Hot For Her Italian Mafia

1. Josie

He’s here again.

Looming over the Sunken Sailor pub with a sinister sneer splashed across his rugged face. Nursing the same bourbon he ordered after stepping through the door. Sitting in the same booth he’s in every night with golden eyes scanning the bar like a lion on the hunt for its next meal.

If I play my cards right, maybe it’ll be me.

His massive boa constrictor arms wrapped around my body. Meaty hands exploring every inch of my delicate skin. His well-maintained beard—a perfect seat…

“Josie, stop daydreaming, will ya?” Oscar shouts from the kitchen window behind the bar. His interruption knocks the wind from my lungs, and my heart skips a panicked beat. “Your food’s ready to go out. Get a move on before it gets cold.” His chef’s apron is stained with tomato sauce, brown gravy, and other ingredients. Fat bullets of sweat drip from his forehead, and his eyes tell a story I’ve heard so many times before:

We’re in for another long one tonight.

Fighting back the urge to snicker at my own dirty thoughts, Oscar’s interruption is welcome. Where would my mind go if I gave it enough room to drift?

It would start with a date. Me and my monster, sitting opposite one another in some high-end restaurant, slurping down the finest pasta and sipping on the sweetest wine, giggling the night away. Then the bedroom, perhaps? A sordid affair with the beast leaving bites and scrapes across my body. But they aren’t for torture, no. They’ll be his mark. Taking my innocence and claiming me as his.

Only his.

Just like that, it happens again. Another wave of nervous heat explodes from my core and burns my cheeks red hot.

“Sorry, Oz. Won’t happen again.” I pack the plates of food onto my tray through the window.

“Better not,” Oscar grumbles, wagging a sausage finger in my direction.

I carry the food over to my table. It’s a group of guys from my college campus, opting for a meal before they start smashing one drink after another. They don’t recognize me, and that’s for the best. I wouldn’t know what to say to any of them if they did. My days are spent cramming whatever knowledge I can into my head, and my nights are full of drunkards and…

Him.

The monster at the end of the bar, watching from his hooded gaze.

Luca Palermo.

“Soon as these plates are cleared, do us a solid and bring six shots of tequila,” one says. The crowd of five surrounding the speaker cheers for his announcement. “And then you keep ‘em coming until one of us hits the floor.”

“Got it.” Not that I’ll be the one to serve them drinks.

Nineteen is an interesting age. Old enough to parade around in skimpy outfits and make money from lustful, gawking eyes, but too young to handle alcohol.

The hypocrisy is laughable.

But I can’t complain. It means I’m safe. Safe from the rude comments and more attempts to get in my pants. Safe from the wild animals these strapping gentlemen will soon become.

Then again, with every table in the bar packed, I won’t come away scot-free for long.

It’s Friday night, and the boys are out to play.

I set down their meals and head back to the bar counter, awaiting my next order. I throw my eyes back in Luca’s direction. In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, I see those golden orbs taking me in, with his tongue slithering over his lower lip. The moment he notices, his attention shifts to the other side of the room.

Could it be? Is he watching me? Or had I merely walked into his line of sight and caught him in the middle of a thought?

It’s…not impossible. Unlikely? Sure. But not impossible. He spends a lot of time here for a man who hates the food and has little interest in the booze. What if he’s harboring his own secret obsession?

I’ve finally lost it, haven’t I? Thinking a man of wealth and taste like Luca Palermo comes here to pine over a server girl who doesn’t have the courage to speak with him. So then, it has to be business. And from what I’ve heard, his business isn’t the sort a girl like me wants anything to do with.

Whatever his reasoning, mine isn’t nearly as subtle. If my dad didn’t know Oscar, I’d probably be bumming it on the streets or working my ass off for much worse pay, with much worse employers. Oscar’s been good to me, and I do what I can to give him my best.

It’s not like our family can afford another tanked salary.

“Aren’t you sexy?” a voice from behind pulls me back to reality.

Shit. I knew my luck would run out, but couldn’t there have been a few more hours before the turn?

“Thank you,” I say but don’t turn around.

I’ve learned to accept a compliment, reject advances, and move on. There’s no use arguing with someone a few drinks down. They’re too far gone to see logic or reason. In a sports bar, it seems their mental faculties sink even lower. The tight shirts and short shorts make men go mad.

Good for the wallet but bad for the soul.

“Turn around. I want to get a better look at you,” he says. His voice lacks the distinct drunken slur I’m used to.

A man with confidence when sober can be a pretty dangerous adversary in this game.

“Not right now. I’m getting ready to take another order out,” I say. Oscar’s packing food plates into the window, and I’ll be happy to serve whoever’s table it is if it gets me away from this creep.

“Come on, babe, don’t be like that,” he scoffs. “Show me what you’re working with.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. A bone-aching chill storms through my body at the feeling of his gnarled fingers stroking bare skin.

“Say whatever you like but don’t touch me,” I bark, spinning on my heels. My finger hovers dangerously close to his nose from my fit of protest. Through the wall of noise, my voice doesn’t carry far.

My heart flutters in my chest. A concoction of rage and fear blend into one when I come face to face with the man who would’ve taken things further had I not stopped him. He towers over me, with a frame double as wide. I can’t meet his face even on my tippy-toes.

“Relax.” He raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just an inspector.”

“How about you do it from your seat like a normal person?”

“Everything okay here?” Oscar’s gruff voice comes from behind. Closer than I thought he’d be. He managed to slip out of the kitchen and behind the bar in an instant.

“This guy giving you trouble, Josie?” Oscar wipes leftover food from his fingertips with a dirty dishcloth.

“No trouble,” the guy says, sliding a hand into his pocket and drawing a neatly rolled cigarette. He wedges it between his lips before speaking again. “I was shooting my shot. I can take the hint.”

He lights up and drifts back into the crowd, disappearing among the sea of faces.

“You okay?” Oscar asks when it’s only us left. His eyes never leave the freak who touched me.

“Yeah, I’m used to it.” At least he only touched my shoulder. Everyone else goes for the ass. “I’ll shrug it off before I bring the next table their meal.”

“That’s my girl.”

But it doesn’t even go as far as the next table to forget. Luca’s burly form filling out the booth seat clears my mind off the whole situation.

Okay, that’s it. Enough of this. I’ve spent so much time fawning over Luca, and it never leads anywhere. Before the night is through, I’m going to do it. I’ll introduce myself to the hulking slab of meat perched in the back corner of the Sunken Sailor. I can’t go another night without it. I’m starting to go crazy in my fantasies, and it won’t get better if I don’t bite this bullet.

Warmth swells straight to my cheeks at picturing his voice for the first time. I can almost hear it already. Deep, husky, raw. The voice of a man who’s conquered this world a thousand times over. Now he’s in the market for a new prize.

I’m going to put myself on show.