The mafia kings siren, p.1
The Mafia King's Siren, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2023 Beth D. Carter
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0826-3
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Lisa Petrocelli
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Thanks to Bryce and Lark for reading this story over and letting me know what worked and what didn’t.
THE MAFIA KING’S SIREN
Death Riders MC, 3
Beth D. Carter
Copyright © 2023
Chapter One
Damon walked into the seedy-looking jazz lounge with his consigliere, Massimo Giannelli, following behind him. Low lighting produced shadows through the club, providing intimate areas for patrons. Dark cloth draped over the small round tables, with a flickering candle alluding to the swank. Damon was not impressed. All the glitter did not hide the acrid smell of cigarettes in the air, or the low-class clientele drinking cheap liquor
Scantily dressed women wove around tables, bringing drinks and cheap appetizers. The sound of a roulette wheel and the roll of dice mingled with the melodic tune pouring from the piano on stage, setting the ambiance of the room. Dark, moody. It was a Casablanca joint with over-the-top clichés.
“I don’t like the feel of this place,” Massimo muttered. He looked up toward the ceiling. “Catwalks up there to ambush us. You should’ve allowed me to bring more men.”
“More men would only create more tension,” Damon pointed out. “Besides, you don’t like anything.”
“Not true.”
“Really? Tell me one thing you like.” Damon held up a finger. “It can’t be killing.”
“But it is killing.”
Damon threw him a smirk.
Massimo snapped his fingers. “Okay, there is one other thing. Root beer floats.”
“Seriously? What are you? Five?”
“With anisette in it.”
Damon couldn’t keep the disgust off his face. “I’m pretty sure that’s the most disgusting thing I’ve heard.”
Massimo shrugged. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Damon rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the club. “I didn’t want more men with us because I want this to be a smooth transition of power. The McKeighan line is dead. No reason to beat that dead horse any harder.”
Massimo snorted. “That’s a terrible analogy.”
Damon shrugged. He didn’t need to say any more on the issue. He may call Massimo his consigliere, but he was certainly more than just an advisor. A few in his organization had asked for an underboss, someone to help carry out his orders, but the truth was he didn’t trust anyone else. Massimo had been by his side since they were kids. He’d even stood by him when Damon had put a bullet in his own father’s brain. He’d offered Massimo the position of underboss, but he’d declined, saying his place was by his side. Secretly, Damon was glad of his choice.
“Why are we here again?” Massimo asked.
“We’re here to make sure the owner of this fine establishment doesn’t give me trouble when we take over the streets.”
A woman came forward, wearing a formfitting red dress, hair upswept to emphasize the slim column of her neck. Her gaze swept over him and he swore dollar signs reflected back.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted, her voice raspy like she was personally responsible for the stench of old, bitter tobacco. “Welcome to O’Shannon’s. I have a perfect table down front to enjoy the entertainment.”
“No, thank you,” Damon said. “We’re here to see Patrick O’Shannon. Tell him Damon Barese wishes to talk.”
Name recognition dawned on her carefully made-up face, but the plastic smile never wavered. “He’s not here at the moment.”
Damon narrowed his gaze. His voice cold and biting. “Then I suggest you find him and get him here.”
Fear crept into her gaze. Yes, she knew who he was, and if she’d ask, he would confirm all rumors were true. Which they were. He wasn’t the type of capocrimini who sat on a couch while his men followed his orders. If there was killing to be done, he’d do it. If it involved torture, all the better. He relished the power his name held, and the fear in this woman’s eyes fed the beast inside.
“Certainly,” she said quickly. Her hand shook slightly as she gestured toward the stage. “Right this way, please. Might as well enjoy the music while you wait.”
With a slight nod Damon let her lead the way. True to her word, she escorted them to a table in front, but off to the side. He and Massimo moved their chairs so their backs were to the wall and they could stare down anyone stupid enough to approach the table.
“First drink is on the house,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“Do you have anisette?” Massimo asked. Damon kicked him under the table.
“Um, no. I’m afraid not.”
“A bottle of beer,” Damon said.
“Unopened.” Massimo held up two fingers.
The woman gave a nod and walked off.
“I think I’ll call her Dragon Lady,” Massimo mused. “Didn’t she look like a dragon? Certainly sounded like one.”
Damon shrugged, not bothering to answer. He was too busy scanning the room to see if they were going to have trouble. Most of the people didn’t even glance his way.
Patrick O’Shannon was the last big voice of the McKeighan Clan and Damon wanted to make sure the man wasn’t planning to cause problems. The way he figured, he and O’Shannon could have a very lucrative agreement when his product hit the streets.
Dragon Lady gave them their beers and laid a bottle opener on the table. Massimo opened them and handed Damon one just as the lights dimmed. A spotlight lit up the stage and a woman stepped though the curtains to take up residence in front of the mic. Long black hair rippled down her back, swept off her face with a sparkling diamond clip. Ruby-red lips formed a perfect cupid’s bow. The white silk dress she wore molded to her body like a second skin, showing off her perfect cleavage and narrow waist. White gloves encased her delicate arms up to her elbow. Damon halted his beer halfway to his lips, unable to tear his gaze off the vision.
The piano started up a bluesy number and she came in a heartbeat later. Her voice was low, melodic. The slightly husky cadence shot straight through him like a dart. She sang about lost love and heartache. How her man betrayed her. Even though it was just a song, Damon had the overwhelming urge to tear out every man’s eye in the place so they wouldn’t be able to look at her. His reaction was primal and it made no fucking sense. In his world, beautiful women were a dime a dozen, and he’d lusted after many. But this was … something different. Something more than just lust.
The song ended and a smattering of applause broke his fixation. The woman seemed to not care for her audience. She stared straight ahead, not even blinking. Her singing was more robotic than passionate. She launched into the next song, and each note went straight through him. A thousand tiny caresses sliding over his skin. It wasn’t just the fact that she was alluring. Wasn’t just that she was sexy as hell. Something grabbed hold of him, and Damon decided then and there that he had to have her.
After her set ended, the spotlight went off, and the lighting came back up. She turned, and for a split-second their gazes locked. Eyes the color of honey-gold whiskey stared vacantly at him. No warmth. No life. An emotionless doll that ignored the catcalls for more. She turned away and left the stage, not even giving a wave or smile to the crowd. She didn’t give him a second glance.
“She’s a pretty one,” Massimo commented.
Her exit from the stage released him from her spell. Damon took a drink of the beer he’d almost forgotten about.
“She’s gorgeous,” he corrected. “I want her.”
“Consider it done.”
Massimo would do what he wanted, just like always, because Damon was used to getting his way. He ran his borgata with a ruthless determination that served him well, and now he wanted her.
Massimo’s knee nudged his leg and Damon looked up to see a tall, well-groomed man heading in their direction. He had the kind of spit polish that one associated with a jazz joint. Hair slicked down. A pencil-thin mustache over his top lip. Everything reeked of Tin Pan Alley, even down to his wing-tipped shoes.
Behind him lurked a rough-looking bodyguard. The furrowed brow, cauliflower ears, and stocky bulk alluded to a fierce bulldog of a man. A boxer, more than likely. Definitely the brawn of the duo.
“Mr. Barese,” the man said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Patrick O’Shannon. This is my associate, Brutus. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Came to have a beer,” Damon replied. He nodded to the stage. “And take in the entertainment.”
“My hostess said you wanted to meet with me.”
“Sit,” Massimo said, gesturing to a chair. “Mr. Barese would like a word.”
O’Shannon frowned, but he obeyed. Brutus came to stand behind him. “I take it this is not a friendly visit in the neighborhood.”
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/> Damon laid his left hand on the table. The signet ring, with the McKeighan crest on his pinkie finger gave a muffled clatter on the cloth. He studied Patrick’s face as he recognized the implication, and Damon knew right then and there he was going to have a problem.
“Where did you get that?” Patrick finally asked.
“It was given to me by Allyson McKeighan,” Damon replied. “She’s relinquished all control of her father’s territory to me.”
“She can’t do that.”
“Technically, she can and she did. With no male offspring to carry on the McKeighan name, and no husband to lay claim, leadership fell to her. She had no wish to continue with the … family business … and decided to cut ties.”
“To you?”
“I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”
Anger burned in Patrick’s eyes. “I bet. Doesn’t matter. Not one man with Irish blood in his veins would ever follow a Sicilian dog.”
Damon didn’t react. He learned long ago, when dealing with stubborn assholes, it was best to let them think they were in control. It made snapping the trap behind them far more enjoyable.
“What if I made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
Patrick’s gaze narrowed. “Are you going to kill me too?”
“I have no need for that route because I think we can make a lot of money between us.”
Interest flashed over his face and Patrick relaxed a fraction. Money had a way of turning even the most loyal heart.
“A business arrangement?”
Damon shrugged. “Only if you’re interested. I think reasonable men can always come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
“What type of business proposal are you suggesting?”
“You know these streets like the back of your hand,” Damon said, further fluffing his ego. “From everyone I’ve talked to, they reported you were the person who made Martin McKeighan successful. Who built him up into the leader he became. I’ve heard that without you, well, the business wouldn’t have been as lucrative as it was.”
Patrick cocked his head, staring intently. “You’ve heard all that?”
“Would you say that’s a fair report?”
“Martin McKeighan was a smart man,” Patrick said, ignoring the question. “He was a good man. His brother Bruno … not so much. Many around here didn’t like him at all. I hope your informants got that part right.”
“Bruno McKeighan was a fucking asshole,” Damon said bluntly. “He killed his brother. Tried to kill his niece. The bastard even killed his own son, although from what I learned that wasn’t such a bad thing.”
Patrick snorted his agreement.
“I put a bullet in Bruno’s head to save Allyson. She gave me the McKeighan Clan in gratitude. Now, I see the potential for a lucrative payday.” Damon held up his hand when Patrick opened his mouth. “But only if we play nice together.”
O’Shannon stared at him for a moment. “What type of business arrangement are you talking about?”
“My product. Your influence. And, of course, the Barese name for protection.”
“For a price.”
Damon inclined his head, not needing to clarify that one at all. Other lesser crime families were always trying to muscle into territory. Case in point, the McKeighan Clan. The Mississippi River was a prime way to move cargo and the Irish Mob had tried to gain a foothold in the southern part of Barese territory. They wouldn’t be the first, and they wouldn’t be the last, but Damon had won.
He always won.
At that moment, the lights dimmed again and the spotlight came on. Damon wanted to finish the meeting with Patrick, but he also wanted to see her again. She stepped back out and took up her place, once more, in front of the mic. Like before, she didn’t look around. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t do anything a normal lounge singer would’ve done to engage the audience. In fact, the only emotion she had was when she caught a glimpse of Patrick O’Shannon. For a brief moment, the space between heartbeats, Damon saw hatred and fear before she managed to mask it. She turned back to the crowd and sang.
“Isn’t she magnificent?”
Damon tore his gaze off her to glance at Patrick. The man had a cold, calculating smile on his face.
“Does she belong to you?”
If he said yes, there was no hope for Patrick O’Shannon. Damon was ready to kill every last Irish bastard for her. He’d sink this tentative business arrangement faster than the Lusitania going under.
“Zaylah is my employee, and I never mix business with pleasure.” Patrick gave him a smug grin. “But, as a good faith gesture, I’m willing to lend her to you.”
Damon narrowed his gaze. “She’s your whore?”
“She’s whatever I tell her to be. Do you wish to meet her?”
Damon knew he was being baited. The woman was a worm on a hook and nothing more. Yet he couldn’t walk away from the temptation to touch her at least once. He had told Massimo he wanted her, and now it seemed he was going to get her faster than he anticipated. Once they were alone, he would find out why she was with O’Shannon.
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” Patrick said with a satisfied smile. “I’ll consider her a down payment on our new business endeavor. This is her last set. I’ll send her to you when she’s done.”
He stood, gave a courteous nod of goodbye, then walked away with his nose in the air like he was some damn peacock leading a parade. Brutus followed behind like a dutiful shadow.
“I don’t like that man.”
“We’ve already established you don’t like anything except disgusting food combinations.” He turned back to watch Zaylah, anticipation tightening in his gut. “However, I don’t like him either. Something’s not right and I intend to figure it out.”
Chapter Two
Zaylah stepped out of her white silk gown and dressed in a more comfortable blouse and skirt. Then she sat in front of her mirror to remove the heavy makeup she had slathered on for her performance. She used makeup as a shield, separating her real self from the woman Patrick turned her into. Yet each night, more and more, a stranger stared back. Self-loathing grew stronger every day. A black hole that slowly consumed any shred of light in her dark, bleak world. Night after night she stood on the stage and sang, hating every single moment. Wishing she had the courage to pick up a weapon and kill Patrick O’Shannon for what she’d become.
The door opened and the devil walked in.
“I have someone who wants to meet you...”
Bile churned in her gut.
“He’s sitting at table four.”
She wished she could punch the smirk right off his face. Or kick him in the balls, if he had any. But she was loathe to take on his pit bull, Brutus, so she kept her thoughts to herself. The reality of having sex with another one of Patrick’s associates made her want to vomit, but that wouldn’t help her in the slightest. He expected her to please his special guests with whatever request was asked. Selling her body, even though it horrified and disgusted her.
“But I don’t want to meet him,” she whispered. Even knowing the consequences, she had to protest. She had to try. “Arrangement implies that I want the attention of your clients.”
Patrick stepped into the small dressing room. Brutus waited at the door. Fear paralyzed her as he sidled up to her and grabbed her chin. “Are you reneging on our arrangement?”
She tried to move away, but his fingers tightened, digging into the underside of her jaw. Pain erupted, making her eyes water.
“Let go,” she whispered. It was hard to talk through the agony.
Tears gathered in her eyes and trickled down her face, but he didn’t release her. She grabbed his wrist in an effort to force him to let her go.
“Your sister will pay the price of your disobedience.”
A new type of fear rushed through her, sharper than the pain slicing up through her jaw. He had threatened before, of course, which was why he could manipulate her. He never made idle threats.
