Mobster's Gamble: Chicago Mob Series Book 1 (11 page)

Carlo didn’t know I followed him out, he was too enraged. I dressed quickly and took the steps just as he had. I’m not sure what Alex said to him on the phone but what Carlo stated left me icy cold inside. Exact details of everything I had endured had poured out of me, a confession to him.

On the casino floor, commotion gathers by the entrance. Security, including Alex, are rushing to the scene outside, keeping the gamblers back away from whatever was going on. I push through the crowd, shoving people aside. I knew whatever was going on involved Carlo. My heart thumped with fear for him. Seeing him hurt would be a knife to my own chest.

I make it to the glass doors and fingers wrap around my upper arm. It’s Julius. He takes a long hard look at me and says, “Don’t go out there.” I rip out of his hold.

“I have to.”

In the morning air, I step across the casino threshold, and Alex’s arm shoots out, stopping me. An arc of bodies stands around the fray on the ground; blood has splattered the concrete. Carlo is mounted over Priest. He is hitting him over and over again. In the face, the chest, the stomach. Priest is thrown around like a limp piece of flesh. His eyes are swelling.  I touch the tender skin around my eyes, remembering how the bruising impaired my vision.

I can’t identify what I’m witnessing as a battle because Carlo is so overpowering. Bloodlust runs through him; if I could see it with my eyes I think I’d be able to smell it too.

In a small way, I am torn. Priest has fed me, given me shelter, and I keep his secret. But the rest of me stews in the hatred I have toward him.

“You beat on her fucking arms too!” Carlo snarls, pinning Priest’s hands so he can’t move them. He punches out with his free fist, making sure to pummel every inch of him.

I glance up; no one aids Priest. Horrified expressions coats their faces. It’s poetic justice. They didn’t save me either. They just let him beat me. The ritualized punishments were nothing compared to what I suffered the last few nights I spent under the roof of the Anointed Heavens. I know Kylie and Simon tried. It was futile.

Carlo gets up, his chest heaving. Priest, barely conscious, tosses his head to the side to expel the blood that has pooled in his mouth.

“Don’t you ever come here again! Spew your venomous Bible teachings somewhere else!” He crouches down close to Priest’s bloody face. “Don’t you ever fucking look at Anya again!” He pushes off from the ground, using the weight of his body to crush the side of Priest’s head instead of the sidewalk. He turns, his long strides eating up the space between us with fury boiling off him. As he comes closer, I see splatters of blood on his face and clothes. He reaches his hand out to me and I take it, our hands slipping with the sweaty wetness of blood.

Hands entwined, I go with him to the elevator and take another look at his blood-soaked clothes. A silent promise erupts between us when our eyes meet. I’m not afraid. I’ve seen and been through too much for that. Emotions choke me; no one has ever cared enough about me to risk themselves so raw and unselfishly.

Thinking backing as a child, someone did, at that one point in my early life, but whatever purity he felt for me died that day when I was ten and the deed kept the living hell alive.

*****

Carlo’s apartment is stark compared to the rest of the casino. It’s barely lived in. We haven’t said a word to each other, but the silence speaks volumes and is necessary. He needs to calm down. Handling a raging man has been a constant in my life. Stripping out of his clothes starts in the kitchen area. He tosses his shirt on a chair, then kicks his shoes in a corner. The door to his bedroom is open and he heads there, walking straight through to his bathroom.

The shower switches on. I creep behind him, picking up his soiled clothes as I go. The shower door is clear glass. His naked body is before me well worked out and chiseled like the marble statues that adorn the casino floor.

Inside, the spray of the water rinses off the dark droplets of blood and they swirl around by the drain. I take off my clothes and open the shower door, stepping inside with him. He stiffens as I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his chest. The cascade of water flows over us, metaphorically washing away the mental scars.

Carlo’s voice is thickened with desire. “Are you sure you want this? I’m no better.”

How can he say that? There is a big difference between him and Priest. I want Carlo. I was forced to be with Priest. I’m not expecting him to be a saint or one of the many disciples I’ve read about in the Bible. He is a man.  His character is judged by the way people treat him and those he keeps around him. Loyalty, honor, and trust have been demonstrated over and over again inside this sprawling building.

“My decisions are not based on one moment in time, they’re based on a lifetime of experience and the observation of the people here. There was something about you the first time I met you. When you pinned me beneath you against the wall, I knew you would never hurt me. Being hurt so many times before helps me to know the difference.”

He wraps his fingers around my shoulders and tilts me away so he can look down into my eyes.

“You amaze me.” His face is close. “Your strength makes me want to be a better man.”

I lean in to hug him close again, our slick wet bodies wrapped tightly.

“You are a good man,” I confirm.

He reaches out, twisting the water off. He steps out of the shower, grabs a towel, and winds it around me. I admire his body again as he wraps another towel around his hips. Masculine curves, and muscular stature—I wish he would take me again. He catches me staring and cups my face, kissing me. He takes another towel, drying my hair with care and a gentle touch. I glimpse his knuckles and the skin across them is torn. They must be raw.

“Do you have bandages?” I stand on my tiptoes to open the cabinet over the sink. He reaches past me and takes them down from the top shelf. “Sit down.” I begin tending to his torn flesh.

“I have to go.” He sounds disappointed.

“Jessie is going to flip out. I’m about two hours late.”

“Don’t worry about Jessie.” He is serious. “I mean, I have to leave the casino. I have business to tend to.”

“After what happened, can’t you have someone else do it?”

“It has to be me.”

I finish with the last bandage, securing it down with my fingers. Worry niggles at me and I want to ask what he has to do. Knowing isn’t going to change anything though.

I incline, kissing him, rubbing my hands through his wet hair. His arms encase my waist. We stay that way for a long time.

“I want you in my bed. When I get back, it will be late. Be right there.” Carlo points to his bed; the fluffed comforter and straightened line of pillows are perfect. There is maid service here. They have cleaned my room and stocked my refrigerator. His bed is too new. Does he even sleep? He steps out of the room and I rub my fingers across the fabric. I’ll be here tonight waiting.

Alex is in the car he has idling in front. I get in.

“The meeting is at the warehouse at the border.”

I glimpse the men in the backseat. Julius with two others that are part of the family but don’t work at the casino. They are muscle for back-up. Everyone in this car, I trust with my life.

Through the back window, another black SUV is following us. Pop is in that car with other men from our side of Chicago. This whole shit storm with Caesar and his affiliation with a fucked up cult needs to stop here and now. The Campuonos are in for a fucking war. The night I carried Anya through the doors of the casino and to the family floor, I swore she was under our protection. That means something. It isn’t false bull.

Pop let the Campuonos have the lower side. We are so big and grounded here in Chicago, we don’t need the money. Pop was being generous. But there is always one fucker who has to get greedy. The Carusos run the show, not them. They get what we give them.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Pop.

“Carlo, keep yourself together. I want to hear what they have to say. If I don’t like what I hear, then we take ’em out and give the lower side to someone else.”

“Yes, Pop.”

“That fucking scene outside the casino. I don’t like attention. That is the second one in two weeks. I am not fucking pleased.”

“I get it, Pop.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” The phone clicks off. He ended the call.

“Pop’s pissed,” I announce.

“Yeah, he doesn’t want to deal with this bullshit. Neither do I,” Alex remarks.

I watch out the window on high alert when we pull into the large cracked paved parking lot by the warehouse—neutral ground.

Four doors open and slam, fracturing the afternoon.  All of us are loaded up with all types of guns ready for anything. Julius goes in first, checking the area. He nods and we follow, keeping Pop in the center of our formation. The hollow expanse of the warehouse sends echoes of our steps into the air. Across the huge room, a folding table and chairs have been set up.

“Ennio! Welcome!” Frank Campuono, the mob boss of the lower end, calls out.

We stride toward them and I see Tweedy; he is shaken. That is not like him.

Pop steps forward out of the crowd we have around him. “What the fuck is going on? I am hearing shit I don’t like.”

“Please sit.” Frank motions to a chair. A couple of bottles of unopened merlot sit in the center of the table.

Pop sits and Tweedy uncorks a bottle.

“I don’t want there to be bad blood between us,” Frank starts. “One bad apple is spoiling the pie.”

“That is your fucking problem to deal with. I shouldn’t even have to come out here.” Pop holds the glass Tweedy gives him high and salutes Frank out of respect but the lines on his face are drawn tight.

“That cult.”

I stiffen at Frank’s mention of the Anointed Heavens.

“It’s causing you problems.” He gestures between the two of them. “Me problems. I think that there could ‘hypothetically’ be a gas leak.”

“You’ve discussed this with your boy?” Pop inquires. “I hear that he has been rubbing asses with those blue-robed freaks.”

“I’ve heard the same about your boy.” Frank watches me over the rim of his wine glass. My fists clench, and my jaw ticks.
Fuck him!
He is bringing Anya into this. I take a menacing step and Pop’s hand whips out, stopping me.

“Carlo,” Pop clips.

“I think it could be a solution,” Pop confirms, going along with Frank’s idea of blowing the place up.

Tweedy’s phone buzzes, and he steps away.

“You need to take this.” Tweedy holds the phone to Frank.

“Excuse me.”

Impatience is sending my annoyance quotient off the charts. I don’t want to be here. I still have to go with Alex to get money from Ricco and other shit in the casino security area. I just want to meet Anya in bed. This is a waste of time. “I see. You have no authorization… Don’t fucking cut me off! You screwed up and I am not taking the fall for you! Whatever happens, happens. You are dead to me!” Frank stabs the end button and hands the phone back to Tweedy.

“Ennio, I did not give any permission to Caesar to act.” Icy slithers crawl down my back. What did he do? “He is yours if you want him. If not, I’ll take him out.” I don’t listen to any more. Alex is on my heels and we race out of the warehouse to speed back to the casino.

Jessie turns my way when I walk in, tying an apron around my waist. “A bit of a commotion out front today?” she mentions, tossing flour into her industrial mixer.

“Yeah.” I am at a loss for words.

Shock tore through me at the sight of Carlo tearing into Priest. He did it to mimic what was done to me. Carlo wanted Priest to experience what I did. The only thing missing was stripping him naked and having four men hold him down. Weak. I had a sense of admiration for Priest at one time before he changed. His father beat him. I had seen it happen and he raged when his father would take me to his bed. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain of his father touching me.

When it ended, he left his name behind and made everyone call him Priest. In the end, nothing got better, it just became different. He was a hero to me until little by little he changed, becoming the monster his father was.

“I need you over by the stove today, Anya.” Jessie’s tone is the softest I’ve ever heard it. On autopilot, I go to that side of the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for the meals list hanging above my head, organizing myself. It is quiet in the kitchen today, solemn. Each person does their own thing and we dance around each other, knowing our purpose.

Bobby passes by me and gives me a wink. He is nice and breaks the tension that boils like the pasta on the stove. I let the tasks of cooking waft over me and take hold. I get in the zone, spicing sauce, preparing meats, and making sure not to overcook the pasta.

A knock on the side door to the alley echoes.

“Bobby! Get the door!” Jessie shouts. “The bread is early.” Delivery trucks come by a few times a day delivering fresh foods. The bakery across town does all of the bread for the casino, not just for Jessie’s kitchen, but for the other private restaurants in the retail section of the casino too. They bake the dinner rolls, Italian loaves, and they make their own breadcrumbs. Homemade breadcrumbs have been a treat to work with. They are the difference between great breaded chicken and fabulous breaded chicken.

Bobby shoves at the door; it is stuck. Something is blocking it. He yanks out a gun from his waistband, holding it high. By his feet where the door is cracked open I see a sliver of blue. My heart stops. I run toward him but Bobby throws the palm of his free hand out.

“Jessie!” he yells. “Get her out of here. Everybody out!” Bobby reaches into his collar and talks to it. His voice is muffled. I can make out “security detail, secure the perimeter.” A sinking feeling overcomes me. Jessie has my arm. I’m struggling against her. I need to get to the doorway. Bobby slams it closed and positions himself flat on the side of the door frame, his gun held beside his face, ready to pounce. “I said get her out of here!” The insistence and tone from Bobby ramps up my fear. Something is very wrong. Jessie clamps me around the waist and hauls me back. I am surprised at how strong she is.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she whispers in my ear.

Men rush from all directions. Many faces I don’t even recognize. Every single one of them is carrying a gun. Jessie tugs on me, yanking me back even further. She’s taking me in the wrong direction. I need to know what’s outside the door in the alley. The typical bustling kitchen has a new pulse to it—militant, alert.

Jessie moves in front of me and shoves my body back, slamming a door in my face. It’s dark, the only light coming in from the angled slats in the door. She has shoved me into the utility closet. I clutch at the door handle, rattling it, then bang my fist on the wood.

“Let me out!” I scream, horror clawing its way to my clogged throat.

“It is for your own good!” she yells back at me, the hard slab of wood between us. I continue to fiddle with the door handle; nothing. I stick my fingers through the slats and level my eyes, trying to see through them. I can vaguely make out the shapes of people. Harsh voices carry through to me. I endeavor to make out what they’re saying.

“…they killed him…”

A familiar voice, Doc Howie.  “…choked to death.”

“No!” I screech in frustration.

“Call Mike,” someone says.

“Move the body,” Doc Howie orders.

Shadowy figures lift and in my line of sight, a blued-robed figure, a man. I strain to see.
It is Simon!

I crumple to the floor, sobbing, landing in a pile of dirty rags for laundry; I rub the palms of my hands against my eyes, wishing away the vision.

Minutes pass and the door creaks open. A ray of light blinds me and I am the twelve-year-old me hiding away from the chaos and violence of the Anointed Heavens, crushed inside any small cubbyhole I could find. It’s never going to end. Priest will always win. The humiliation and pain Carlo caused him, making him a public spectacle in front of so many people. Retaliation is his number one mission now.
Simon! Poor scared Simon!

A hand materializes in front of my face. I glance up, blinking back painful tears, and it’s Carlo standing above me. I take his hand and let him lift me up. His handsome face is worried and concerned. It is all for me.

“Come on, honey,” he speaks gently. I stand on wobbly legs. A policeman is in the kitchen. The kitchen staff has disappeared except for Jessie, who is watching me.

“Alex.” The policeman is facing him. “I need to call the coroner. I had Bobby put the body back in the alley. I can write it up as a random wayward event.”

Random? Simon’s death is meaningless. Done out of revenge with no justice.

“Mike, whatever you have to do. We can’t have this.” Alex and Mike go back and forth, settling on a plan.

Carlo picks me up in my frustrated and grief-stricken haze. “Let me take you upstairs,” he whispers, cradling me in his arms.

The policeman continues. “That will keep the investigation outside.” He points to the alley door. “The back alley death. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

Carlo carries me toward the service elevator as I listen to the officer describe how he is going to treat Simon’s death. It sickens me. He lived in fear his whole life and now at the end of it he is found in a dirty alley. Shock of his death causes the pit in my stomach to churn.

At his apartment, Carlo walks me to his room, and I continue to cling to his neck when he tries to set me down. Instead of peeling me off him, he lies down with me. More tears come as we are cuddled together. Priest is capable of killing—that isn’t the surprise—but it didn’t occur to me that he would do this, go this far. Kylie’s face pops up and I am immobile, frozen.  Eventually, my eyes close and sleep assaults me.

Priest is standing over Simon. His legs and hands are bound. He is huddled in the fetal position, red running out of his mouth and staining the floor. Caesar and his friends are hovering behind Priest, grinning. They are watching while Priest kicks Simon in the stomach over and over. The laughing faces of Caesar and his men make me want to shoot them. A bullet to the face would destroy their putrid smiles. A piece of sharp wood appears in Priest’s closed fist and he strikes out at Simon, gouging his eyes until they fall from their sockets.

It is me, lying in the fetal position, bound exactly like Simon. Caesar is over me with a sharp piece of wood ready to do exactly the same thing—gouge my eyes out.

I wake up screaming. This dream wasn’t a nightmare; it was a prophesy. I know what I have to do.