Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) - Kara Hart Page 0,37
eyes to see my clock and the time: 8:00 A.M.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “It’s early.” I massaged my eyes and jumped out of bed, feeling a little strange. Blue balls, the silent killer.
I had to remember that I didn’t come to this city for her. I came to get information on Cade Buchwald. I was already closer than before, but I wasting time, all on account of that woman seducing me. I guess I played a small role in that too.
Outside my window I could hear tires rolling into my driveway. It was the all too familiar sound of rubber crunching against gravel. And then all of a sudden, it stopped. Who the fuck could that be? I thought to myself. No one comes up here. I quickly grabbed a pair of shorts and I loaded my pistol. In my business, it was best to always be heavily armed and dangerous.
I looked out the window and saw a small Volvo. Judging by the car, I didn’t have too much to worry about, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I ran to the front door and quietly stepped out into the dirt and gravel. The trees above me stood stoic, filled with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves. In front of me, stood the car and I let the gun in my hand be visible to the world.
The rumbling of the Swedish engine stopped and out came Carmelo, bearing wine as a sign of peace. “Can I come in?” he asked me.
I put the safety on my gun. “Do I need this thing? Or did you just come to talk?” I called out to the old man. I wasn’t taking any chances just yet. The guy may have been old, but he was tough as nails. Being a member of the Luciotti crime family taught me to respect my elders and their hidden strengths.
“I came to talk business,” he said. “No weapons. Just words.”
“Come in.” I gestured for him to come forward and walked inside the house.
I stood in the kitchen, fumbling for the coffee and some water to pour into the machine. “You take it black or with cream?” I asked him, finding the tin can of ready-made coffee. The shit was disgusting, but it did the trick.
“No coffee for me, thank you,” he said, setting the wine bottle on the kitchen table.
“Suit yourself. Have some of the wine if you want. It might make this meeting easier for you to swallow,” I said, cracking each knuckle in my hand. Truth was, this whole thing could go sour if he made one wrong move. I threw a wine bottle opener onto the table and pressed the button on the coffee machine.
“So,” I said, “why’d you come here?” I set two cups for the wine on the table. I wanted to be cordial. No blood. No brass knuckles. None of the bullshit. This guy knew a thing or two about being in the mafia. He was from Calabria, a rough Italian village. I couldn’t imagine the shit he had probably seen.
He unscrewed the cork until it popped off. Pouring a small amount of wine in each glass. “Salúd,” he said.
“Salúd.” I nodded. We both took a small sip and got to talking.
“I came here to settle the debt,” he simply said. “I know you know who I am.”
I nodded and took another sip. In the background was the noise of the burbling coffee machine, as well as birds outside. I still couldn’t help but think about Dahlia and that awful nightmare I had. Man, I need to get laid.
“Vincenzo the Butcher, right? Yeah. I know who you are. Everyone does.” I laughed lightly, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. It was just that, in our world, the man was famous. He was a fucking icon of pain.
“Not everyone knows of me. No one here did. Now that’s all changed,” he said.
“Sorry for blowing up your spot.”
He took another sip of wine, finishing the contents of his glass. I poured him another. “It was bound to happen. I knew you'd find me sooner or later. I'm just glad it wasn't your father.”
I laughed at the thought of that. Two old school gangsters, fighting tooth and nail. Someone was bound to break a hip in that situation. “Or my brother. He's worse than any of ‘em.”
“So I've heard. I used to be pretty bad myself, you know.” The coffee machine stopped making noise and the smooth aroma of dirt coffee filled the room.