Chapter Five
The common wall separating Gio’s apartment from the outside hallway vibrated, rousing him from the couch. He’d landed there upon his return from JT’s, too exhausted to walk the dozen or so steps to his bedroom. Better to pass out in post-orgasmic bliss on his sectional with the memory of Conor Jacob’s plush lips pursed around his cock fresh enough to carry into his dreams.
We should have fucked , Gio thought, mourning the missed opportunity. He tested twice a year to negative results, and he had an inkling Conor would have barebacked him if persuaded. At the very least, Gio regretted letting Conor leave before he could sample the Irishman’s peachy ass. Oh, how they filled out the man’s jeans. Several JT’s regulars had noticed, for certain.
Gio envisioned Conor on a plane to Dublin, if not now then soon, reclined in a tight seat with a goofy-ass grin creasing his face.
“Gio, svegliati !” Pound, pound, pound. Vic must be using both fists, Gio realized. “Open the damned door already!”
“In a second!”
The heavy knocking fell quiet, but the noise didn’t cease. Through the thin walls surrounding him, Gio heard a dog’s barks, a child’s cry, and a few muted adult voices all chorusing their disapproval at the unwanted alarm. Gio sat up and waited for his equilibrium to settle before admitting Vic into his home. While no stranger to summonses at odd hours, weekends were usually quiet for the family. It made sense for Vic to take out his frustration on Gio’s door.
He swung it open just as Vic aimed the heel of his hand for another round. Gio groused at him. “So who needs whacking at what-the-fuck o’clock?” he demanded.
“What do you mean? It’s after ten.” Vic shouldered past and hovered in Gio’s space. “You’re not answering your phone. Aldo called me to make sure you weren’t dead.”
“Far from it.” Gio scanned every surface of his compact living room, from the far arm of the couch to the pass-through counter leading to the galley kitchen in search of his phone. He suspected it might still be in his car, but Vic seemed to read his mind.
“I looked through the windows and didn’t see it,” Vic said as Gio lifted the couch cushions. “You still got yesterday’s clothes on. Did you just come home and crash?”
Gio snatched his phone, tucked into a crevice, and discovered several missed calls from the same number. Shit. “Pretty much,” he said. Friday night, and Conor, remained his business alone. “I took some of that, what do you call it, the cold medicine that makes you sleep. Knocked me the fuck out.” He side-eyed Vic, thinking he could say pretty much anything and the dimwit wouldn’t question him.
“Was the call urgent?” he asked Vic. Aldo never left voicemails, or texts. Even mobile calls posed a risk. If Aldo was reaching out to him now, Gio knew he’d eventually have to check in at the Bertinelli homestead. He wanted a shower and change first. Vic’s body language, to Gio’s relief, suggested there was time.
“Get your ass to Aldo’s, is all he said.” Hunching his shoulders, Vic loped over to the couch and flopped down in the middle. Gio read the move loud and clear—Aldo had poked Vic to poke Gio, not necessarily to bring him back. A weight settled in his chest. Whatever was about to go down involved more than collecting protection fees in Chinese takeaway containers.
Gio mumbled that he wanted to wash off last night. Vic uttered a “sure” and switched on the TV.
Stepping under the warm, eye-opening spray, Gio soaped up his chest and abs and considered the possibilities. He’d performed guard duty in the past for his capo and other higher-ups. Why anybody needed him on a Saturday baffled him, however. He then remembered the ten bucks he’d passed on to young Aggie last night. Maybe Gloria and the girls planned a shopping trip and Aldo insisted on an escort. How about Gio?
Gio took his time in toweling off and selecting fresh clothes. All the while, he pondered the third possibility. Since joining the family, Gio had knocked around the occasional deadbeat loanee but his kill tally stayed at zero. The mall chauffeur scenario seemed most likely, but what if Aldo wanted to meet with him about a sanctioned hit?
He dressed nice to suit any task given him today—cream-colored polo, dark-gray trousers and matching blazer. It was important to make up for last night’s too-casual appearance before the don. For this trip, he used his shoulder holster, which the suit coat hid well.
“You mind if I hang here for a while?” Vic asked as he hunted for his keys. Sometime during his shower, Vic had raided Gio’s kitchen. His friend pulled long on a beer bottle, and wedged a bag of chips between his thighs. “I got nowhere to be, and if I go home Ma will find something for me to fix or force me to run errands or some bullshit. I need a break.”
Whatever. Plenty of places for Vic to go to escape responsibility, but Gio wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Lock it up when you go, and leave no trace.” Gio pointed to the chips and left. His luck if Vic didn’t empty his pantry altogether today.
Gio lucked out with a spot in front of the Bertinellis’ house. Aldo ushered him straight into the den, unsmiling and uninterested in small talk. “Gloria took the kids bowling,” he said, gruff. Gio nodded, understanding the context. Aldo got the family out of the house to talk some serious business. The air surrounding them grew heavy along with the holstered gun pressed to Gio’s side. The idea that he might use it today sent his pulse racing.
“The Malloys’ lawyer reached out to us earlier this morning. Their son intends to manage the pub on his own.” Aldo twined his fingers. “He turned down the don’s generous offer. Not a wise move but, as I understand it, he’s not from around here.”
Gio stayed quiet. Better to listen than blurt out the obvious and earn a withering glance. The son—Malloy, Junior or whatever he called himself—was either holding out for a better price or intended to pay back his father’s debts. Once Salvatore San Gaetano decided upon a course of action to benefit the family, nobody underneath him—much less an outsider—questioned the choices.
“What’s my job here?” Gio asked.
Aldo tilted his head and shrugged. “Pay the man a visit. Convince him that it’s in his best interest to sell to the family.” He nodded at the slight warping of Gio’s blazer which clued him into the gun’s presence. “If you have to get rough with him, fine, especially if he strikes first. Don’t kill him.”
Gio gave his silent assurance of that. Inwardly, he relaxed. This was a test, of course. The higher-ups wanted proof of Gio’s negotiation skills and sparing his trigger finger. An effective member of the family asserted authority through persuasive tactics. Some resorted to physical harm and worse when necessary, but killing for the sake of killing attracted attention. Cooperation with law enforcement on the take only went so far.
“Patrick Keagan, that’s the Malloys’ nephew, says the kid’s opening Lonnegan’s today.” He huffed out a mirthless laugh. “More power to him. I heard Malloy’s people ain’t coming back to work after the old man dropped.”
“They knew the score,” Gio said. Shame, though. For his lack of experience in running a bar, he would have welcomed an established staff. “Maybe that’ll work in our favor. Junior gets so overwhelmed that he takes the deal.”
He stood and Aldo followed. They shook hands and the older man smiled. “I’ll leave it to you to tip the scale in our favor,” he said, then turned serious. Gio saw the implications in Aldo’s eyes—if he accomplished this task, he earned his sponsorship.
Made within the month. Sweet.
* * * *
Conor first reached out to Deb, Da’s waitress, through the pub’s landline. Previous calls from his mobile rang to a dead end, and Conor soon realized the woman was screening incoming IDs. He guessed she saw the long string of numbers and assumed some cold caller hoped to scam her out of her bank routing number.
When she didn’t answer from the pub phone, same as Brian when Conor tried him, Conor’s suspicions steered toward darker thoughts. He wanted to believe the waitress and the bartender had left town for separate vacations, visiting distant relatives or fulfilling bucket list trips before returning to either new management or Hugh Malloy’s funeral. He feared the same mobsters who’d spent decades fleecing Lonnegan’s out of hard-earned profits had bumped off those dear people as a warning to Conor’s parents. Pay up, play ball, or else. When it occurred to check their social profiles, Conor was relieved to see both had posted public messages in the last twenty-four hours. He left comments on their feeds to contact him at their earliest convenience.
“All in vain, Con,” he murmured to himself. Perhaps it was best that Deb and Brian stayed away. Their absence equated to their safety. Besides, if they came for their usual shifts Conor would have to pay them, and he needed every cent of profit to pay off what his da owed the mob.
Owed . Heh. Extortion, that was the correct word in this case. Whether the bad guys barreled through the front door of Lonnegan’s in ski masks or strode in wearing sharkskin suits and toting briefcases, they gave off the same stench. Glorified thugs, and they had no right coming for two elderly people whose only dream was to share their Irish heritage and hospitality with their adopted community.
Conor performed the opening procedures by memory. He expected to forget a few minor details, but he was grateful his father hadn’t upgraded his trusty cash register to some online-driven point of sale system that required passwords to access. If the pub filled to maximum capacity today—fingers crossed—he’d ask people to come up to the bar to order.
He checked the liquor inventory, flipped down the chairs, and unlocked the door before noon.
Sitting at a table abutting one of the front windows, he scrolled his phone and waited for the first customers to arrive for a liquid lunch. After a minute, he questioned the wisdom of this choice. Brilliant, Conor Jacob. Why not wear a target on your back so the mob will know where to shoot through the glass? Yet when he half-rose to move he sighed and thumped back into the chair. No. The mob pushed his parents because they were older and vulnerable and more interested in keeping the peace regardless of the cost. Let this gesture send a message that he couldn’t be intimidated.
If some goon shot him… fuck . His death helped nobody. Leave it to the mob to send his parents a warning in the form of his dead body sprawled over broken glass in their pub. They’d sign whatever paperwork Patrick handed them, if the shock of his death didn’t finish them first.
Conor set his phone face down on the table and buried his face in his hands. Disbelief and grief had led him to this half-baked idea. What possessed him to think he was capable of saving his family and their beloved pub from the fucking Mafia ? People with guns and brute strength and no morals whatsoever…
Two louds thumps sounded near his head, and Conor reared back in his chair with a strangled cry. “ Jaysus fuck!” he cried, and pressed his hand on his breast to calm the wild beating. Turning toward the glass, he gaped his mouth open at the sight of Joe Spatafora waving to him. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, settling it over his large ears so they didn’t appear to stick out as much.
Praise heaven, a friendly face. Beautiful one, too. Conor smiled back and gestured for him to come inside. “We just opened!” he called out, and stood when Joe entered the pub. Happy as he was to see his fling from last night, he was nonetheless puzzled by the wary expression on the man’s face.
“How…” Joe began, and paused with a look at the door as though searching for scratch marks. “How did you get in here? If you were that hard up for a drink you could have gone back to JT’s. Somebody’s bound to buy you shots.”
Conor spread his arms. “I told you I’d come here on business, and this is it,” he said. “Welcome to Lonnegan’s.”
Joe nodded, not with enthusiasm. “Is this part of your location scouting? You’re gonna use the bar as a movie set?”
“No,” he said. A good idea, though, if ever his company greenlit a project to film on this side of the ocean. “If you haven’t already guessed, the ailing owner of this pub is my father.”
“I see. I’m sorry about your dad.” Joe drifted over to the bar and eased onto one of the middle stools. Conor slipped around to meet him face to face. “So you’re a locations manager and a bartender. Quite a Renaissance man there.”
Conor twined his fingers and rested them on the polished counter between them. “My parents started this place before I was born. It is their legacy. I worked summers here as a teenager, until I left for school.” He looked over Joe’s head to the framed photos on the opposite wall. “So many memories here, and not just belonging to me and my family,” he added. “Da hosted wakes for old friends, and more than a few couples got engaged here.”
He pointed to the back corner booth. “One summer my da saw a woman hiding in that booth behind a drinks menu. She had barely enough to buy a soda, and he took pity on her. Turned out she’d run away from her abusive husband, left everything behind to save her life. Da hired her on the spot, and she waited tables until the day he collapsed.”
“Holy shit.” Joe exhaled, as though trying to whistle.
“Yeah. Few people knew her story. Maybe that’s changed in the last few years, since she’s far removed from that nightmare and more comfortable telling it.” Conor side-glanced the taps. Tempted to treat Joe to a beer, he held back. Lonnegan’s needed paying customers, but he could put his own money into the till this one time.
“If so, I ain’t heard it.”
Hell with it. Conor wanted a drink, and a ten-dollar bill burned in his wallet. He pulled two cold pint glasses from the underbar cooler and gestured to Joe with one. “That’s Hugh Malloy in a nutshell,” Conor said after Joe nodded his thanks. He poured Irish stouts for each of them and gave Joe the glass with the lighter head. “He never met a stranger, and if ever he were down to his last dollar he’d find a way to give you two more.”
“Malloy.” Joe stared at the thick layer of tan foam floating atop his dark beer. “Your dad.”
“I wasn’t a hundred percent honest with you,” Conor said. “Jacob’s my middle name. I didn’t think we’d run into each other again.” Not that he didn’t wish for it. “I’m not much for nightlife like JT’s, and Da’s more than sick. He’s set up in home hospice, so it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m sorry about that, and it’s okay.” Joe raised his glass and Conor tapped his to it before drinking. After a long pull, Joe said, “You never owed me your story, though I appreciate you telling it. Assuming you had a good time last night—”
“I did,” Conor cut in. He leaned back and stretched, catching Joe’s appreciative stare as the hem of his shirt popped upward to reveal a flash of his tummy. “I was reluctant to go out at all, and my father scolded me from his deathbed.” That earned him a laugh, and he added, “It helped that there was something to look forward to on the other side of the river.”
Joe eyed him over the rim of his glass. Conor saw the thin line of beer foam coating Joe’s upper lip and longed to lick him clean. He hadn’t known the man a full day, and yet Conor sensed an aura about him that gave him comfort. Words poured out of him with ease, whereas in the past Conor had trodden with care when getting to know potential partners. Joe was supposed to be a one-night fling, however.
He studied Joe’s eyes, a color that fell in the spectrum between the rich dark brown of the stout and the lightness of the dissolving foam. A lovely amber like the liquor in the many bottles shelved behind them. Beautiful and, like whiskey, addictive.
“I don’t intend to dump my problems on you,” he told Joe. “My parents understood that I had no interest in taking over Lonnegan’s, and they were supportive in my career choices. It’s why I’m compelled to take over for a while, you know? Give back.”
“So, what? You’re quitting your job and moving home?”
Lord help him, Conor read Joe’s expression as hope. “It’s complicated,” he said. He liked Joe, and wanted to spare him the horrible truth. No sense in getting any more people entangled in this Mafia mess. “Basically, my parents need to make…reparations, and I thought if I kept the pub open while they focused on my father’s health, I could solve one problem.”
“Makes sense, I think. You don’t have to say anything more if it’s personal.” Joe was down to half a glass when a pair of men walked in. They spotted Conor behind the bar and their faces brightened. Regulars, Conor guessed, old enough to have remembered his summer nights wiping down tables. He called for them to have a seat anywhere and he’d be right over.
The thunk of Joe’s glass touching the bar brought his attention back to the handsome Sicilian hunched in his stool. Joe turned up his lip in a charming smile and lowered his eyelids. “I suppose this means you’re busy tonight.”
“Trust me.” Conor closed the distance between them, sensing the faintest connection made at the tips of their noses. “I’d take another roll in the backseat of your car over this anytime. But duty calls, and all that.”
“I wish I could help you out. I’ll pay for the beer, at least. Yours, too.”
More customers filed in, approaching the bar. Chatter increased in volume, happy noises celebrating the reopening of their favorite hangout. Promising, but Conor foresaw his exhaustion.
“Actually,” he said to Joe, “are you free the rest of the day?”
* * * *
He must have been out of his fucking mind to say yes.
The one-two punch of Conor’s pleading aquamarine eyes and his cock-stroking accent had Gio conscripted into service before his brain sent the signal to rein in his hormones. Conor showed him a small room in the back where Lonnegan’s former staff kept their personal belongings, and Gio took care in wrapping his gun and holster in his blazer before shoving everything into a locker.
All the while he took orders from the floor, served drinks and wiped down spills, he convinced himself to file this night away as practice for when the San Gaetanos took possession of Lonnegan’s and put him in charge. If they wanted him to operate the bar, he might as well learn the business from the lowest position upward, right? Wasn’t that the playbook of most self-made CEOs?
Conor Jacob, his sweet redhead conquest, was Hugh Malloy’s son. Conor Jacob Malloy. What were the fucking odds? Gio surveyed his stations, watching pairs and groups converse over various libations and bowls of pretzel sticks. He ought to have guessed at the man’s identity last night when he’d caught Conor staring into the empty pub. In retrospect, his wasn’t the expression of a disappointed visitor in want of a drink. He had already started mourning his father and his childhood.
Seeing Conor inside the pub had been a shock to the system, confusing Gio’s body. Don Salvatore and Aldo expected him to convince Conor to hand over the place.
He watched Conor chat with a gray-haired woman on the stool in front of the taps. The man’s smile and fluid movement seemed natural. Conor didn’t have to consult his phone or a bartender’s manual when people ordered cocktails, either. He free poured into copper shakers and filled conical glasses with finesse. Damn it if he didn’t belong behind that bar.
The San Gaetanos believed differently.
He has to give up the place. Gio knew the consequences if Conor refused to yield to the family. He dreaded Aldo’s next directive if he came back with a negative report.
“Hey, buddy?”
Gio bit back a snappy retort. Only his superiors reserved the right to address him like that, but these people saw a bar server instead of a Mafia associate. “Yeah, whatcha need?” he asked, and took orders for the table’s second round. On the walk back to the bar, he took note of stations ready to settle up.
“Tables six and two are ready to check out, and three wants another round of the same,” he told Conor. Leaning on the service stall, he watched Conor retrieve two credit cards from the cubby used to keep tabs. “Nice showing for the first night back, you think?”
Conor fingered the first receipt streaming out of its printers, then rang up the second bill. “I’m encouraged. It’s been a while since I was here last, but it’s a steady clip.” Table three weren’t the only people wanting refills, either. Gio didn’t have to remind Conor of their order. The substitute bartender set up three rocks glasses with ice and prepared an Old Fashioned, a vodka cranberry and a gin and tonic with practiced ease.
Gio moved the glasses into a triangle before lifting them together. “Thanks.”
“You can head home after that, if you like,” Conor told him.
Gio halted his path to table three, stunned by the abrupt, though not unkind, dismissal. “What? Conor, you’ll drown if it stays this busy.” Lonnegan’s was close to standing room only, with people inquiring if chairs were available for the cordoned-off sidewalk patio.
“I appreciate your help, Joe, but I can’t expect you to sling drinks all night.”
“Hold that thought.” Gio delivered to table three before the glasses slipped out of his aching fingers. On his return, he bypassed the stall and walked right up to Conor, ignoring the audience lining the bar. “You asked me to help, remember?” he asked, and slid his forefinger along the back of Conor’s hand. They stood close enough together that anyone drinking at the bar would have missed it. “I’m here because I chose it. You’re getting all my tips, by the way.”
“Joe—”
“Gio.”
Conor furrowed his brows. “What?”
“Gio. It’s short for Giuseppe, what my friends call me,” Gio said. “I think we’re there now.”
Conor’s smile expressed his agreement. His eyes took on a bright sheen, like tears he tried to blink away. “Take a break, then, and get some lunch? I can handle everything. You’ve been at it for three hours straight.”
Three hours? Fuck . The time had flown with Gio talking up customers and flirting with Conor during the brief lulls. Aldo was probably wondering what the hell had happened to him. Thank God his capo—anybody connected to the San Gaetanos—hadn’t come looking for him.
Gio checked his phone. No messages, but the battery icon showed a thin red line at the base. “You know what?” He looked around the bar, searching for familiar faces and others too invested in his presence. The San Gaetanos employed numerous associates, and Gio was aware of their reach. “I do have an errand to run. Not urgent,” he added on seeing Conor’s worried expression, “but if you think you’ll be okay I’ll give the floor one last sweep before I check out.” He did just that before slipping into the back to retrieve his blazer and gun.
Conor met him at the bar as he smoothed the wrinkles from his blazer and asked for Gio’s number. “Not to summon you back to work, but it appears I’ll be in town for a while longer than anticipated.” Conor walked with Gio to the front. “I’d like to see you again,” he said directly in Gio’s ear, to be heard over the din.
Gio asked for Conor’s phone and plugged Joe into the contacts with his number. He’d figure out an alias for his phone when Conor texted him, after he reached a full charge. “If I don’t see you later on, I’m a night owl. Text me when you lock up?”
They didn’t kiss, or even touch, as they locked gazes in a silent goodbye. Gio shouldered past an incoming couple and walked to his car…still parked outside Aldo’s house.
Fuck. Assuming Aldo hadn’t left his house, he probably saw Gio’s car every time he glanced out his den window. Gio’s stomach roiled with every step down the block, contemplating the consequences of fumbling Aldo’s instructions. At best, he’d have to sit through a loud, profanity-laden scolding.
At worst, Aldo would assign somebody else, like Vic, to lean hard on Conor to sign away the pub. The pain in Gio’s gut sharpened at the thought of Vic persuading Conor by slamming his head on the bar and spraying his face with the soda gun until Conor capitulated. It made Gio want to one-eighty and plant himself in front of Lonnegan’s like a bouncer.
It sucked that the old man had fallen behind on his protection payments, and Gio admired his son’s resolve to pull his family out of the hole. Conor had to understand, though, that Don Salvatore’s offer was a gift . That he didn’t assume ownership of the pub without a cent of compensation to the Malloys’ spoke of the family’s compassion for the Malloys’ predicament.
His car in sight, Gio walked faster, relieved to find the Bertinellis’ steps empty. He’d go home, charge his phone, throw out Vic if he was still there, and come up with a plan. Hopefully Vic hadn’t cleaned out his fridge, because he was starving.
He dipped into the street, aiming his fob at the driver’s side door, and was halfway into the car when a voice calling his name halted his progress.
“Gio, wait.”