The Taker (Men Of Malice #1)
1. Leo
1
LEO
“ L eo!” my ten year old sister, Lucy, shrieks as she barrels into me and spills my diet soda all over my shirt. “ Leo , my pink glitter bow is missing and I need it!”
“You’ll be fine without it,” I assure her, stealing a glance at the clock. I have thirteen minutes to clean myself up, get these two gremlins ready, and pack my whites and apron before I have to leave.
She sniffles, her eyes welling with tears. Fuck. Why is she crying? I try to wipe the spilled soda off myself as best I can with a dish towel that should be in the kitchen.
“But… I need to look perfect. I need to find it. Please ,” she begs as she looks up at me with big fat tears rolling down her face. They always get me.
“Okay, let’s make it quick,” I huff, knowing I can’t afford to be late.
I rush around the living room, turning over every object in my path and checking the coffee and end tables. The entire apartment is a complete mess, with askew throw pillows and toys scattered everywhere. Surely a few more out of place things in the mix won’t make a huge difference. As I make my way down the hallway, I hear screaming emo rock coming from my middle sister Julia’s speakers. That noise pollution makes me lose IQ points whenever I hear it.
“Julia! I put a casserole in the oven for you two. Make sure you take it out in fifteen minutes and that Lulu doesn’t burn her mouth again!” I shout as I bang on her door. I can’t wait for this phase to pass so she can move onto music that sounds less annoying.
“Okay!” she screams, but I don’t even bother listening to her response as I pass her room and go into the bathroom, the second most likely place that stupid glitter bow would be.
After digging through the ridiculous amount of bath products my sisters cram into the linen closet, I finally find it halfway down the dirty laundry hamper. A quick sniff later tells me it smells fine, and it doesn’t have any stains. I meet Lucy in the living room, tossing her bow to her.
Finally . I pack my bag with my work clothes, pour myself a huge to-go tumbler of iced coffee, and kiss my little sister on the cheek.
“Thank you Leo. Have a good night at work. I love you,” she says as she hugs me goodbye.
“If you need me, call me. Be safe, and make sure Julia puts you to bed around 8:30, okay?”
Lulu smiles at me, then sits on the couch and turns on a classic movie. She loves watching them while she does her homework.
I should be there to help her with her homework.
No matter how hard I work or how fine they seem, I never feel like I’m doing a good enough job raising them.
One day, they’ll be grown up, and I’ll look back on my life and miss these days, I keep reminding myself.
“Hey Leo, you smell like soda,” she says as she opens her book.
Ugh. I run into the bathroom and clean myself up, praying I’m not late to work. After I pack my bag, I run the three blocks to the subway entrance. By the time I pass through the turnstile, I can see my train leaving. I’ll have to wait five minutes to catch the next one, and I’ll be late for kitchen prep.
Yeah, I’m doing a good job.
“Leo, these short ribs need parmesan polenta and roasted asparagus, and you have a waiting order of chicken florentine,” my boss, Enzo, shouts at me as he squeezes by behind me.
He tosses a pair of tongs at me from over his shoulder, and I catch them without even looking. I plate a mound of polenta, then place the shortribs on top just so before placing five perfectly grilled asparagus spears on the right side of it. Perfection .
We all work as a cohesive unit in this kitchen, performing a perfected choreography of cooking and plating gourmet food for customers every night. This is a Vettore establishment—nothing but top-rate service will do. Don Vettore was nice enough to give me a job here after my mom left, despite never finishing culinary school. It’s my only means of supporting my sisters, so I made sure to earn my spot here. I also don’t want to be confronted by some scary mafia enforcer for subpar service, so I give my best every shift.
And this shift, I’ll have to somehow double my best efforts. Two of our station chefs called out, and no one was able to replace them, so now I have to do two people’s jobs when I was already overworked to begin with. The raucous clanging of pots and pans, chatter, and noise from the dining room dies away, and I fall into the zone as I plate another portion of chicken and top it with a savory, creamy garlic and spinach sauce.
“Ugh, that sauce smells divine ,” my friend Sammy groans as he passes me with a tray of hot bread. “Are you going to Club XYZ with us after work?”
“Maybe. Let me see how I feel at the end of the shift.” Julia’s old enough to stay with Lucy overnight, and I haven’t been out in a long time.
I toss the idea of going out to the back of my mind as I bring dish after dish to the front for the servers. Before I know it, an hour and a half has already passed. Only three more hours to go before we can start shutting down.
“Leo, I need you to do me a huge favor,” Enzo rasps, out of breath. “There’s an issue with the broiler I need to fix, and the customers at table seven are asking to speak with the chef. Maria is too new to send out there, and I don’t trust Sammy to hold his tongue if there’s an issue. Go talk to them, and if something is wrong, do whatever you have to to rectify it.”
“ Okay. ” I’m not a huge people person, but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice.
He thanks me, then hustles off toward the broiler. I change into a fresh white coat and apron and add a cook’s hat over my curly hair so I look somewhat presentable. As I walk onto the floor, the diners’ eyes follow me. Some smile, while others nod. An older woman with leathery, loose skin grabs the salt shaker with her grown out manicure and shakes it violently over her Pasta alla Norma, and I inwardly cringe behind my fake smile. Disgusting . The food is seasoned to perfection and that heathen obviously has no palate.
As I make my way to the table, I notice a very familiar face sitting at the table next to it. His bright green eyes, Roman nose, dark wavy hair, and stubble covered sharp jawline are hard to miss, especially since they’re featured in my dreams on rotation. He’s the Don’s nephew, the prince of the docks. And one of the most dangerous men in the city—Rocco Vettore.
My father told me stories about the gruesome way he and his cousins deal with people who crossed la famiglia . Rumor has it that Rocco has a penchant for using knives to remove body parts and carve his victims’ sins into their skin. A shiver runs down my spine as the image of a blade slicing through skin and muscle flashes through my mind. How can such a handsome man be so brutally savage?
I shut that line of thought down because even if he is handsome, he’s the kind of man I promised myself I’d never be with. Rocco may be the perfect male specimen in a bespoke suit and a ridiculously expensive watch I’ll never be able to afford in my lifetime—but he’s dangerous. I’ve seen him come into this restaurant with hardened criminals to work out business deals in his own unique way. Last week, he pulled a knife on a man because he pointed a finger at him to make a point. Then he fileted that finger along the bone…and aside from a few people gasping, nothing happened to him. He’s untouchable. That's the life he leads.
I saw how the mafia life wore my father down day by day, how he’d come home broken and bruised after a night of working for the Vettores. Then one night, he never came home… We lowered him into the ground five days later. Some families aren’t lucky enough to have a funeral. They never get the closure of finding a body.
Shaking memories of my father away, I finally address the customers Enzo told me about. They seem to be in their late forties, early fifties. Maybe out on a date night.
“Hello! My name is Leo. I hope you’re enjoying your meals?” I ask them.
I exhale a sigh of relief as I realize the couple just wants to compliment the chef. Nothing is wrong, thank fuck. The only thing I hate more than oversalting food is customer conflict. As the woman drones on about how delicious her lamb chops are, I take another glance at Rocco. He leans back in his chair, with a mile-wide smirk, like a big cat at the zoo lounging on a sun rock.
He pops a stuffed olive into his mouth, and I notice how sinful his lips truly are. They’re perfectly plump, with the bottom one slightly fuller than the top. He pushes the remaining pieces of meat and cheese on his charcuterie plate around as he laughs at something the man across from him said.
Is he on a date? Does he even like men?
If he does, the man across from him is a catch. I never saw him before, but I can tell he’s probably a mobster too, if his tattoos and expensive as fuck ring on his middle finger are any indication. The man looks like he strolled off one of those high fashion magazine ads, the kind you see for men’s cologne. And Rocco looks like a big, jacked wall of muscle. The way he fills out a three piece suit should be criminal .
Before I can mentally laugh at my own pun, the man at the table reaches out to shake my hand, and I hesitantly accept it. His fingers glisten with food bits and sauce, as if he ate his tomahawk steak with his hands, and I want to dry heave. Understatement of the year, but ewww .
Giving the couple a final smile, I take one last look at Rocco before returning to the kitchen. He went from relaxed without a care in the world, to flustered. His stiff shoulders and tense jaw are a whole different vibe than when I came out here. Not a good one either.
Cologne-model man suddenly pulls a gun from his suit coat, pointing it directly at Rocco. An actual fucking gun in the middle of the dining room. Lambchop lady screeches, and before I can even think of how stupid it is, I jump across him.
Like a lust-drunk fool, I let my dick think for me and leap in front of a deadly bullet to save a mobster who likes to flay people open for fun. What the fuck is wrong with me?
A sharp, stinging pain slicing into my biceps distracts me from the answer. I fall right into Rocco’s food amid screams of chaos sounding throughout the dining room. Tears fall from my eyes because this hurts so damn bad. As I stare up at the ceiling, I realize how fucked I truly am. If I survive this, I’ll be injured, and who knows if I’ll ever be able to use my arm again. How am I going to support my sisters? Feed them, clothe them, buy their school supplies, afford dance lessons?
My heart hammers in my chest as my vision dims. I can feel the blood leaking from my arm and wetting my chef’s whites. I dare to lift my head and look, and instantly regret it. It’s soaked. Oh my god, oh fuck.
What the fuck did I just do?!
A strangled groan is the only sound I can manage.
“Shhh, don’t cry,” a deep voice whispers. It sounds menacing and insincere, as if he finds this whole thing amusing.
I turn my head and see Rocco Vettore staring at me, an expression of curiosity on his face as he tilts his head. He takes a white linen napkin and applies pressure to my wound. Within seconds, bright red blood blooms through the weave of the fabric.
I guess this is how my life ends, bleeding out in the restaurant in front of a scary mobster.
“Don’t worry, your life isn’t over quite yet,” he promises me with a chuckle, as if he can read my mind. Good to know my bloody death amuses you.
Rocco’s empty green eyes are the last thing I see before I pass out.