Desperate Desires (Mergers & Acquisitions #3)

Chapter 10-Ono

N ight fell quickly in winter and the streets were covered in an ominous gloom, the stars in the sky were hard to see, washed out by the lights of the city across the river.

“We’re here,” Gio said ten minutes later.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

I needed to get this over with quickly.

I opened the door to the gunmetal black Lincoln Navigator I used when I was working.

Gio and my other guy, Flacco, flanked me as I headed down the alley to the entrance marked private for the D’Angelo family’s social club.

Once associates of my father’s, I would have thought this penny pinching peons would have been happy to see me get out of this racket.

Less competition for them.

But some people had a difficult time with change.

They were stubborn. Stuck in their own mediocrity with limited visions.

Not me. I had my eye on a different future for my family name. Bottarelli World Imports was already established, and we were growing by leaps and bounds.

I didn’t need to bother with this petty shit anymore. I had more money than I could spend in two lifetimes and with that money came power.

But I never forget where I came from, and calling the cops wasn’t for people like me. I dipped my chin and Gio knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” some big lug asked, opening it a fraction of the way.

Flacco grinned and kicked it hard, sending the door guy flying. The sound of men scrambling to stand and shouting was loud, but I wasn’t distracted.

Stalking into the musty old club, I sneered at the place. It was nothing more than a shitty looking room with unkempt shelves, chipped painting, and dirty linoleum stuck over a cement floor.

Stale cigar smoke and the remnants of somebody’s cheap dinner hung in the air amidst the stink of cologne and sweat. There were a few card tables and folding chairs with a staticky radio playing some fucked up version of the Rat Pack on repeat.

Old black and white photos of Frank Sinatra were hanging on the walls, a couple of old timers, too.

And of course, a Sicilian flag hung beside the American one. The yellow and red represented two cities from the old country, Palermo and Corleone. The lady with the three legs stared out at me from dead center of the flag, and I wondered what she thought of this fucked up place.

But I didn’t have time for philosophical pondering.

And I didn’t want to be there any longer than I had to.

Whatever reason these old mobsters had for existing, the fact was they were irrelevant now.

I didn’t believe in hanging onto things just because.

That was a shit excuse for refusing to evolve.

These guys pretended they were Sicilian, but the people who lived in Sicily didn’t see it that way.

To them, we were all Americans. Fourth and fifth generation Americans at that.

Fucking hell.

These men were about as Italian as frozen pizza. As authentic, too.

My father had dreams for the Bottarelli name, but those dreams died with him.

I didn’t belong to people or places like this. I belonged to the here and now.

My eyes were on the future, not the past.

If these men couldn’t get over it, that was their issue.

Not mine.

But they had fucked with me, and now I had to hit back. Had to make sure they learned their fucking lesson.

Michelle , her name whispered inside my head and anger roiled through me.

These fuckers tried to end me. They tried to take me away from her. It was irrational seeing how I got shot before I touched her, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Like I said, I wasn’t looking back. I was looking ahead, but to make sure I would even have the chance for a future with her, I needed to cut all ties with these pieces of shit.

I turned my head, my blood racing as my eyes landed right on the motherfucker.

Freddy.

This was too good. I rolled my shoulders, anticipation building inside me.

There was something to be said about violence bringing out the truth in a person.

I didn’t run from violence. Nor did I race to it.

But when confronted with a situation such as this, I was more than willing to embrace the darker side of my nature.

It was close now. This was going to be quick. I could feel the darkness in my heart emerge, gleeful and hungry, as it should be.

It was time now.

I’d found my prey.

“Back the fuck up and keep your hands where I can see them,” Gio ordered, guns raised and pointed at the handful of guys hanging out.

“Freddy, I heard you were looking for me,” I growled when my eyes landed on my intended target.

“You can’t just come in here with this shit,” Carmine D’Angelo grunted.

This prick was the son of the real head of the D’Angelo family, and he was a fucking pain in the ass.

Dipshit thought he was the lead in The Godfather , with his flashy suit and pinky ring. But he wasn’t even the Netflix version of that classic film.

“You keep company with real scum these days, Carmine. I owe Freddy for his little surprise the other day, and you’d be wise to stay out of it.”

“Fuck you! Coming into my club like this? You got brass balls,” he shouted, but his words were barely intelligible with that big fucking cigar in his mouth.

He shoved to his feet and stalked around the table. Freddy stayed behind him, eyes frightened, and hands raised.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like that, Ono,” Freddy lied.

“You fucked up and got caught. Come with me and take it like a man, Freddy,” I said, giving him one option.

I was so over this fucking posturing.

Looking around, I saw who was there, knew what I could and couldn’t get away with.

Carmine was off limits, but Freddy was going to fucking die.

The fact was, he’d attacked me, and I couldn’t afford to let him live.

“Get the fuck out of here, Bottarelli,” Carmine huffed.

“What did you say? I can’t understand you with that paper dick you got shoved in your fat fucking mouth,” I said.

“Prick,” he shouted and lunged, but I ducked and punched him right in his stomach then again in the jaw.

Freddy tried to flee, but the moron ran right into my guys.

I wanted to ask him questions.

Hell, I’d intended to draw this whole thing out.

But not anymore.

I was no longer interested in spending time in that filthy fucking place.

“Ono, come on. You know your father wouldn’t want this,” Freddy begged.

“My father’s dead, Freddy. Things are different now. But you can bring him your grievances when you see him in Hell,” I said right before I put a bullet right between his eyes.

“Fuck did you do?” Carmine shouted, sitting up and rubbing his jaw.

“You can clean this up, you prick. Next time, don’t fucking interfere,” I warned and left.

A feeling of urgency filled me, and I hurried to the SUV. I’d call Carmine Sr. on the way.

This shit needed to get buried. Now.

I had plans that didn’t involve these sorry sons of bitches. Plans to see my girl.

I’m coming for you, Doc.