Beware the Beast (Mafia Soldiers Book 2) Read online

  Beware the Beast

  Mafia Soldiers Book Two

  Samantha Cade

  ‘Beware the Beast’ Copyright Samantha Cade 2018

  All Rights Reserved

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  “I want to eat the sunbeam burnt in your beauty,

  the sovereign nose of the arrogant face,

  I want to eat the fleeting shadow of your lashes

  and hungry I come and go sniffing the twilight

  looking for you, looking for your hot heart

  like a puma in the solitude of Quitratue.”

  -Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

  Chapter One

  Olivia

  The pounding behind my eyes rouses me awake. I grimace, massaging my temples. How much did I have to drink last night? I sit up slowly in bed. A slight pang of nausea shoots up my throat, but it’s nothing compared to this headache. I try to remember the bar last night. But the memories come in hazy snippets. I remember a bottle of tequila. That was probably the culprit.

  My eyes are still closed. It’s sunny. The light is filtered through my eyelids. I clench my eyes shut to avoid the full force of it. I immediately think of my dissertation. I’d planned to get to the library at seven am sharp. It’s probably much later than that. Why had I decided to go to the bar last night?

  I reach out towards my nightstand to grab my phone. All I feel is air. I open my eyes, and look down at my hand, suspended from the side of the bed. My mind goes blank as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. There’s no phone, no nightstand. This is not the carpeted floor from my bedroom. Those are not my pale yellow walls.

  I don’t recognize this room.

  Where am I?

  Fear throbs at the base of my spine. The headache takes a backseat to more important priorities. I sit straight up, fully awake. There’s a quiet voice in the back of my head, telling me that something is very, very wrong. But I’m not ready to listen to it yet.

  There has to be a logical explanation. As I examine this strange room, I try to think of one. Did I meet a guy at the bar? Did I go home with him? Is this his place? I tug at my hair, trying to remember. I conjure an image of a guy at the bar. I remember talking to him for awhile, and dancing with him.

  I stand up so quickly my head spins, throwing me off balance for a second. Gripping the edge of the bed, I survey the floor. My purse is nowhere to be found, neither are my car keys, or phone. All I have is the clothes on my back. My breath comes quick and shallow, making me even more lightheaded.

  Don’t panic.

  I take a deep breath, swallow down the burgeoning nausea, and force myself to my feet. My eyes are on the door. I’m a little apprehensive about what I’ll find out there, who’s waiting for me.

  Probably just a drunken hookup. It’ll be a little awkward. But I need to get out of here so I can get to the library.

  I try to open the door. It doesn’t budge.

  It’s stuck, I tell myself, still trying to quell the panic. It must be old. Warped wood or something.

  I push harder. It doesn’t open. I try again and again.

  The door isn’t stuck. It feels like there are thick, steel locks holding it shut. I’m locked in here. I shake my head. No. No. This isn’t happening. This is dream.

  I close my eyes, then open them. The white painted door is still there. I dig my fingernails into my palms. I pinch the soft flesh at the back of my arm. I jump up and down. I don’t wake up.

  My chest constricts suddenly. I can barely breathe. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I bang my fists against the door frantically. I open my mouth and scream. I scream until the headache comes back.

  I fall silent, and listen. Nothing’s there.

  The fear has made me wild, feral. I scan the room quickly. There’s a window over the bed. I hop up on the mattress and try to force it open. I push so hard, beads of sweat form on my forehead. I almost rip my fingertips apart. But the window doesn’t move, not an inch.

  Still in survival mode, I fall back on the bed, trying to think. My eyes dart from the door, to the window, and back again. Those are the only portals to the outside world, and they’re closed up tight.

  My panicked breath echoes in my ear. My heart pounds so wildly I feel the rhythm through my entire body. It’s a wild feeling I’ve never felt before, the feeling of being trapped. I hug my knees into my chest, blinking numbly at the unfamiliar bedspread. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like me. It makes no sense. I shake my head, trying to process the sheer absurdity of it all.

  I hear something, or at least, I think I do. I quiet my breath and listen. Thump, thump, thump. Footsteps, and the groaning of the floor beneath them. They are slow and deliberate, coming closer and closer, until they stop in front of the door. I jump from the bed, and huddle in the farthest corner of the room. I don’t know what else to do.

  I count three heavy clunks as the locks are undone, one by one. I’m trembling, but my focus is sharp. I don’t blink. The door creaks open.

  There’s a man. He’s tall, well of over six feet. His broad shoulders fill the width of the door. In my terror, I wonder if he’ll be able to fit through. He’s holding a tray of food. I blink up to his face, and gasp with recognition.

  It’s not the guy I was dancing with last night.

  It’s the beast.

  Chapter Two

  Bruno

  (One Week Earlier)

  Another night, another face to pound.

  I’ve done this so much, I don’t even get the rush of adrenaline anymore. It used to be a nice, quick high, a little perk that made the job worth doing. But no, I can’t even have that fucking pleasure any more.

  I used to feel sorry for whatever poor asshole fell in the crosshairs of the Mariano Family. With each punch I felt a little of his pain. But I eventually became desensitized to that too. These days, I barely see their face. I could give a fuck who they are, or what they did. I just do my job. And bags of flesh feel pretty similar to punching bags any way, just noisier.

  It’s nighttime, well after midnight. We’re deep in Koreatown, not the part the tourists and foodies see. This place is darker, with shady shit going down around every corner. This is my work environment. This is where I thrive.

  This isn’t the place you want to be after sundown unless you’re a guy like me, or Anthony, the Mariano soldier I’m riding with tonight. Anthony’s strapped, quick to shoot, and has about as much compassion as a fucking apple. I never carry. I’m not a gun guy. I’m more of a ‘tear them apart with my bare hands’ kind of guy. It’s much more satisfying, even without the adrenaline fueled kill high.

  We turn down a dark alley and come to the stained, green door. I’ve been to this door many times before, either to pick up cash or provide protection for the illegal card club that’s housed here. But I’ve never had to beat it down before.

  The guy in charge here is a good guy. He runs a clean club, and is rarely late on payments. He’s got some complicated Korean name that no one can pronounce, so we just call him Will.

  A few months ago, his payments started coming in later and later, and the most recent one never came at all. That means Will’s number’s up.

  Anthony gives me the signal. I deliver a powerful kick right to the middle of the door. It cracks a little, so I kick it again, this time splitting it in half and knocking it off the door frame.

  There’s no game tonight, so the place is empty. Anthony and I show ourselves inside. There’s a rustling, scuttling noise from the back room where Will liv
es. He appears in the darkness wearing pajama pants and a white tank top. He throws his hands up defensively and moves towards us.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Will says, nervously. “Please. Go.”

  A gray cat darts out of the hallway and brushes between Will’s legs. Will bends down protectively. I should kick this fucking cat across the room just to see the look on his face. But I don’t. Even I have to admit the little fucker is kind of cute.

  “Where’s the money, Will?” Anthony says.

  Will pats the cat on the ass, shooing it back down the hallway. “Please, I can explain.”

  Anthony smirks at me, then pulls his gun out of the holster. “I didn’t ask for a fucking explanation, now did I?”

  Anthony looks at me, and jerks his head towards Will, who’s still crouched on the floor. I move towards him. His head cranes back, looking up at me as I get closer. I grab the back of his shirt, and easily lift him to his feet. I get a grip on the back of his neck, then slam his head down on a nearby table. I press my forearm under his jawbone, holding him there.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time,” Anthony says. He presses the barrel of the gun into Will’s forehead and cocks it with a click. Will shakes under my arm. “Where’s my fucking money?”

  “I can’t afford to pay you,” Will chokes out.

  “Now, that’s just poor money management,” Anthony says. He nods at me again. I press harder against Will’s neck, making him cough and gasp.

  “The Lombardi’s,” Will croaks.

  Anthony signals for me to ease up, which I do.

  “What about the Lombardi’s?” Anthony asks.

  “I’m getting protection from them now,” Will says. “They threatened me. I had no choice.”

  Anthony’s eyes meet mine. The fucking Lombardi’s. This isn’t good. Koreatown is firmly Mariano territory. The Lombardi’s are making a big move here.

  “I see,” Anthony says. “I tell you what, we’ll straighten this little problem out for you. How about that?”

  Will nods, catching his breath. “That’s good.”

  “We just want satisfied customers,” Anthony says. “And we’ll only charge you a full payment and a half for our extra effort. Of course, that’s on top of your back payments, and late fees.”

  “That’s more than fair,” Will says.

  “I’m glad we could make peace here,” Anthony says. “Bruno, let the guy go. Have a good evening, Will. We’ll be in touch.”

  Will glares at me as I remove my forearm from his neck.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I say, patting him heartily on the back.

  Will looks past me to the door that Anthony just walked out of, then squints at me. “I never had any problem with you, Beast.”

  “No hard feelings here, Will,” I say, shrugging. “Just doing my job. You understand.”

  Will’s eyes go dark. “I understand. The Mariano’s pet gorilla.”

  I don’t usually go off script, but that one fucking stung. I know Will’s referring to the fact that despite almost a decade of loyal service, I haven’t been made by the Mariano’s yet.

  “Yo, Bruno, let’s go,” Anthony calls from the alley. “Leave the man in peace. We’re done here.”

  I look at Will with a low, short laugh, and turn around like I’m leaving. But at the last second, I whip around, grab the back of his neck, and smash his head into the table again, this time nose first.

  *

  We meet up with Snake back at the concrete shop to tell him what happened. Snake sits at Monty’s old desk with his hands in front of his face, listening. Our new capo has a few new lines around his eyes, and gray hairs around his temple since taking office. After Anthony finishes talking, Snake drums his fingers on his desk.

  “The Lombardi’s are making a move on our territory,” Snake says. “What do they want? An all out war?”

  “They’ve been getting bolder ever since… you know.” I don’t have to finish. Everyone in the room knows I’m talking about when Snake put a bullet in Monty’s head. It had to be done. Monty was a traitor who severely fucked over the family. But having a soldier kill his capo has put the Mariano’s on shakier ground. Other families view that type of thing as a weakness. And in the mafia, weakness is opportunity.

  “I thought we were moving into cyber crime,” Anthony says. “Maybe the protection racket is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Snake shakes his head, staring numbly at his desk. “The cyber action is doing well, but it’s barely dragging the family out of the hole we were in. Street action is still a significant source of revenue. And we don’t leave money on the table.”

  Anthony shrugs. “So, what do we do? Walk into Lombardi headquarters and waste those assholes?”

  Snake gives him a warning look. “I need time to think, and consult with Franco.”

  Anthony nods. “While you do that, I’d like to get home to my wife and kids if that’s okay.”

  Snake flips his hand towards the door. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Anthony leaves. I stay where I am, looking down at Snake. He’s the head of this crew now, but to me, he’s still the same wild kid I knew back in our drug slinging days. I don’t leave because I have more to say to him. Snake’s silent, acting like I’m not even there. I lean down, towering over him. He’s my superior, but I could still kick his ass if I needed to.

  “So let me get this straight,” I say. “The protection racket is a significant source of revenue, and I’m the protector. Why aren’t I getting a bigger slice of the pie?”

  Snake leans back in his chair with a groan. “You know how it works. Associates don’t make commission. You get a flat rate, and that’s all.” He rubs his temples, trying to signal that he has bigger things to worry about. But fuck him. That gorilla comment is still in my head. I’ve been busting my ass for this family in the hopes of being a made man. I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.

  “How much longer do I have to prove myself to you?” I ask.

  “You know my hands are tied.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a capo now. You have pull.”

  Snake leans forward and looks me in the eye. “It’s not just me making that decision. It’s the boss, and the other capos too. A lot of the older guy’s have trouble getting over the past.”

  “The past has nothing to do with me.”

  “Maybe you don’t understand, Bruno. When your father ratted to the FBI, it was the biggest betrayal this family has ever experienced. Franco and the others are still rattled.”

  I lean down lower, closer to him. “I do understand. He’s not my father. I denounced him long ago. I’d spit on his grave everyday if I could be bothered to visit it.” I point at Snake, my finger right in his face. “You tell them that the next time you have a meeting.”

  Snake sneers, then grabs my finger, pushing it away from him. “I’m trying, Bruno, okay? And I promise, I’ll keep working on them. But for now, I have other things to think about. Fuck off and go home, will you?” He puts his hands to his face, leaning back in the chair. “Why you’d want this, I don’t fucking know. It’s nothing but stress.”

  My fingers tingle with the urge to punch his lights out. He thinks he has it so bad? He should try being in my shoes. Anytime someone’s flesh needs pounding, the Mariano’s call on me. But I’m not good enough to be made, all because of some mistake my father made decades ago. I know I won’t get anywhere further with Snake tonight. Maybe I should go home.

  “Get some sleep would you?” I say, walking out of the door. “You look like shit.” I don’t look, but I know Snake is flipping me off behind my back.

  Chapter Three

  Olivia

  It takes up an entire day when I visit my mom, a day that could be spent in the library working on my dissertation. A day lost. She lives an hour outside of LA, which makes no sense to me. When I got a scholarship to attend UCLA’s PhD program, Mom insisted on moving from the east coast to the west coas
t along with me, but she refused to live in the city. She tried to get me to move in with her, but that wasn’t happening.

  I fiddle with the radio, trying not to think about how much work I have to do, and trying not to feel the valuable time slipping through my fingers. These regular visits to Mom are the cost of doing business. If I miss one, she gets worried, more worried than usual. She’ll text and call constantly, distracting me from my studies. It’s better to show up once a week so she can see for herself that I’m alive and well than to deal with the bombardment of texts.

  I have to admit, it also makes me feel better. Mom is so paranoid, she often neglects simple things like grocery shopping or housecleaning. She’s always been that way, but it’s gotten much worse since we moved to California. That’s why I didn’t put up much of a fight when she wanted to move out here. She needs my help. I need to be close.

  The two bedroom house she rents is nestled on a quiet road that’s shrouded by old trees. When I pull up, I see her furtively checking out of the window to see who’s here. I’ve asked her many times before what she’s afraid of, and she never has a good answer. My theory is that she has an anxiety disorder, or PTSD triggered by my father’s sudden death when I was three years old.

  Mom greets me at the door. She looks visibly relieved to see me breathing.

  “Hey, M,” Mom says, hugging me warmly.

  She’s been calling me ‘M’ again since we changed coasts. It’s an old childhood nickname that she hasn’t used for years. The story of how I got it is that as a kid, I loved M&M’s, and for a while it’s all I would eat. It seems strange to me now, since I don’t much care for the candies, and don’t recall a time when I did.

  I kiss her lightly on the forehead and walk into the kitchen where I set the bags of groceries on the counter. Mom leans against the cabinets, scrutinizing every inch of me.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I say absentmindedly as I unpack the groceries.

  Mom squints at me. That response isn’t enough for her. It never is.