Page 11 of Mafia Handbook

Gaining his composure, Bash tucked himself back into his jeans, pushing his chair far enough to maneuver around Gretchen and headed to the bathroom. Once inside, he turned on the tap, leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water over his face several times. Shifting his focus to the reflection in the mirror, “What in the fuck was that?” He questioned the green eyes staring back at him. He’d had sex more times than he could count and he’d never come like that before

Twisting the water off, Bash reached to his left for a handful of paper towels, running the rough paper down his face. It’s your bruised ego, man. Find this Gridlock motherfucker and get your shit together. He thought to himself, tossing the paper towel into the trash before wrenching the door open.

Stepping in the hall, Bash recognized faint voices echoing down the hall, inspiring him to quicken his pace.

Entering the main room, Bash took note of how Gretchen was thankfully dressed as she shook the hand of his coworker, Jamisson. The fact of her tits being in his face didn't get by him either.

“It was so nice to finally meet you,” Gretchen gently shook Jamisson’s hand. Having only dealt with him over the phone, she was pleased to see he was as handsome and single as Sebastian.

“You as well, thanks for getting those greedy bastards to come down on the price.” Jamisson’s skin crawled as he shook Gretchen’s hand. He was surprised to find the smell of sex and sugar when he entered the room, until he saw the woman before him zipping her skirt.

Keeping a grip on Jamisson’s large hand, the fantasy of feeling those fingers buried inside of her took shape. “Can I take you to dinner, celebrate your new venture?”

“Not tonight.” Locking gazes with Jamisson, Bash rounded his desk.

“How about drinks then? I have an impressive whiskey collection.”

“Well take a raincheck, Ms. Lewis.” Jamisson could feel the tension rolling off Bash, an odd situation given the still lingering hormones in the air.

“Very well.” Dropping Jamisson’s hand, Gretchen moved to gather her purse, sending Sebastian a wink and an air kiss. “But I will collect on the raincheck.”

Jamisson watched the sway of Gretchen’s hips as she strode out of the room and down the hall before rounding on Bash.

“You look like shit.”

“Fuck you very much,” Bash dropped his tired body into the chair, balancing the heel of his boots on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t sleep last night.”

Tossing his thumb over his shoulder, a cheeky smile coating his lips. “From the look of her tight ass, I wouldn't have either.”

“Funny,” Bash deadpanned. “No, it's a case a friend had me look at.”

“Is she hot?” Jamisson wiggled his eyebrows, having spoken with Wizard on his way over this morning. He knew all about Milena Rossi, and the shit-show her life had become.

“No,” Bash lied, dropping his gaze to the scuff marks on his black boots.

“Liar.” Jamisson knew Bash better than he knew himself. He was an all-around good guy, just had a few issues he refused to work out, which incidentally made him perfect for this team. “You get more ass tossed at you than a roll of toilet paper.”

Bash couldn't argue, he enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. “I need to talk with you about this case.”

Crossing the room, Jamisson lifted the lid of the box in the center of Bash’s desk, taking the first donut his fingers landed on. “You mean Frank Rossi’s daughter?”

“How did…?” Bash trailed off in confusion before the answer slammed into his head. “Motherfucking Wizard.”

Resting his hip on the corner of Bash’s desk, “Come on, Bash. You know nothing happens in our circle without me knowing about it.”

Nodding his head, Bash turned to look at the Sunnyville skyline. “I want to take on this case pro bono.”

“Good thing,” Jamisson bit the donut in half. “Because Milena doesn't have two nickels to rub together.”

Snapping his gaze to Jamisson, Bash opened his mouth to argue he’d pay the fee when Jamisson held up his hand.

“Two things before I let you run with this.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bash waited for the inevitable shoe to drop.

“First, I want you to clear this with the team. You may have balls bigger than you should, but they need to know the kind of hell an asshole like Frank Rossi can rain down on us.”

“And the second?”

Frank Rossi was the stereotypical mob boss who’d sat back and became rich off the money he’d stolen from the hard-working people who lived in fear of him. He, as Bash believed, was nothing more than a school yard bully, who needed to be taken down a peg or two.

Tossing the remaining half of the donut into the trash, Jamisson wiped the glaze from his fingers. “Tell me this is about you being a good guy and not feeding your fucking ego of being the best.”

“You said it yourself, Slate,” tossing Jamisson’s call-sign into the conversation, hoping he understood the severity. “She doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. If I can help her get back on her feet,” Bash shrugged, leaving the answer open-ended.

“Fine,” Jamison pushed off the desk. “But keep the receipts, I’ll have the accountants figure out a way to claim it on the fucking taxes.”

Bash waited until Jamisson disappeared down the hall before pulling his phone from his pocket. Dialing the number he knew by heart, he swiveled in his chair, allowing his gaze to drift back to the busy city outside his window.

“Hey, it’s Sebastian. Can we meet someplace and talk?”

---