom, complete with a sink and shower.

  Her gaze was drawn to the closed door, and panic clawed at her chest as the reality of the situation hit her. She had no idea who would want to kidnap her, but it was the why that terrified her.

  Were they going to kill her? Worse?

  She thought about all the documentaries and news stories she’d seen on human trafficking. Was it possible something like that had happened on the streets of a sleepy, American college town? She didn’t know, but the door might be her only way out. The odds that it was unlocked were slim, but she had to try.

  She made her way across the room. Her head still hurt, and she felt a little dizzy, but she got to the door and put her hand carefully on the knob. What would she do if it was unlocked? If someone was on the other side with a gun?

  She didn’t have a clue, but instinct told her paralysis would be deadly. She couldn’t afford to freeze. She needed to think. To act.

  She turned the knob slowly in case someone was listening outside the door.

  It was locked.

  She was scanning the room for another way out when she saw something on the floor near the foot of the bed. It only took a second to realize what it was, and she hurried as fast as her leaden limbs would allow and dropped to her knees.

  She picked up the lip gloss and held it in her palm. Already it seemed like an artifact from another life. When she ducked her head to look under the bed, she saw the rest of her belongings scattered across the tile, her purse gaping open near the wall. Someone must have tossed it on the floor when they’d brought her to the room.

  She reached under the bed and gathered up everything, including the bag, then sat with her back against the bed frame to take inventory.

  The first thing she noticed was that her wallet was still there—money, credit cards, and all. Not a garden variety mugging then, she thought. She didn’t know if the knowledge was comforting or terrifying.

  It only took a minute to realize everything else was accounted for as well—everything but her cell phone.

  Damn.

  She l
ooked around the room and thought about her options, fighting the urge to curl up on the bed and sleep away the fog in her head. One locked door. No windows. No cell phone. She could wait for what was coming or hurry it along. The thought scared her, but sitting there like a sitting duck, waiting for the other shoe to drop, scared her more.

  She got up, went to the door, and started banging on it.

  “Hello!” she shouted. “Hello? Is anybody there? Let me out!”

  She pounded the door with her fists, yelling louder. The more she screamed, the better she felt. At least she was doing something. It felt so good she forgot to be scared.

  A couple of minutes went by before she heard the sound of a key in the lock from the other side of the door. She stepped back, her heart thumping wildly.

  The door swung open, and a dark haired man with a thin face strode into the room. His purposeful stride took her by surprise, and a second later she felt something hard and unyielding strike her face.

  Her hand went reflexively to her cheek. The bastard had backhanded her.

  He was so close she could feel his body against hers. When she looked up, it was into eyes so dark they appeared black. She expected to see anger there, but they were completely vacant. The man’s physical violence—or the anger that had prompted it—was obviously nothing unusual.

  “Shut your mouth, bitch,” he snarled. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

  His eyes traveled the length of her body, and she suddenly felt naked despite the jeans and peasant blouse she still wore from her shift at the Muddy Cup.

  He shoved a paper bag into her chest, his hands lingering there even after she’d taken hold of whatever it was he was trying to give her. The back of his hand pressed against her breast before he lowered his arms with a salacious grin.

  She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “What... Why are you keeping me here? What do you want?” she managed to croak.

  “I’m not keeping you anywhere. I’m just following orders.” His voice was as cold as the rest of him, and he spit out the last word like it tasted foul in his mouth. “As for what I want...” His gaze dropped to her chest, and she had the irrational feeling he could see everything, even though her blouse was nowhere near low cut. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to you ahead of time. That way you can really enjoy it.”