Chapter 3—Tommy
“What a dump,” Dante says from the driver’s seat of my car.
Lately, I drive myself, but tonight, a little show felt like the better move. And what better way to play the old Tommy than by showing up in a car I can’t be bothered to drive but was happy to pay for, proving I’ve got money?
Carl is a weasel who went against the Maranzetti family and told us some shit.
In exchange, we let him live and even gave him a club to run.
It’s a small thing—we own plenty of clubs—but it showed we accepted Carl into our fold.
Even if we never reach out to the sniveling rat.
Like my family, I believe once you turn on a person, you’ll do it again.
Don’t kill the messenger—that’s what’s written in stone according to the women of our world.
Thankfully, I never fell into that category.
Probably because I never date. No more than a few hours, and then I’m on to the next.
They all get it. It’s just how things are done in this life.
One day I’m sure I’ll either get an arranged marriage or die.
Those are really my only two options. Don’t see a third one where I find someone on my own who not only approves of what my family and I do, but who the family accepts.
Especially Mama. She’s a mean judge of character, and so far has never liked a single woman any of us brought home. All three of them.
To be fair, it was me, and I brought them all in one night.
Still, no one else has come close to introducing Mama to a woman they’re interested in.
Because we haven’t been. It takes a lot to find one who can talk about more than shopping or their social media.
And it takes a lot more to find someone I want to talk to at all.
“I think you’re just grumpy that you’re missing your shows.”
“Stop calling them like that. It makes me sound like an old woman.” He shudders at the thought. “And yeah, so what if I enjoy good reality TV? It never hurt anyone.”
I nod in agreement as we make our way down the dingy alleyway that leads to G-Spot.
I get that the whole idea behind this place is that it’s meant to be exclusive.
Only a few people can find it—kind of like the G-spot on a woman—but I don’t think we should have this much trash on the walkway.
I nearly stepped in dog shit, mainly because there’s barely any light.
Thank Christ the moon is full, or I’d be smelling like crap all night.
“True. But you might get hurt once the boys learn it’s The Golden Bachelor and you get off on watching old people fall in love.”
He holds up his hands. “It’s not that. Those people have years on me. I seek the knowledge of what they bring. If they’re still talking about their best date, kiss, or sex life, it’s like insight into what lasts through the ages. It’s a learning thing.”
“Man, keep that up and I’ll make sure you get the matching heels with the skirt.” There’s zero heat behind my words, and I don’t even fault him for shoving me. It’s a small one at that. We might not see much, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t being watched.
Dante knows why we’re here. Sort of. I filled him in on me taking over the place and being a face for the family.
But the rest? The thief part? I trust Dante with my life, but till I figure shit out, I’d rather keep the ideas about who it is to myself.
And Dante has a habit of just shooting people without asking questions first.
Still, he knows what’s needed to make me the face.
I called him after my meeting with Vinny, and he started the ball rolling with some of our guys.
A shower, a change of clothes, and waiting for him to pick me up cost us two hours.
But I wasn’t about to make anything quick.
Warm water and I have a relationship. I can never quit it.
As much as Dante has a thing for old people falling in love, I have that same obsession with a hot shower.
When we get to the door, Dante knocks. Then knocks again. A man I don’t recognize opens it with a sneer, barely cracking it for more than his head to stick out.
“What?”
Well, if this is how they greet members, no wonder numbers are down and the place is making very little compared to a year ago when it was projected to be one of our top profits for newly acquired businesses.
Dante grins. “You going to let us in, man?”
“For what?”
“To see some T and A. What else?”
Dante takes point on this while I just stand in the background like a token friend.
I don’t want to show my hand too soon. It’s clear this guy’s not with the family and has no clue who we are.
Those who work for us? They’re expected to know who they’ll step in front of a bullet for.
And each one willingly signs on the dotted line to do so.
I’m sure the amount of money left to their family if they die in the line of duty is what most of them sign on for.
If not that, then for the bonuses they get for each year they protect the family and no one dies.
“Cover’s two hundred.” The doorman looks at me before adding, “Each.”
“Pretty steep,” Dante mumbles, but he pulls his wallet out and hands over the cash.
“You get what you pay for.” The snort the guy gives as he takes the money and opens the door makes me wonder if there’s a double meaning in that.
Dante enters first, then me, and I don’t miss the chance to look over the doorman in full.
Big muscles but sloppy dress. Stained white shirt, not even a collar, and blue jeans with holes.
Not something we should use as the dress code for a place like this where we want the best of the best to come spend money.
If you want customers spending big money, make a place look worth spending it on.
I follow Dante as he walks down the small hallway that leads to an open, unmanned reception desk with a curtain on the back wall.
With a glance in my direction, he keeps going.
This is another thing we’ll be fixing. Having someone greet guests goes a long way in my personal experience.
Besides, we have the room. Why not use it?
Behind the curtain is a strip joint, plain and simple. Nothing special that I can see, which makes the price tag for the repairs that much higher.
I never came to G-Spot before Carl took it over. We acquired it about six months before we gave it to him. I had plans to come, but once he was put in charge, my desire to be here fell to nil. Not one for being chummy with a rat, even if he did it for us.
There are three stages, all with a different girl on them, all mostly undressed except for some hats and tassels.
A few cages sit between the stages, but they’re empty.
The customers are a decent crowd, but not the clientele that Vinny would appreciate.
Most look like they just came off the street or out of a horrible job.
No way they can fork over two hundred a night to get in the door, much less tip the strippers.
The girls I can see, both on the stages and serving drinks, seem pretty enough. I note only one, a waitress, who seems to have a pep in her step. The others smile, but there’s no shine in their eyes. Might be the lights, might not.
“Tommy!”
I look to my left and see Carl coming at me with both arms out as if expecting a hug. I only raise an eyebrow.
“You owe me,” Dante mumbles a second before he steps in front of me and embraces Carl on my behalf.
“Carl! Good to see you, man. Look at what you’ve done with the place.
Looks great.” He then takes a step to the side but never lets Carl go, his arm around the other man’s shoulders to keep him away from me as much as possible.
“Dante, you still following this one around like a lost puppy?” He laughs at his own joke, and I watch in amusement as Dante flexes his hand on Carl’s shoulder. His desire to strangle the man is high right now, but he’s holding it together nicely.
“You know it. I go where the party goes. What’s life if you just work all the time, am I right?”
I just plaster a smile on my face to seem as if I agree.
“True, true. But some of us have to work,” Carl says, as if he knows anything about working hard. This place is a dump, and his management seems to be severely lacking.
He follows my gaze as I look over his “work,” a smile on his face as he takes it all in, while mine drops completely. I see things, but nothing is pleasing.
“Can we get a table, man, or you going to make us stand at the bar?” Dante jokes with a slap on Carl’s shoulder that has him stumbling a bit.
Carl is almost wider than he is tall, with a round face, a receding hairline to match the bushy eyebrows, and squinty eyes.
He’s what we call a classic mobster: old-looking.
He fits a part made for a Lifetime movie, but not the lifestyle.
Sure, he likes the money and shit, but he isn’t what I would call a solid body to have on your side.
Dante, on the other hand, is in a full three-piece suit, hair slicked back with a small widow’s peak. His suit’s tailored and hides things, like his shoulder holster and the fact that he can deadlift 320.
Carl looks run-down in a green-and-white shirt pattern that resembles bad bathroom wallpaper, his wifebeater showing through as he left the top three buttons undone.
His pants are baggy to fit below his stomach, and other than the pinkie ring on his finger and the gold chain around his neck, there are zero weapons on him.
Ten to one, he uses his size and probably word of mouth of his connection to us—something I’m questioning should still be a thing the more time I spend with him—to keep him from being put six feet under.
“Of course. Mallory,” he calls to the smiling waitress, and she comes over quickly. He grabs her ass as he pulls her close, and I see the sudden look of panic in her eyes before it’s gone. Interesting. “Get these boys set up at my table, will you? And open a tab on me.”