Men of Mayhem (48 page)

“I promise you, Madison, I will take care of you.”

She couldn’t speak but shook her head. “I want to but I can’t.”

“You will and you can.” There was no hesitation in his voice.

This time when he stared into her eyes, determination was written all over his face. She’d turned him down but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. Butterflies fluttered across her stomach and goosebumps rose along her spine. His lips lowered to hers and yet she couldn’t turn away.

How could someone who kissed with such passion be so dangerous? She was frightened yet turned on at the same time. Her fingers clutched his shoulders and held on tight. It would be their last kiss and she intended to enjoy it.

What would happen after the kiss ended and she walked away?

Madison had a feeling that, for better or worse, he would never let her go.

The End

About the Author

I hope you enjoyed getting to know Madison and Romeo as I introduce a new series called
Genoa Mob Men
.

Ginger Ring is an eclectic, Midwestern girl with a weakness for cheese, dark chocolate, and the Green Bay Packers.  She loves reading, traveling, watching great movies, and has a quirky sense of humor. Publishing a book has been a lifelong dream of hers and she is excited to share her romantic stories with you. Her heroines are classy, sassy, and in search of love and adventure. When Ginger isn’t tracking down old gangster haunts or stopping at historical landmarks, you can find her on the backwaters of the Mississippi River fishing with her husband.

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Alex and Meryl’s Story

Meryl

He’s dead.
The words roll about in my head as I swirl the amber whiskey in my glass around and around, staring at it sloshing. The casino I’m at in the heart of Chicago is busy tonight. The lights are low but the sounds of the slots are deafening.

It’s a bold place. A large open space for people to try to win against the riptides of luck. Apparently, I don’t have any so I wouldn’t even bother to stick a dime into any of the slot machines. Brightly lit and colorful, they stand along the walls like sentinels. So I choose to sit comfortably with the cool granite on my forearm and the black leather of the barstool against my back.

I’ve chosen to do my drinking here even though I don’t gamble because I need the noise. It helps to drown out the usual and unwelcome roar that goes on nonstop in my head. Still, I’m a little surprised at myself for choosing to spend my evenings in a place like this. It is probably because amongst the slot machines, tables, and waitresses weaving in and out of the thick crowds, the casino is absolutely gorgeous—a regal gothic style with a hint of modern elements that add to the ambience. It’s comfortable in an enigmatic way. The first night I walked in and parked myself at the expansive bar, contentment surfaced for the first time in what seemed like forever.

I tip my drink to my lips, gulp the rest of it down, and slide the glass across the bar for a refill. The guy tending is someone I haven’t seen before. I’ve been spending my nights here since I moved to Chicago right after it happened. I couldn’t face our home, our stuff, or even our car when it was finally over. I sold or gave it all away and left as fast as a 747 could take me. His death didn’t leave me destitute, but it left me alone.

My phone dings with a text from a friend I hardly ever saw when he was alive. The message reads:

How are you?

I click the delete button. I’m not ready to talk. I can’t hear it again.
You’re so young. You’ll meet someone else. It’s too bad you never had kids.

The calls from aunts I haven’t spoken to in ten years really tick me off. I wasn’t worth a call when I was married, so why am I worth a call now that I am a thirty-four-year-old widow?

This new bartender who has never waited on me before is scrounging under the bar, not really appearing to know what he’s doing. His dark brown hair is on the long side and hangs in his eyes. I watch him shove it out of the way, seeming miffed.

“Excuse me.” I tap my finger on the shiny granite. “I’ll have another when you get a chance.” He is busy, engrossed in pouring and figuring out how to use the tap, and highly agitated. I watch him. It makes me stifle a giggle. Clearly, this is not what he is cut out for.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “It’s coming. Give me a minute.”

Oh, he’s ruffled. Instead of being bothered by his attitude, I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, attempting not to laugh at him.

“Are you new?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

“No, I’m not new,” he barks, low, aggravated. “I’ve worked here practically my whole life.” He snaps up to his full height, tall, with a whiskey bottle in one hand and a clean glass in the other.

His mannerisms are so cute, it’s amusing.

“Okay.” I keep my laugh as contained as I can but a puff of air bursts from me. I seal my lips shut. It isn’t nice to laugh at him.

He’s staring, so I turn to see what’s behind me. People are going back and forth to slot machines and roulette tables near the bar, smiling with a hopeful, greedy glint in their eyes. I twist back around and my drink is directly in front of me.

“Thank you,” I toss out, scooping up the cool glass and clasping it in my hand. Instead of going back to his prep area or helping others around me, he is standing before me. His dark eyes boring into me.

“I have a running tab,” I tell him, assuming he is waiting for me to pay him. Awkwardly, he grabs a rag from below and wipes down the area. He is concentrating on his own movements intensely like he wants to stay right here but is seemingly embarrassed to look at me.

“So,” I start. “You have worked here practically your whole life, huh? I guess not as a bartender, though?”

“Security,” he states firmly, intent on making the area in front of me sparkle.

“I would say that is definitely the opposite of tending bar.” I lift my glass again.

“Alex!” a dark-haired guy calls to him. His head shoots toward the voice. “Bobby’s here.” He stops.

“I’m good!” he calls back, absorbed in his task.

The guy who called out to him throws his hands in the air, his face twisted in confusion.

“I think he is letting you know that you are all set,” I offer, taking a swig of my drink before turning my attention back to the two men. “Bobby is a regular bartender here.” The one who should be serving drinks instead. I down the last drops of my whiskey and reach into my purse for my credit card.

“It’s on the house,” he says quietly, still intent on wiping the counter. My brow furrows in confusion. I don’t know what to do. This has never happened to me before. I dip my fingers into my wallet and put a twenty on the bar. Alex, I assume that is his name, pushes it back toward me. “I said it is on the house.” His voice is commanding with a touch of darkness, and his gaze tips down to me. It is the kind of voice that exudes danger. He is the total opposite of the fumbling cute guy from a few minutes ago. His demeanor has transformed.

Flustered, I squeak out a very low thank you, shoving the twenty back in my bag and zipping for the casino exit.

Alex

“What the hell?” Carlo comes up beside me. I ignore him and call Bobby over while watching the sweet little thing who just made my heart fucking jump out of my chest walk away from the bar and out into the night.

“Who was that?” I wonder.

“That’s Meryl.”

“Meryl?” I question.

“Yeah, like Meryl Streep,” Bobby clarifies, loading a few scattered liqueurs onto the back bar.

“Why?” Carlo asks.

“Because I’m gonna marry her,” I state boldly.

“Dude, have you been swiggin’ the bottles?” Carlo thunders.

“Good luck with her, Alex,” Bobby adds. “She just lost her husband a couple of months ago. She is a fucking widow.” He pulls out a couple of beers and flips the caps off for two customers at the other end of the bar.

I’m speechless. She was married. I soak in the news. A pang of grief for her pain hits me—how fucking horrible. Maybe I would have seen it in her eyes if I could have gazed at her longer than ten seconds. What the hell is wrong with me? Shyness is not one of my attributes.

“Before you start making wedding plans,” Carlo ribs, “I need you on the casino floor by the restaurants. A couple of suspicious jackasses are walking around. Gilly’s got them on the monitors in the basement, but I want you to follow them. They look like shit-stirrers.”

“I’m on it.” Absorbing the news of my future bride’s loss, I slip out from behind the bar.

I have met and been hit on by tons of women in my life. Most guys my age have panty-hopped from girl to girl or finally met
the one
and tied the knot. I have never given it much thought. Carlo and I are the same when it comes to women. He is the head of security here, and the son of the mob boss of Chicago, Ennio Caruso. Security isn’t my only occupation; enforcer for the family is also my position. We have too much shit to do, and finding a mate has never been high on either of our lists.

I navigate the throngs of gamblers filling the floor of La Bella Regale, toward the row of restaurants deeply planted in the casino. I pass the stately line of high-stakes slot machines that are roped off for only big bets. The eyes of the woman at the bar, Meryl, flash in front of my face like they are embedded in my brain. I shake my head to clear it. I question my actions and reaction. Should I have followed her out? No, I need to focus on the job.

I immediately spot the fuckers Carlo was talking about. I have to shove a few people aside roughly because these three guys are getting loud and shit is going to hit the fan soon. I take my earpiece out of my collar and place it in my ear.

“We’ve got a disorderly conduct in progress,” I rumble into the speaker.

“This place sucks!” an abuser of the free drinks for players bellows in a surly slur. Over the tops of the heads of other gamblers, I see more security coming toward the scene for backup.

“This place is fuckin’ fixed!” One of the other guys stumbles, spilling his drink all over the felt covering the roulette board at a game table. “You can’t win shit in this place!”

Customers flick their gazes to stare at the spectacle these three guys are making. Many of the patrons shuffle away from the tirade. I grab the biggest one by the scruff of the neck and he howls in surprise. “Shit!” He starts to fall because I yank him from the group. I right him and shove him forward.

“Come on, jackass. You and your friends are out of here.”

People part like the Red Sea and their faces gape as my security force and I drag the losers out street side.

But not out the front.

We take them out the back way. We don’t want any customers seeing what we are going to do to them.

In unison, we toss the three fuckers onto the back alley pavement. Their bones and flesh slap, thumping on the sidewalk. We kick them into the street. They moan with each shot to the gut.

Two of them are so drunk they can barely lift themselves up. The loudest jackass rises up on his arms then his hands and shakes it off. I swing my leg back, sending him another, and he crashes back down to the asphalt.

We frisk these guys for their IDs to add them to the casino’s banned list. I rip Josh’s head up by his hair, having learned his name by reading it on his license, which sits in the palm of my other hand.

“I don’t like you,” I say, tugging, tearing his head back. “This is what we do to fuckers who cause scenes in the casino.” I cock my fist back and punch him square across the jaw. Droplets of blood fly from his mouth, landing like raindrops smashing onto the sidewalk. Julius, a security guard and friend, sends an uppercut to our newly banned Lou and his head snaps back, connecting with the concrete with a sickening crunch. Barry, another loser in the trio, does a major skid across the ground compliments of Iggy, another security guard and enforcer. That is going to leave some major road rash. That shit hurts more than a punch in the kidney.

Gilly comes outside from his spot in the basement in front of all the surveillance cameras to collect the IDs of these guys. He’s going to make copies while we fuck them up just for inconveniencing us and agitating the patrons. They picked the wrong casino to lose their shit in. Mafia owned and run. You are in for some shit you ain’t ready for.

“You can’t do this to us,” Josh rumbles, hurting and half-cocked. My guys in their black suits and starched white shirts are standing high above the scumbags writhing on the pavement.

“Really, fucker? We just did.” Gilly hands me their licenses. “Josh, Lou, and Barry. You are no longer welcome at La Bella Regale.” I flick their IDs to the ground and they land haphazardly among their bodies. “We’re done here,” I say to my guys. Carlo is standing in front of the door.