Gun Moll (2 page)

“J
ames, come taste
this for me.”

Mac beat back his
immediate urge to correct his mother when she used his given name. She was the
only person he let get away with that shit. “I’m busy, Ma.”

“James.”

“Ma, I’m busy.”

“
James
,
come taste. Don’t make me tell you again.”

He was
twenty-six-years-old, and all his mother had to do was use the fucking
tone
.
Every good Italian child knew what the tone was. Age, size, or gender didn’t
make a goddamn difference. When an Italian’s mother used that tone, they knew
to listen, or get out of the way.

Sighing, Mac
jumped down from the ladder he’d been balancing on for the last ten minutes.
His mother needed her living room fan fixed and he still wasn’t any closer to
figuring out what was wrong with it.

Needs a new one
, he
thought.

Mac knew that’s
what it was. But Cynthia Bella Maccari wasn’t the kind of woman to ask for
money or complain. He took care of his mother, as far as that went, but he did
it without asking or telling her he was doing it. Sometimes that meant showing
up with his Challenger’s trunk full with groceries, or sneaking her stack of
bills off the table and taking them to the bank.

Cynthia never said
a word.

Neither did Mac.

It was just too
damn bad James Sr. didn’t get the memo.

Mac’s father was
useless in all things—women, family, and money. Expecting him to handle his
estranged wife’s business was like asking the doorknob to turn without touching
it. It wasn’t going to happen.

James Sr. liked to
think that because his wife had kicked him and his cocaine-abusing,
women-running, asshole-self out all those years ago, that he didn’t have a
responsibility to Cynthia or the two children they shared.

Mac took care of
it all. Whatever his mother or sister, Victoria, needed, Mac did it.

“All right, Ma,
give it to me,” Mac said, leaning in the kitchen entryway.

Cynthia turned
from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. A thick, red sauce covered the tip
as his mother blew on it to cool it down. She held it out for him to taste once
she was close enough.

Mac hummed as the
rich flavors soaked his taste buds in familiarity.

Home
.

It tasted like
home.

“Damn,” he
groaned.

“James!”

There was that
tone again.

Crass language had
never been acceptable in his home growing up. They’d been dirt poor and lived
in a pretty shoddy neighborhood, but his mother always held some kind of
standard for her children.

Mac never really
learned to follow those rules.

“That mouth of
yours, my God,” Cynthia muttered.

Mac winced.
“Sorry.”

Cynthia’s brow
puckered in her disapproval as she shook her head and dropped the spoon. “I
know you run around on the streets going on like that, but in this home,
James—”

“I’m sorry, Ma,”
he interrupted before she could really get started.

Apparently, that
wasn’t going to soothe Cynthia’s temper.

“No, listen. What
have I always told you, huh?”

“Bad language and
acting like a fool isn’t going to get me a real job.”

Cynthia smiled.
“And what are you doing for work lately, hmm?”

Shit
.

Mac wanted to get
his mother off that topic and quickly. If his bad language had tripped her anger
up, his choices on the job front really would. His mother wasn’t stupid, she
knew he ran the streets like her estranged husband did. He made up schemes,
worked with a crew, and brought in money however he could. Even if it was
fucking pennies. It was work. The only kind of work he cared to know.

It was the one
thing Mac had in common with his fuck-up of a father.

La famiglia
.

The family.

Mafia.

Mac’s introduction
to the Pivetti crime family had happened when he was just six-years-old. A lot
of his younger years were spent in the passenger seat of an old Cadillac while
his father collected money and watched the streets for his brother. Mac’s now-deceased
uncle had once run the streets of Hell’s Kitchen as the top Capo in the family.
Marco had been terrifying, and cold as hell. But then Marco Maccari met the
wrong end of a bullet when a war broke out between rival New York families, and
what could have been the Maccari reign in the Pivetti family ended.

James Sr. found
his shame in white lines of cocaine, effectively ruining any chance he had of
getting made in the family. It was embarrassing and undignified.

Mac wouldn’t be
his father. He’d worked far too hard to separate James Sr. from Mac Maccari in
la
famiglia
to let it be screwed up by something so stupid. Mac even went so
far as integrating himself as a soldier for the Vasari crew in the Pivetti Cosa
Nostra, while his father worked under the Audino side.

There was no need
to stain himself with his father’s mess, after all. Appearance was everything
to Cosa Nostra. A man’s worth was determined by his actions, honor, and
loyalty. James Sr. had none of that.

But Mac couldn’t
please his mother by being a wise-guy, either.

Double-edged
swords.

Cynthia had never
hidden her disapproval of Mac’s choices, regarding Cosa Nostra. If she chomped
down on that bone, they would be glaring at one another all night. Mac had shit
to do in the Kitchen in the morning, and he needed to be gone from Amityville
before dawn broke.

“Ma, let’s not
start in on that again,” Mac warned, hoping it was enough.

Cynthia sighed. “I
want you to be a good man, Mac.”

When she used his
nickname, Mac knew his mother was serious. Cynthia only did that when she
wanted something from him, or she needed him to listen.

“I am a good man,”
he replied quietly.

In all the ways
that count
,
he held back from adding.

“Being a
wise-guy—”

“I’m not James,
Ma.”

Cynthia pursed her
lips. “I know.”

Guessing by the
way his mother dropped his stare, he figured the conversation was over.
Sometimes, it was all about picking the right battles with Cynthia. Maybe she
just wasn’t up for the argument that night.

God knew it would
come on another.

“Sunday,” she
said.

“What about it?”
he asked.

“Church.”

Ah.

Yeah
…

“Ma, I’ve got some
stuff to do this weekend and all that. Next Sunday, okay?”

Cynthia’s hands
met her hips.

The tone was
coming again. Mac knew it.

“Fine, Sunday,” he
said quickly.

Mac would have to
make an excuse to his Capo to get out of collecting dues from the bookies, but
whatever. Family came first. Sometimes that didn’t always mean the family that
was supposed to be first.

“And make sure you
check up on your sister this week,” Cynthia ordered. “She doesn’t call me
enough.”

Probably because
Victoria was smarter than Mac, and knew not to poke the bear that was Cynthia
Maccari.

“Yes, Ma.”

Before Cynthia
could say another thing, a loud clap of thunder rang out. It practically shook
the roof and walls of the small, one-level home. A sheet of rain followed the
noise, banging the roof hard.

“Oh, darn,”
Cynthia mumbled, glancing upwards.

Mac followed her
gaze and noticed a water stain on the ceiling. When had that gotten there?
Chances were, that stain was from a roof leak. With another storm passing
through, it was only going to get worse.

It needed to be
fixed and soon.

Mac, frustrated
with another thing being added to his list, tried to figure out how in the hell
he was going to come up with the kind of money to fix the roof. A patch
wouldn’t do. Maybe for a short while, but not long-term. The house was old and
a roof was just one of the many improvements it could use.

“Ma?” he asked,
knowing he didn’t need to say another thing.

Cynthia made a
dismissive noise under her breath. “It’s nothing, James.”

“Ma, that water
stain is a foot long and three inches wide. How long has it been leaking?”

“A few months.”

A few months?

“Ma!”

Cynthia wouldn’t
meet his gaze. “The house is old.”

“I’m aware.”

The rain kept pounding
at the roof. Mac gritted his teeth and pushed his frustrations back. It wasn’t
his mother’s fault that her useless husband couldn’t even take care of her or
their family.

But sometimes he
wished all of this hadn’t been left to him.

“I’ll have someone
here next week to fix it, Ma,” Mac said.

“But—”

“No arguing. It
needs done.”

“Fine,” Cynthia
said heavily. “That’s going to be a couple of thousand dollars.”

“I’ll figure it
out.”

And he sure as
hell wouldn’t tell her how, either.

M
elina stared at
herself in the mirror. Her hair hung down her back in tousled waves. A nude
lipstick moisturized her full lips. The fitted, black bodycon dress she wore
accentuated the round curve of her ass and the gentle swell of her hips.
Tugging up the bodice of the dress, she cursed under her breath. It seemed the
ten pounds she’d packed on had gone straight to her breasts. It was getting a
little harder to squeeze into her clothes—her top half anyway. But it wasn’t
all bad. If anything, it would keep tonight’s customer firmly focused on her assets
instead of forcing her to suffer through small talk and boring attempts to
excite her.

Satisfied with her
appearance, Melina walked down the short hallway to the living room area of her
hotel suite.
Nothing to do now but wait.

Moving over to the
wet bar, she poured herself a gin and tonic. Glass in hand, she sat down in the
soft, black lounge chair and pulled out her smart phone. Opening the email from
her account, she scrolled through the information Dulcea had sent over.

Sweet.
Yeah,
her boss was sweet all right. Like a poisoned apple. Dulcea Massellini was a
self-made woman. Nothing and no one was going to get in the way of her
business.

Melina had seen
her fair share of women cut off without warning. She didn’t even want to think
what happened to those women. When you dealt with a woman like Dulcea, it
wasn’t a bed of roses. Yes, the money was good. Great, in fact, but screw up
and there would be consequences. Melina never wanted to be in that predicament.
Besides, she needed the money now more than ever. The rest of her father’s
funeral arrangements had to be paid for. Taking a drink, Melina pushed the
thought away and focused on the information in the palm of her hand instead.
Tonight’s
date.

Garrett Jameson.
CEO of Jameson Investments. Millionaire. Forty-five years old. The last piece
of information made Melina grit her teeth.

Married, father of
three
.

Bastard.

Mr. Jameson should
be taking his wife out tonight instead of her. Melina had no respect for a man
who didn’t honor his commitment to a woman, especially when that man was also a
father. Scrolling down, she scrutinized the picture Dulcea had sent along. The
man wasn’t bad to look at, in a young Mel Gibson sort of way, and she was sure
that he was well aware of it.

Just great.
Another night of putting up with groping hands.
Melina took
another drink and kept looking. Dulcea was anything if not thorough. A list of
her client’s likes and dislikes always accompanied the dossier she sent to each
of her girls.

Caviar.

Champagne.

Moonlight walks.

Same shit.
Different face. Nothing ever changed, and Melina was rapidly losing faith in
the male species.

Get the fuck over
it, girl. You’ve got money to make and bills to pay.
Melina
drained the last of the one drink she allowed herself before each of her dates.
The last thing she needed was to be off her game when she had a job to do. A
knock at the door drew in her attention.
Showtime.

Setting her glass
down on the coffee table, Melina walked leisurely to the door. Looking through
the peephole, she carefully readjusted her dress before opening the door.

Six feet of white-collar
asshole greeted her. Or rather, greeted her breasts. His icy-blue eyes couldn’t
stop staring at them.

“My face is up
here.”

Garrett Jameson
blinked quickly and then met her gaze. A low whistle came from his throat. “Man,
are you a looker.”

A looker? Really?
That was the only line he could come up with? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

“I’m well aware of
that,” Melina said curtly.

“A lady usually
thanks a man for complimenting her.”

“I’ll do that when
you compliment me. Now, are you ready?”

He gave her a
sardonic smile. “I get it. The aloof attitude is all part of the game.” Garrett
leaned in closer to her. His fingers twirled a lock of her hair. “Well played.
This should be an entertaining evening.”

“That all depends
on you.”

Melina turned and
pulled the door shut behind her, forcing her date for the evening to take a few
steps back. His hand slid around her waist, bringing her into close proximity
to him. The scent of pine needles assaulted her senses. The man had obviously
bathed in cologne before coming to pick her up. He smelled like he belonged in
a damn forest, with the other dying logs.

“Shall we?”

“I’m all yours,”
Melina said. With cold detachment, she gave him a practiced smile and started
walking towards the elevator. She could sense the man’s desire before she felt
the gentle nudge of an erection along her backside. As the elevator doors
opened, she glanced at him. He raised a brow, as if daring her to say
something.

“Did I miss
something?” she asked.

His gaze darkened,
and Melina laughed softly as she stepped inside. Garrett followed, staring at
her with narrowed eyes.

“For the kind of
money I’m shelling out tonight, this isn’t what I expected.”

Folding her arms,
Melina appraised him. Charcoal gray suit. Probably Italian. Easily over two-thousand
dollars. Silver cuff links. Her gaze roved lower. She was pretty sure those
weren’t Stacey Adams on his feet, either. The man screamed money, but she
didn’t care. She was getting paid, regardless if this date lasted thirty
minutes or three hours.

“And pray tell,
what did you expect?” she asked.

“An exciting
evening with a woman beautiful enough to make Jesus sin.”

“You’re in for an
exciting evening, but there are a few things we need to address.”

The elevator doors
opened and Garrett offered his arm. Melina took it and allowed him to lead her
through the lobby. People milled around them, seemingly lost in their own worlds.
That is, until they saw Melina. She couldn’t resist the small snicker that
escaped when a poor sap was slapped by his wife for ogling her. It was part of
the territory and by now, Melina was used to it.

“I’m a lucky man.
No one can take their eyes off you.”

“Indeed.”

Melina rolled her
eyes as he led her outside to the limousine parked on the curb. You’d think a
man could be original every now and then. She’d seen and ridden in more
limousines than she could count anymore.

“Only the best, my
lady.”

Stepping forward,
Mr. White Collar opened the door for her. Melina slid in without another word.
A moment later, he was beside her, arm draped casually over the seat behind
her. As the limo started to move, Melina carefully crossed her legs and shifted
to look at her date for the evening. He was watching her like a young man ready
for his first piece of pussy. She was not impressed. Reaching for his white
tie, she curled it around her fingers.

“Mr. Jameson, just
so that there’s no misunderstanding about just what kind of service I provide
for you, I’m an escort. I’m not a whore or a prostitute. If and when I decide
to fuck a man, it’s on my terms and because I want to. So, while in your
company this evening, I will play the part of the beautiful, young woman who
hangs on your every word—but don’t be mistaken. It will go no further unless I
say so. Is that clear?”

He wet his lips, a
gleam in his eye. His hand rested on her thigh, fingers easing under the tight
fabric of her dress.

“Do you mean to
say that being in the back of this limousine with a multi-millionaire doesn’t
turn you on just a little bit? Most women would be creaming their panties by
now.”

“I’m not most
women.”

“So I see.”
Jameson’s fingers continued easing up the hem of her dress, exposing the soft
smoothness of her thigh. “You’re like a dominatrix and a schoolgirl, all
wrapped in one. A man never knows what he’s going to get with you. I understand
why you came so highly recommended.”

“Then you also
know that the further your hand goes up my thigh, the more you owe at the end
of the night.”

“Money is no
object.”

“I wasn’t talking
about money.”

Before he could
react, Melina had a knife at his throat.

“What the hell?”

“Obviously, you
weren’t paying attention to what I said, so let me say it again. Keep your
hands to your damn self until I’ve given you the go ahead to touch me. Otherwise
I’m going to make your wife a wealthy widow. Got it?”

He swallowed,
nodding his head. Melina eased the knife down and shook her head. The bastard
had an erection at full mast.
I’ve picked up a closet freak.

Sliding the small
knife back into the holster strapped to the inside of her thigh, Melina leaned
close, intentionally rubbing her breasts along his arm. “What’s the matter? Cat
got your tongue?”

“Hardly. I’m just
trying really hard not to embarrass myself right now,” he muttered.

Melina smiled knowingly
as her palm lightly grazed his fly. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m so
turned on right now.”

“Are you now?”
Melina ran a finger along his jaw line.

“Yes. Twenty
thousand for a hand job. Right now.”

“I wouldn’t even
let you smell it for twenty thousand, but you know what? If you’re a good boy,
for fifty thousand, I’ll spank you later.” She squeezed his crotch.

“Oh, God.”

He shuddered and
Melina knew exactly what was happening. Leaning back, she watched him as he was
caught up in the throes of what had to be the most shameful orgasm he’d ever
felt. This was exactly why men kept coming back to her. While other girls had
to resort to sucking and fucking to make their money, Melina brought
satisfaction without ever taking off her clothes. She had a talent. A natural
sensuality that drove men crazy and guaranteed that she would always have a
steady stream of customers. Jameson’s hand palmed her breast and she let it.

“That’ll cost you
an extra twenty grand.”

He nodded, eyes
closed. Beside her, his body still trembled. Melina smirked as he finally
stilled beside her. His eyes opened and he quickly removed his hand from her
breast. She tapped her manicured fingers on her thigh.

“I’m waiting,” she
said.

“Of course.”

Reaching into his
pocket, Garrett Jameson pulled out his checkbook and quickly wrote. Tearing the
check out, he handed it to her with trembling fingers.

“Thank you.” Melina
folded the check in half and tucked it into her cleavage. Twenty grand, just
like that. Her nipples hardened and she patted her date’s leg. Power over a
man. That’s what turned her on. Not a man with money or class. Garrett Jameson
was nothing. A means to an end and before this night was over with, Melina was
sure that his checkbook would be making yet another appearance.

An underground
fight. Melina would’ve never pictured this as a place Garrett Jameson would
choose. It was true that anyone could surprise a person.
After sitting
through a boring business meeting with Garrett and some potential new clients,
Melina had more than earned her pay. After smiling and fawning over Jameson as
if he were the end all to end all when it came to men and being unfailingly
polite to the male clients eyeing her like a slab of prime ribs, all she’d
wanted to do was go back to her hotel room. A little wine, some Netflix, and a
King-sized bed seemed the perfect way to end the evening.