"Yeah, Tony, I got something for you. A little surprise, Tone."
And what she has, shocks the hell out of everybody.
Especially me.
Chapter 1
Corrado Three months ago
Iwalk through the long hallway; family pictures and expensive Italian paintings line the walls. Franco and Carmine are in the kitchen flipping pancakes like two old maids. "Where's he at?" I ask, laughing. "Hey, Franco, you look pretty cute with a spatula in your hand. You should get one of those little aprons too. One that says:Cooks, cleans, and keeps my balls in my purse."
A thick clump of steaming pancake batter splatters on the wall near my head, "Eh.Stai zitto," Franco yells, red-faced.
Carmine laughs beside him and waves at me. "Office, go ahead, go right in. Maybe you'll learn a new trick." He winks and pours some vodka into a tall glass of orange juice. "Hey, Corrado? You want breakfast?"
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," I answer, walking into the back. I knock on the door at the end of the hallway and walk in to discover the reason the two jackasses out front are making pancakes. The maid is on her knees, with my boss's dick shoved into the back of her throat. His clammy hands twist into her blonde hair, holding her so tight to him I can hear her gagging from where I’m standing. A long strand of saliva drips from her mouth.
"Corrado," he grunts, looking at me through squinted eyes. "You want in here? She's good. She's good," he pants, slamming into her mouth. A stream of sweat drips down each side of his face.
"Nah, I'm good," I lean back against the wall, knowing he'll get off faster with me watching. "Where's your wife?" I ask, chuckling.
He smiles his evil smile and grunts out three times, finishing. Jasmine sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth with the back of her shaky hand.
She watches him tucks his dick away like it’s a loaded gun.
"Anything else, Tony?" Her voice trembles and cracks.
"Yeah. Where the fuck are my pancakes? And make yourself busy, I gotta talk to my Corrado." He leans back on this leather chair, kicked his leg out, and shoves her with the ball of his bare foot. She scrambles away out of his reach, probably terrified of what he'll do next. She’s smart to be terrified. Everyone should be terrified of him.
She gives me a red teary-eyed smile as she walks past me, leaving me alone with Tony.
Tony Fretolli.
Tony Fretolli, my boss.
His huge frame leans back and he zips up his fly. His clean white shirt is pressed and probably cost just as much money as something you could drive. Thick salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, his face somber and most times drastic.I am a man you never cross, his expression always says.
I'm not a man who has a soul.
A man who files hatred and revenge away for later just to surprise you with it at the most inappropriate time.
A dangerous greedy little prick.
A self-righteous back-stabbing bastard.
But he has to be since he is also the head of the Fretolli crime family.
Wanted by every office of authority known to man, but no one can ever make the charges stick. Tony Fretolli is invincible. The Feds have been investigating him for over twenty years. He sends all the agents who work on his case Christmas cards every year, along with a bottle of expensive brandy.
"What do you need, Tone?" I ask.
"Got a suitcase full of cash you need to clean at the club, and I want you to give an extra grand each to the girls for the next party, they've been good." He tilts his head and eyes me, pulling a cigar out of his desk humidor. He clips the end, smells it and lights it, and pulls in a long deep drag. "How long have you been out of Attica?"
Attica.
The Attica Correctional Facility is the maximum-security prison I spent five years in for him. Not that he'd know if I was ever really there. His rule: you never visit people on the inside; you just take care of them when they get out. There's an old myth that the mob takes care of your family when you're in jail. It's all bull, you're on your on, and so is your family—so you do what you got to do. But me? I’m the lucky bastard who’s an exception to the rule; Tony Fertolli is my godfather, he trusts me and loves me like a son.
I shrug. "Seven, eight months."
