Chapter 3-Ono
E arlier that night.
Tony’s Social Club was an old timer’s place.
They served booze and coffee, and old men, some of them retired wise guys, hung out, talked shit, smoked cigars, and played poker.
It was a place my father used to frequent back when he was a boss. Years ago when the Bottarelli family had a little bit of power and ran the kind of schemes and games old crime movies were based on.
Old man Tony was still manning the bar, and I’d come bearing gifts like I always did during the holidays.
He’d been kind to me when I was a kid, and I never forgot where I came from.
A few of the regulars were inside, sitting together and bullshitting about the holidays and the feasts their wives made. A couple of low-level bookies and some connected soldiers were in the corner, making bets and scamming like they always did.
“Ono! Buon Anno! So nice to see you,” Tony said, his Italian wishes for a happy new year were welcome to my ears.
I took his offered handshake, like old guys usually did with both hands, and we exchanged season’s greetings.
“Tony, how’s the family?”
“Good, thank you.”
“Here, this is for you,” I said, handing him a gift basket with some good liquor and imported goods, the kind my company specialized in.
That was my thing now.
The days of old mobsters were done, and I’d turned the family business to imports and exports.
Sure, not all of it was legit. There were still things that had to be done beyond the scope of what was legal. Palms to be greased. Certain laws and taxes to be avoided.
Still, I was a damn sight better than most. I dealt with goods, not arms and not human fucking trafficking.
See, greed was something you could always count on to make money. And the people in my world were fucking greedy.
So, yeah, when I took over what was left of my father’s family as boss , I pivoted.
Bottarelli World Imports was a fucking gold mine.
I’d managed to recoup the money my father had lost while trying to hold on to the gambling racket in just a couple of years.
Gambling was a tricky fucking thing, especially with legal gambling sites and sports betting nowadays.
Of course, there were some old family members, or friends of ours, who didn’t like what I was doing. And some not so old wannabes who were too caught up in playing gangster to embrace the new reality.
Young or old, they were too fucking nearsighted to see the future.
Unfortunately, I’d lost track of them. In my rush to see the Bottarelli name go down as one of the biggest importers of European food products on the east coast, I’d forgotten about the dangers associated with my family name.
I was careless. Shooting the breeze with old Tony and laughing without care as I sipped the Sambuca laced espresso he set before me.
Maybe it was because of the holidays.
Or maybe I’d just let my guard drop for a moment.
Either way, it cost me.
Just as I was grabbing my coat and making to leave, I heard the door slam open. I spun around to see two ex-employees standing there with a pair of sawed-off shotguns pointed right in my face.
“Yo, Bottarelli! Happy New Year, motherfucker!”
Fuck.
Usually, when you were facing weapons like that your first instinct was to turn and run.
But if these assholes wanted a shot at me, they were going to have to take it head on, and there were plenty of guys who didn’t want that on their hands.
But fuck them. If they wanted a piece of me, they were gonna have to find their balls and take it.
I recognized them. Anger boiled inside my blood as I clenched my jaw and faced my assailants.
Frankie and Vic D’Amato.
Brothers.
Idiots.
And soon to be dead men.
I didn’t run.
I charged them.
And yeah, I got shot, but I took both those fuckers out with one of their own guns before turning to Tony.
“Call Big Mike. Tell him to send a cleaner, and I’ll be in touch,” I growled, and hauled my shot up ass out of there.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bottarelli,” Tony said, face pale, but hands steady as he started dialing.
The fuckers had double parked, blocking my Lincoln.
No way I could fucking drive out of there, and I had to go. I was losing too much blood.
The sounds of sirens were drawing nearer as I ducked down alleys and tried a few backdoors until I remembered her.
See, Sammy had told me when his cousin— Shelly, he called her —took an apartment in my town. He explained she wasn’t a blood cousin, but she was family, and he asked me to keep an eye out.
So, I did. Yes, I was very aware of Michelle Davis moving to Hoboken. And out of courtesy to Sammy, I kept a distant eye.
But that was all about to change as I walked into the courtyard behind her rented apartment.
Of course, I didn’t know she’d be home, at first. Figured she might be out or away for the holidays.
I hissed at the pain writhing through my body and used my good shoulder to bust in the back door.
She should have a better lock.
It fucking angered me that she was so careless with her person. That she lived without any good security.
No alarm.
No storm door.
No lights.
What the fuck?
There was time to fix all that later, right then I was losing too much blood and fighting to stay conscious.
Breathing heavily, I heard her gasp, and I acknowledged the sound, forcing my eyes to meet hers the second she noticed me inside her domain.
“What—Who are you?”
Fuck me.
Her voice was so damn sexy, husky, and deep.
Little bolts of awareness sizzled through me as I took in her full cover panties and tiny top beneath her fluffy pink robe.
“Ono,” I said, like now was the time for fucking introductions.
I bit back my groan as pain throbbed through me, not willing to startle her after having already broken into her home.
“Oh, no?” she asked.
I wanted to grin and would have if not for the agony in my shoulder. It was a common mistake people made.
“No. My name is Ono. Can you keep a secret, Doc?” I asked, my eyes moving down her hot as fuck body before I dragged them back to her deep brown gaze.
“Good.”
Then, like the asshole I was, I face planted on her floor.