The Enforcer (The Gafanelli Mob series Book 4) Read online

  My breathing starts to quicken. I swallow.

  “What could the FBI want with me?” My voice quivers over each word as I ignore Javi’s last scathing ones, the sarcasm dripping from his lips, tinted with disdain.

  I watch his green eyes blaze. “In the short form? Everything. But they’ll settle for what you know about the Gafanellis.” He takes a step closer, his eyes inspecting me. “Remember them? A little crime family you used to write about?”

  “Back when I was a journalist, you mean,” I interrupt, my voice turning cold. “I don’t know how you know that…but I’m not involved in that life anymore.”

  “No, you aren’t.” His next step echoes loudly, his body moving nearer than it should. His hunkering frame crowds me. “But your sister is. Or at least she was before she disappeared. Back when she was a lawyer hired to defend New York Senator Robert Fletcher. Back when she almost failed to do so.”

  My heart beats hard. I look up at the green-eyed giant, glaring. “My sister is my business. And what I do or don’t do is none of yours. Excuse me.”

  I turn on him, heading towards the front of the store. My skin prickles as I hear his steps follow. I open the front door and point out of it, my finger sticking in the direction of the street. I slump against the doorframe, afraid that I will fall without it.

  I can barely stand straight when he’s looking at me like that. Fifteen years have done nothing to soften his piercing gaze.

  “I’d say it’s been a pleasure having you here, but…that would be a lie.” I plaster on a fake smile. “Thank you, Javi. Thank you for scaring the shit out of me and making me even more uncomfortable in my own skin. Thank you for showing up unexpectedly on my doorstep after fifteen years of silence and asking me for a favor before even saying ‘Hello.’ Thank you for reminding me that I want nothing to do with you. Thank you…and please do not come again.”

  The face looking back at me hints at nothing. If it weren’t for the darkening of his gem-like eyes, I’d think he hadn’t heard me. Because he doesn’t move. And when he does, it’s like the Earth tilts the wrong way on its axis, the ground beneath my feet shifting to break my equilibrium, ready to bring me tumbling down.

  I’m stuck to the floor. My feet won’t budge, and neither will anything else as Javi languidly walks towards me, his eyes fixed on my face, his gaze unblinking—unbelievably hot. He stops within arm’s length of me and stares. His breath is minty, a breeze across my face as it blows, and for a second, I think he’s going to touch me.

  God help me, a part of me wants him to. I inhale deeply, taking in his dark citrus scent. My head swims as he speaks, the sound low.

  “Trust me,” he growls, “this is business. Not personal,” he finishes. “Four years ago, when you were a journalist, you wrote about a man named Marco Morelli. Three years ago, that man went to prison. He was the Gafanellis ‘Enforcer,’ their key hitman. And your article, your family…” He trails off, his voice dipping in octave. “They helped put him there. Now the Gafanelli family is back, bolder than ever. And so is a new Enforcer.” His eyes search my face. “Do you really think you’re safe from his replacement?

  He hands me a card, his fingers brushing mine.

  “You give me a call when you want to talk about it.”

  And then he leaves, stalking out of the door past me, his skin and hair and hard torso sweeping against my outstretched hand. I glare at his retreating back, wanting to call out to him. Needing to. But doing nothing.

  Stand Still

  JAVI

  The night air is cool, the breeze brisk. The silence of the street is torn into two as I start up the Ducati, hopping on its black back, lifting my feet to hug the motorcycle close to my body before it moves.

  The machine rumbles to life beneath me and I take off. My thoughts take off with it, and as I cruise down the San Francisco street towards the horizon, the woman I just left behind stays with me, the heat of her body still lingering on me.

  I can almost taste her.

  It wasn’t a time too long ago when she would have wrapped that body around mine, gripping me close as I gripped the clutch on my bike, pushing the two wheels to the limits of the city. Staten Island. The Brooklyn Bridge. Beyond.

  When we were two teenagers too crazy about each other to give a fuck.

  Fifteen years had changed all that.

  The girl I’d known in the Catholic school uniform was a woman now, and that woman had eyes that held a fire in them, one so different from the one I had stoked at seventeen. When she was the ‘good girl’ and I, the bad guy.

  Not that much had changed for me. The bad guy still resides in the recesses of my mind and body, and remnants of him rear his ugly head as I park my black matte SuperSport outside of the brightly lit bar on the corner of Elm and Stokes. Neon lights flash overhead, and I tear a path inside, sniffing away the smell of smoke, beer and bad decisions.

  I sit at the wooden bar, ordering an orange juice when a redheaded woman in a shirt short enough to see her navel takes the seat beside me. She smiles. But I’m not in the mood.

  I ignore her as the barkeep sets my drink in front of me, disappearing just as quickly as he came. I take my first swallow and mentally count up to six before the redhead says something, her polished fingernails swiping against my sleeve.

  I continue to drink as she raises an eyebrow. “Screwdriver?”

  I take in a gulp. “Orange juice.”

  She laughs. “Honey, you’re in the wrong place then.” She scoots closer, the stench of nicotine wafting from her pale skin. She moves close enough for me to see every freckle on her face. She licks her red bottom lip. “Why don’t you try something stronger?” She pauses when she thinks I don’t get the hint. She straddles the side of my body. “Me.”

  “No.” My response is curt. “But thanks, though.”

  I don’t want anything interrupting my thoughts. And not for nothing… but I’m happy not to lead myself down the same road my alcoholic father once traveled. One death in the family was enough. Drinks aside, I don’t need to dull any of the notions running through my head right now, and secretly, somewhere in the back of my mind, I want to revel in the vision of Delilah that still has me reeling. The curl of her dark hair. The scent of her skin.

  As fucked up as it is, the Federal Bureau of Investigation never prepared me for this. For wanting a potential witness.

  Delilah Castalano.

  The sister of Penelope Castalano, lawyer extraordinaire. Penelope. The once-famed defense attorney of Senator Robert Fletcher now turned notorious because of her proximity to the biggest crime of the decade. The assassination attempt of one of the most highly debated politicians in the country.

  And all I can think about is Delilah Castalano’s blue eyes, her dark lashes. Her tiny pointed chin and high cheekbones, the delicate dip of her nose.

  There was always something regal about the schoolgirl I’d met a decade and a half ago at St. Mary’s Prep school, a wild innocence that lived behind those lively irises. Falsely proper in her plaid skirt and white button down shirt, I was probably one of the only to notice the naughtiness behind the “nice,” to see that there was nothing proper about the way she curled her body around the curve of mine as she hopped onto the back of my bike, her bare legs straddling me, holding me tight.

  I can still feel her fingernails digging into the grooves of my chest when Ms. Ginger to my right trails her own down my forearm, her pointed talons taking the long route leading to my wrist. She taps the skin there.

  “Hey there, cutie,” she coos. “Where’d you go? Thought I lost you for a minute there.”

  I look at her, finally noticing her—really noticing her—for the first time. She’s beautiful…in a drunken sort of way. Long red bangs fall just past a pair of hazel eyes, and the smile she flashes at me is a smile I’m sure would pitch a tent in the pants of the strongest of men.

  Except I’m not those men.

  And the only face my wayward brain can seem to
focus on is another woman’s. A woman who kicked me out of her cupcake shop with little fanfare. Who wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire.

  And who could blame her with the way I left the first time.

  I sigh, turning from the siren at the bar, sipping on my drink when a man approaches, his blond eyebrows heavy, his beard even heavier. With a deep frown on his face and a sleeve’s worth of tats covering one arm, he glances at the redhead.

  “The fuck is going on here, mate?”

  Fuck this. I stand. Time to go.

  The redhead stands with me, and in that instant, I think she’s going to move towards the beer-bellied blond Viking. But she doesn’t. She takes a step towards me, and when she puts her arm on my shoulder, I nearly laugh, the ridiculousness of the situation fully dawning on me.

  I’ve been dragged into a lover’s quarrel. And the only one who doesn’t know it…is me.

  The burly man bellows. “Tina, who the fuck is this guy?”

  Tina turns on him. “Someone better than you, Lurch. Someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

  My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. I haven’t touched the redhead, let alone “treated” her to anything. I finish off my glass, draining the rest of the juice down my throat. I set the glass on the bar.

  “Listen, uh…Lurch.” I plant a hand on the man’s meaty shoulder. “I see that you and, uh, Tina here have some issues to hash out so why don’t I just let you two talk it out, huh?”

  The big man removes my hand. “I’m not interested in talking.” He throws a punch at me, his heavy fist swinging through the air. I dodge it deftly, stepping to the right, and take the now empty glass of juice and smash it over his head. The glass breaks, shattering out of my hand, and Lurch staggers towards me, his balding head almost ramming into mine as he lifts it quickly, attempting to headbutt me.

  A scream erupts from the redhead. Lurch falls to his knees, bleeding down his thinning hair, and amid the melee, three other men appear at my side, just as mean-looking as Lurch, their lumpy arms shoved through the openings of badly-stitched faux leather jackets.

  They circle me, trapping me like preying buzzards. Their beady eyes are red—bloodshot, and suddenly, I can see myself reflected in their minds. The newcomer. The outcast. The flashy bastard outside in the new Ducati who suddenly found himself on the wrong side of the Bay.

  Their smiles let me know my thoughts are right.

  I’m easy pickings. Ripe for the spoils.

  And I can’t wait to show them how wrong they are about him. I push up my sleeves, my head on a swivel. I nod at them.

  “You boys look like a smart bunch,” I say out loud. “We can turn around, walk this off—chalk it all up to a big misunderstanding.” I reach for my back pocket. “Or we can take the stupid route, duke this out. Leave some of you bloody.” I look at one of the more ragged of the bunch. “Leave some of you with fewer teeth than you already have.” I lower my voice. “Not that you can afford to lose any more…”

  Unfortunately, for them, the buzzards keep circling. And the dark-haired one steps forward, the braver of the lot ready to show his bravado. I pull the object out of my pocket, slipping my fingers through its metallic holes. I size Dark Hair up.

  “Okay,” I say to the first of the gang to approach. “Looks like we’ve chosen to be stupid tonight.” I grip the brass knuckles that I’ve pulled from my pants pocket, ready to take a swing. I’m not prepared for what comes next.

  A kick right at my head. A combat boot flying just above my eyelid. I take a step to the left and barely avoid a knockout. The skinny, black-haired punk isn’t as awkward as he looks, and when he steps back, bouncing lightly on his feet, I realize that something is terribly fucking wrong.

  This entire situation—this fight—feels wrong. But I don’t have another second to think about it because as soon as the notion comes to me, so does another kick. Dark Hair’s giant black soles sail in my direction and as the kicks come closer and closer through the air, I notice the one in the bandana behind him, preparing to swing.

  I swing first, connecting with Dark Hair’s head. I smash a brass-knuckled fist against his temple and as the thin man’s body falls askew, here comes Bandana Head, joining front stage, slashing at me with a six-inch blade. The silver, serrated edge slices through the air, singeing my nerves as it swipes. I make myself small, swinging my shoulders side-to-side and just as I duck to avoid its sharp tip, the blade swipes against my sleeve, cutting it open.

  The bold slash draws blood, and a fury I forgot I had takes hold of me, making me charge at the man, as I lower my head and shoulders, charging like a bull, slamming the crown of my head right into his abdomen, causing him to collapse. Bandana Head goes down like an old building, struck by the thick part of a wrecking ball.

  I feel like a wrecking ball. Battered. Chipped. Hard-headed as hell. Which comes in handy…as Einstein #3 charges at me, a beer bottle in his hand, his empty flask no more than a glass club ready to batter me into oblivion.

  Until I duck, bending at the knee. I punch the fucker right in the balls and he goes down, clutching at his crotch, the brown bottle smashing over his head as he falls to the floor.

  The groans and grunts of every fallen man echoes across the bar’s expanse and the rest of the patrons stare at the bruised and bloody scene, their eyes wide, the rock music from the speakers the only sound left between them.

  I stand to my feet, wiping a smear of blood from my face. The crowd parts as I stagger towards the bar, leaving a tip on the surface.

  I tip an imaginary hat at the barkeep. “For your troubles.”

  The redhead who started it all regards me silently, her green irises as big as saucers, and I pass her on my way out without saying a word, the gash on my forearm still bleeding, my head pounding in tune with my gushing blood.

  Fuck. I’m going to need stitches.

  But not as many as the man—or woman—who set me up. That little lover’s quarrel in there? That was no accident; it was a welcoming committee… And whoever knows I’m in town is out for blood and taking no prisoners. I just hope while I’m here to talk to Delilah that the violence doesn’t get through to her before I do.

  Frozen

  DELILAH

  I kiss Melanie on the forehead for the fortieth time when Carrie kicks me out.

  There’s a chill inside the apartment. It’s still early, barely dusk, but the coolness of nightfall has found its way in, seeped into the walls of my closest friend’s oversized abode and settled its way under my skin.

  Or maybe the chill is coming from me.

  I haven’t been able to shake it. Six days after Melanie’s mini-disappearance, five days after Javi’s reappearance, and I’m still shaking every time I’m alone, still shivering every time a door slams too loud or a phone vibrates.

  I’m edgier than a prostitute in church and twice as paranoid. And I wish I could stop it.

  I try to shake the cold from my fingers, waving goodbye to Melanie and her friends in Carrie’s gigantic playroom, as the buxom blonde ushers me outside and into the living room, her meticulously made-up face sinking into a frown as she follows me out.

  She crosses her arms under her gigantic breasts and scoffs as I walk past the couch. Even my knees start to wobble. Until she grabs me.

  She gazes into my face, her brown eyes connecting with mine. “Del, I’m going to say this because I love you. Because you need to hear it. And because if you squeezed your poor daughter to death one more time, I was going to call Child Protective Services on you…” She trails off. “But you have to find a way to relax, woman. Go to the theater and watch a movie by yourself. Get a massage. Find a nice healthy cock to sit on. Anything.” She shakes me. “Anything but what you’re doing right now. Because I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore.”

  I stare at the ground, my feet shifting. “There’s no good movies out this weekend,” I mumble into the carpet. “I booked a massage already. And Darren…” I blow out a breath, thin
king about my once-handsome husband. “Darren is out of town this week. Some major crisis. An oil spill off the coast of whatever.” I sigh. “I can’t just ask him to do a quick ‘cock-stop’ whenever he gets a free moment.”

  Carrie smirks. “I didn’t say the nice, healthy cock had to be Darren’s. In fact, I prefer it not be.”

  “Jesus, Carrie.” I look towards the playroom, my voice lowering to a whisper. “You think you might want to keep the ‘cock talk’ to a minimum?”

  “What?” the curvy vixen shrugs. “It’s not like they’re old enough to know what we’re saying. They’re three, for Chrissake. And as for Darren? Well, Darren isn’t around to hear the ‘cock talk’ either. Maybe he should be…when his wife and daughter are dealing with some serious shit. Maybe he can keep his cock in this state, for once.”

  I wave her off. “I can’t think about Darren or his cock at all right now.” I sit on Carrie’s enormous suede couch. “And that’s the sad part.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m too busy trying to keep myself together. Trying to make things normal for Melanie. Trying to pretend that I don’t want to watch every Nicholas Sparks movie every moment and cry at every sixty-second interval.” I shake my head, tears threatening to spring forward from my eyes. I hold them back, chewing the inside of my cheek. I turn my face from Carrie’s. “I’m so tired of being sad about this.”

  Carrie reaches for the wine bottle on the coffee table. She pours me another glass, and I shake my head at her, watching as she sets it back down. I listen to the couch sigh as Carrie moves closer. She places a hand on mine, squeezing.

  “You know, doll… You can always stay here. You and Melanie. I mean, you know…” Her voice lowers to almost a whisper, as if the walls themselves are listening. In my recently paranoid mind, they might be. “At least while Darren’s still not here. And even when he comes back, you know…” She hesitates, seemingly stuttering over her next words. “You still can stay here.” Carrie sighs, her breath blowing over my shoulder. I feel her weight on the couch as she shifts, her mood shifting with her. I can feel the sudden weight of her words also hanging in the air. I hold my breath. “I’ve been through a separation before, Delilah, and I know it’s hard. If there’s anything I can do…”