Ruthless Boss (Chicago Mafia Bosses #2)
Chapter 1
1
G ia
“Slow night, huh?” My coworker, Tara, says as she scrolls through her phone, leaning against the dark granite countertop.
I met her three weeks ago when I started as a bottle service girl at an upscale strip club in Chicago. I scan the area. On the lower level, a tall, willowy dancer sways her hips around the pole on stage, wearing a sequined top and G-string, dancing to remixes of pop songs in front of the occupied tables. “Yeah.”
I’ve had a couple of really good shifts, but tonight, a big sports event is happening on the other side of town, so our clientele hasn’t arrived yet. And because I work the VIP section on the upper level, I mainly serve one table—a couple of incredibly hot, tattooed, handsome men who make my job easy. I bet they’re good tippers, too.
I stride to the walk-in stockroom fridge to grab the thousand-dollar Champagne they requested. I don’t like it here—an awfully cold, dark, and eerie area. But the tip will help me to get the fuck away from this job that I’ve taken since I fled New York.
I’ve been living in a cheap motel for the past weeks. The kind where you need to shower wearing flip-flops because the bathtub is gross and hasn’t been through a deep clean since well before COVID. Even if it were cleaner, I still wouldn’t feel safe.
I grab the bottle, scan it in the system using my ID tag, and add it to the bill. Then I leave the room and almost run into Chevy.
Mr. Chevy, that is. My boss—and a gross human being. He’s of average height and build. The best mask he wears is the one of a good guy. That’s precisely the most dangerous of all—I should know, after what I endured with my husband.
Chevy has a male water polo swimmer body—tall and lean but with the right amount of muscle to do some damage if he’s in the mood. I shiver, and the atmosphere is suddenly chillier than when I was inside the stockroom fridge.
Chevy brings me back to the present, fondling my ass, asking, “What you got there, beautiful?”
I recoil and clutch the bottle, wishing to swing it at his head. Memories from my fight with my stepfather flit through my brain. The way he slapped me across the face, then flung me on the bed and aggressively parted my legs with his. A lump of disgust floats up my throat, and I swallow it. I move away from Chevy discreetly, but he doesn’t let me go—he cups my ass harder.
“I need to get to my table,” I say.
I could leave this job, but I need the money. Assholes are everywhere, and I need to get as far from the East Coast as I can. Start over.
At this club, they didn’t pay much attention to my lack of references or fake driver’s license—one I got through my husband’s nemesis, Clayton. Clayton hates Ciro for never paying him back some money he owed him, so he was all too happy to help me leave the bastard.
Thankfully, Chevy needed new bottle girls, and that was it. They pay cash, too.
So, I need enough money to buy a car and truly become a new person with a future who doesn’t have a past—my past, anyway.
I touch the necklace my mom gave me, a white gold chain with a star pendant dangling from it. A small diamond shines at the center. Sorry, Mom . I hope wherever she is, she’ll forgive me for everything.
I could sell this necklace for some fast cash—nothing crazy, just a little money. I have often considered it, but this is my last tangible connection with my mother. If I let go of it, then what will I have left?
No. When I’m successful in my new life, I want to wear this necklace. If I do, I’ll take my mom with me to show her the small way that I made it.
Chevy dips his head lower, the smell of cigarettes yanking me from my thoughts. “Maybe we can go out for drinks after your shift ends.”
I’d rather get an STD. Though it’s obvious that I’d have the same fate if I slept with him. I bet he’s familiar with the clap, and I’m not talking about cheerful applause. “Hard pass, thanks.”
“Why? Don’t you want to get the weekend shifts and make more money?”
I slap his hand off my ass. “Not at this price. Excuse me, customers are waiting.”
He pushes me against the wall, and I clutch the bottle even harder. He rubs his gross, mediocre erection against me. “Playing hard to get, are we? The girls who work the weekend don’t… they’re counting the dollar bills.”
I use the bottle to push him away. The urge to knee him or break that bottle on his head stabs at me, but I’m on the run because I’ve already acted on impulse. I can’t afford that luxury again. “Excuse me.”
He mumbles under his breath, but I ignore him and walk through the hallway. I forget about Chevy’s idiotic face when I get to the VIP area. I saunter to where I’ve seen the men chat. The two of them are gorgeous and are from the Gallo family. I heard that name several times—my stepfather is a cousin of Ross Santini, the patriarch of the family I hate. The Santinis are the scum of the Earth.
If my husband Ciro catches me, he’ll kill me. Just like I killed his father, Aroldo—my stepdad.
I swallow, and the chatter reminds me I must focus on what’s happening around me. I thought that by leaving New York for Chicago, I’d be safer, but from what I hear, the Santinis have their turf here in Chicago as well. But I can’t switch from city to city without resources. Without a car, without money, without a plan.
I bring the bottle and show it to the Gallos. The one on the right nods, and I pour it into flutes, handing it to them as they continue to talk.
“Why isn’t Dante here?” one of them asks. They’re both tall and broad, but this one has a beard.
“Fuck, man, his nanny left yesterday. With Massimo and Amara out of town, he can’t get out that easy,” the other one, who has a cleft in his chin, says.
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. Dante needs a reliable nanny ASAP.”
“He wants to focus on getting rid of Ross Santini, but hiring someone who wants to stay with the baby for as long as he needs is unrealistic. No one wants to be confined in his house, locked away from the world.”
I almost over pour the drink before I give it to the last man. A glimmer of hope flows through me. A rich man needs a nanny—and seems desperate for one.
What a perfect opportunity.
I’d be in a mafia boss’s house, hidden from everyone. I’d save the money I’m paying for my roach-infested motel room. On top of that, I’d be helping my boss take down Ross Santini. A bonus fuck-you to my husband’s family. Of course, that would also be dangerous. My potential boss can’t discover my true identity until I know him better. What if he’s one of those people who kills instead of asking questions?
Can I pull it off? “What’s the salary?” I blurt, clutching the tray against my chest after they each have a flute in their big, strong hands.
Hot Beard tilts his head at me, surprised. As bottle girls, we’re supposed to be seen but not eavesdrop. We’re sexy women wearing sparkly minidresses who smile and joke without putting our noses where they don’t belong.
“Why? You’re interested?” He cocks his head.
I square my shoulders and look around to ensure no one can hear me. Thankfully, this section is almost empty. Chevy is out of sight, and so is Tara. “If it pays well, yes.”
When Hot Beard ballparks the amount, I gasp. That’s way more than I’d ever imagine making—though I imagine that amount covers the downsides of not having a life and working for the mafia.
“Do you have any child experience?”
“Yes, I’ve babysat tons. I love babies.” I slap on a smile, without adding that I only watched babies a few times, mainly because Ciro made me—a coworker of his needed help, and he enlisted me without asking.
Hot Beard scratches his chin. “Sounds like it’s too good to be true.”
I chew on my lower lip. I need to grab this opportunity before it slips away. “I’m… new in town. I don’t have a place to live, so this arrangement would be perfect.”
“Do you think Dante will go for it, Rocco? If we tell him we found the new nanny at a strip club,” the other one asks.
Hot Beard, AKA Rocco, slides to the edge of the leather seat. “The truth can be… interpreted differently.”
Flexible truths. I’ll take that. “I’m all for that, sir.”
Rocco grabs a pen and jolts on a piece of napkin. “Okay. Here’s my brother’s address. Show up at eight tomorrow, and I’ll meet you up front, take you in, and introduce you. No promises.”