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There’s no story that Larry won’t go after for a big payday. I can almost hear his wheels spinning from here. This little action shot will get him and me a hell of a lot more than I used to make in a year. Why people always glamorize the ruthless mafia men is beyond me. Sure, they give to charities and help out with all kinds of local needs, but they’re thugs. Nothing less, nothing more, no matter how they want to salve their dirty consciences.
Just the same as my old man. No one is above the law, no matter how many Armani suits, Lincoln Town cars, and SUVs these fuckers have. If exposing them for who they are inflates my bank account, so be it.
“Great job, Izzy. What did we ever do without you?”
I pull back onto the main drag, driving carefully through the congestion of cars and foot traffic in case someone steps onto the street or stops suddenly ahead of me as they try to get a better look at some flashy thing on the strip. “You did just fine without me, Larry. Look at the great business you built. I just appreciate the chance to work on some real stories, knowing that you’ll buy them first and have buyers for the images when we’re through.”
“How about we sell this one for exclusivity rights?”
My eyes roll. Same conversation, different day. “I get to tell the real story first. After that, it doesn’t matter to me what mag they end up in or what they do with it. No exclusivity, only second rights,” I remind him.
“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart. I know the drill. You know your cut and the bonuses would be a hell of a lot better if you let me sell the content my way? The mags out there are cutthroat; everyone’s trying to outsell the others, and they can’t do that unless they get a juicy story the others don’t have. We get a fraction of what your stories are worth doing it your way.”
He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t matter. “Can’t do it, Larry. There’s got to be ethics left in some of us reporters, right? The story gets told the way it really happened. If, after that, they want to use it and put their own spin on it, so be it, but the no exclusivities part of my freelance contract stands.”
He doesn’t have to say anything. The silent disapproval says it all. It hasn’t changed in almost a year, and I doubt it ever will.
I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s late, but not that late. “I’m heading home. I need a shower and something to eat. I’ll get started on the story after that. If you want to line up your contacts, I’ll have it finished tonight.”
He laughs. “My contacts are all chomping at the bit to get the Larussios and De Rosas on their front pages. Whether you like it or not, your mafia boys sell stories. The young housewives idolize those fuckers. Don’t ask me why.”
I should have known he’d have sold a placeholder for anything I could drudge up on the Larussios. The stories sell too hot not to have a fish on the hook. I should cut the guy some slack though because, slippery or not, I really do like working with him. “Thanks, Larry. Flattery will get you everywhere, especially after a long day like today. The change from working on everyone’s leftovers to selling my work to you was a good one. I like being able to dig into things people don’t want us to see. Just make sure I get to tell the true version and then they can use the image and write whatever the hell they want.”
“Good. So we’re all happy and kumbaya and shit. Now get your ass home and write me that story,” Larry says.
My eyes roll. "I'll text you when I get done and send it over." I disconnect still deep in thought, heading toward the outskirts of the city. I hit the garage door opener as my two-story home comes into sight. The classic white stucco, red tiled roof, backyard swimming pool, and desert landscape all part of the appeal of moving to the desert. A city where you can get lost digging up the dirt on others at night while hiding out from your own in the middle of suburbia during the day.
A win-win for everyone, especially me. Especially when someone in one of the top positions in a Sicilian crime family already knows your name after a couple small articles referencing them. If he’s sore at me now, wait until he sees what’s coming next.
It’s going to take more than just being home to calm the adrenaline running through my body after meeting Lorenzo up close and personal in the elevator. I go into my kitchen through the garage and toss my keys on the dark green granite countertop. I pull a bottle of wine from the fridge and pour myself a generous glass.
I take it with me to my bedroom, glancing out the French-style doors to the lit-up backyard and kidney shaped pool beyond, wishing there was time to go for a swim and work some of this nervous energy from my system. Instead, I dump my purse on the lavender duvet on the whitewashed oak queen-sized bed. My cell rings from my purse, but right now all I want is a hot shower and something to eat, so I let it go to voicemail.
His face was so close that I could smell the minty scent of his mouth, the fresh scent of his soap. My nipples pebble as the gentle spray of the shower runs over them, and I recall every detail about him. The lush, dark wavy hair, deep brown eyes that look like they can see right through you.
The loofah runs over my body, stimulating the tiny nerves at the surface. There’s no denying how good he looks with all that panther-like muscle underneath those expensive suits. I swallow hard, acknowledging the physical attraction, and finish showering to wash the very last remnants of my encounter with Lorenzo Larussio from my mind.
I wrap myself in a long robe and towel dry my hair before shaking it free with my fingers to air dry. My cell rings again and I groan, fully intending to switch it to silent mode, at least until I’ve finished this story tonight.
Everyone wants to text or for you to answer their question instantly. I head into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat and scowl at the number of missed calls before checking voicemail. If it’s not important enough to leave a message, then it’s not important enough for me to call you back.
I make myself a large turkey and Swiss sandwich before heading to my office. I slide behind the sleek black desk and insert the flash drive into my laptop, watching the sheen of the bright blue pool in the backyard while waiting for it to load. The image of Dominic Larussio and Emelia De Rosa kissing comes onto the screen.
This town hasn't been the same since the Larussios came parading through in their fancy black Cadillacs and SUVs. First the shoot-out at Giovanni’s wedding, then the bloodbath at the De Rosa mansion. Don’t tell me that wasn’t pure calculated retaliation, yet not one word of mafia affiliation in the papers.
Somebody either got paid to cover it up, or there wasn’t a body left alive to talk about it.
My fingers begin flying over the keyboard because writing about these forbidden lovers is a great segue into the dirty lives of the mafia crime family.
Lorenzo Larussio doesn’t want me anywhere near the family casino. I wonder how he’ll feel when I show up at the funeral of all his dead cousins on Sunday?
Chapter3
Lorenzo
I adjustmy tie in the dresser mirror, put in my cuff links, and head into the living room. The Vegas sun shines into the spacious living room through the glass double doors that lead out to the balcony of the penthouse.
The newspaper and entertainment mags strewn across the table with Dominic and Emelia’s faces plastered across them are a stark reminder that we can’t be too careful today. Those pictures had to have been like throwing gasoline onto a smoldering fire to the De Rosas. And today, we need to be more cautious than ever.
