Chapter 2 Damon
DAMON
Iwatch the brunette move across the dance floor from my corner booth, nursing my third whiskey of the night.
She's been dancing for the past hour, completely lost in the music, and there's something about her that keeps drawing my attention.
Maybe it's the way she handles the college boys who keep trying to get close, confident but not slutty, flirty but clearly not going home with any of them.
Or maybe it's just that I'm bored as hell waiting for Aldo to show up with my money.
"You want another?" Tommy asks, sliding into the booth across from me. My cousin's been my right hand for the past five years, ever since he proved he could keep his mouth shut and follow orders. Tonight, he's playing wingman while I collect what the club owner owes us.
"I'm good." I don't take my eyes off the girl. She's got this innocent thing going on that doesn't quite fit with the way she moves. Like she's playing at being bad but doesn't really know what bad looks like.
"She's been watching you too," Tommy says, following my gaze. "Little young for you though, don't you think?"
"Just killing time." I drain the rest of my whiskey. "Where the fuck is Aldo? I told him ten o'clock."
"Probably counting out our cut in quarters," Tommy laughs. "You know how these club guys are. Always trying to short us."
The music pounds through the speakers, some electronic shit that all sounds the same to me, but the crowd eats it up. The nightclub is one of our better earners, decent location, brings in a good crowd, and the owner learned quick that paying protection is cheaper than dealing with the alternative.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Text from Aldo:
Running late. Give me twenty.
"Fucking amateur," I mutter, showing Tommy the message. "Twenty more minutes of this shit."
"Could be worse. Could be collecting from that dive on Fifth Street."
True enough. At least the club has decent whiskey and something worth looking at.
The brunette spins around, laughing at something, and I catch a glimpse of her face in the club's rotating lights.
Pretty. Really pretty, actually. Big eyes, killer smile, the kind of face that would make most men stupid.
Good thing I'm not most men.
"Boss." Tommy's voice changes, gets more serious. "Aldo's coming over."
I look up to see the club owner weaving through the crowd toward us, a manila envelope in his hand and sweat beading on his forehead despite the AC.
Aldo is a small-time player who got lucky when he inherited this place from his uncle, but he's smart enough to know which side his bread is buttered on.
"Mr. Lombardi," he says, sliding into the booth next to Tommy. "Sorry I'm late. Had to wait for the evening count."
"No problem." I keep my voice easy, conversational. "Long as the numbers are right."
He slides the envelope across the table. "Fifteen grand, just like we agreed. Business has been good."
I don't open the envelope. Tommy does that, quickly counting the bills while I keep eye contact with Aldo. It's all about respect in this business. Show weakness once, and every two-bit operator in the city thinks they can shortchange you.
"Looks good," Tommy says, tucking the envelope inside his jacket.
"Excellent." I lean back in the booth. "How's your security situation? Any trouble lately?"
"No sir, nothing like that. Your boys do good work. Haven't had a single problem since we started our arrangement."
"Glad to hear it." I signal the waitress for another round. "Keep it that way, and we'll keep doing business."
Aldo relaxes visibly. These meetings always stress him out, like he thinks I'm gonna break his legs for fun. Truth is, violence is bad for business. Happy club owners pay on time. Scared club owners start looking for ways out.
"Actually," Aldo leans forward, "I wanted to talk to you about maybe expanding our arrangement. I'm looking at opening a second location, and—"
My phone rings, cutting him off. The caller ID shows my father's number, which means this isn't a social call. Dad doesn't call during business hours unless something's wrong.
"Excuse me," I say, stepping away from the table. "Lombardi here."
"Damon." Dad's voice is tight, controlled. The voice he uses when bodies are about to drop. "Where are you?"
"At the club. Collecting from Aldo. What's wrong?"
"The Bonaccis got hit tonight. Professional job. Three shooters, in and out in under five minutes."
My blood pressure spikes. The Bonaccis are our biggest rivals, have been for over twenty years, but there are rules about this shit. You don't hit a made man in his own house unless you're ready for war.
"How bad?" I ask.
"Roberto and both his boys are alive, but it was close. They took out four of his men, including that bodyguard who follows his daughter around."
"Any idea who ordered it?"
"That's what we need to figure out. Someone's trying to start a war between us and them, make us look like we broke the truce. Roberto will think we did this."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is exactly the kind of clusterfuck that gets everyone's families targeted. "What do you need me to do?"
"Come home. We're calling an emergency meeting with the underbosses. And Damon?" Dad pauses. "The daughter's missing."
"Missing how?"
"Her bodyguard's dead, and she's not in her room. Window was open, looks like she snuck out. Roberto's going out of his mind thinking we grabbed her."
Shit.
If Viviana Bonacci is dead, every peace agreement we've built over the past decade goes out the window. Roberto will come for us with everything he's got, and we'll have to respond in kind. Blood in the streets, cops asking questions, bad for everyone's business.
"I'm on my way," I say, ending the call.
When I turn back to the booth, Tommy's already standing, reading my expression. "Time to go?"
"Yeah, we—" I stop mid-sentence, looking back at the dance floor. The brunette is still there, still dancing, but something about her face in the light looks familiar.
Big dark eyes. Heart-shaped face. Long dark hair with just a hint of wave.
I've seen that face before. In surveillance photos. In the background of newspaper articles about Roberto Bonacci's "legitimate business interests."
"Holy fuck," I breathe.
Check out “Damon by Heather Carmel” to continue reading…