Page 4 of Dangerous Secrets

“Sorry for the bumpy ride, Dad,” I tell him, gripping his knee. He sits in the front seat next to me, mostly reclined. His words are barely audible, but he thanks me for giving him one more chance to see Matty in case something goes wrong.

It’s a pain in the ass to get him into a wheelchair, and Dominic has to come out and help me lift him up the steps to his front door. After that it’s smooth sailing. It’s all a lot of work but it’s a small price to pay for the man who gave me life and who leaves us all this huge legacy. They are large shoes to fill, and when he goes, I don’t know how we’ll cope, but we’ll keep the family running strong.

I push him down the hallway to where Matty lays sleeping. The same chirp of his machines tells me his heart is still beating strongly. The nurses come in and bustle around, setting up Dad’s IV cart to hold the myriad of bags of liquid that he is constantly hooked to. When they are finished, and the activity in the room calms, I pull up a chair and sit next to him, watching Matty’s chest rise and fall. It’s a familiar position I take up regularly, either at Dad’s side or my brother’s now.

“He’s not so good.” Dad’s voice is hoarse, likely from coughing fits and intubation. It’s hard on him being crated across town, but I know he appreciates this more than he will ever let on.

“Brewster did everything he could. Now we wait.” I fold my hands in front of me and rest my elbows on my knees. It’s hard to watch someone you love just to lie there suffering. If I could take their pain and carry it myself, I would.

“Life is so short—” Coughs overtake him, cutting him off. A nurse is there instantly with a white cloth to cover his mouth. When she pulls it away it’s speckled in blood. He takes a deep rasping breath and closes his eyes slowly, then opens them. “Don’t wait… to make… hard choices…”

I’m not sure what that means. I’m not waiting to make any choice. As soon as I see that bastard L’ombra and know with finality that I have the man who is responsible for Matty’s shooting and the deaths of so many of our soldiers, I will pull that trigger without hesitation or remorse. No choice about it. But I listen to him intently because he is my father, and because everything I know I learned from him.

“Love…. makes you weak, Roman.” I’ve never seen him struggle for breath so badly, and it gives me so much compassion for him. “And this woman, the Moretti girl, you need to be careful.” There is more coughing. I want to tell him not to speak, to save his breath for someone worthy of this wisdom, because God knows I will make mistakes and never live up to him. “Vet her carefully. You know she is Italian. Focus… on your job.”

Focus on my job… that’s what I need to do. But that doesn’t mean I have to give up Bianca. I just have to kill this assassin first. Then nothing will keep me from her.

4

BIANCA

Idab a bit of blush on my glistening cheeks. The crowd at the Stiletto is soaking up everything I do tonight, though I haven’t seen Roman yet. He doesn’t always come, especially when I sing here, and given that it’s a family-owned business, I understand. Any Russian who walks into this place is suspect and vulnerable. But he’s my mark, and I’ve made it clear to everyone that it will be my hand that takes him out in a way only I can plan.

The lights around this mirror are blistering. Someone needs to tell their stage director that if he wants my makeup to look right, he needs to give me lights that don’t make me sweat the way the spotlight does. It’s hard to find good help these days, and I’d fire the man and hire someone else myself if it were my job, but it isn't. I have to put up with whomever my brothers hire.

“It’s time,” a woman says as she enters my dressing room. Here I have to share with a few other singers because I am just a fill in. Not like at Flatiron where I am the singer, the one folks come to see. Here I blend in with the crowd and it’s for a good reason. My brothers won’t draw attention to their business by advertising my name.

I rise and adjust the bodice of my red, scoop-neck dress. The shoulders have black feathers dancing off them, a trail of black beads decorating the neckline. I wear a matching headpiece that frames in my face and crowns my head with more red and black feathers. It’s not my style, but it fits the theme of tonight’s Broadway songs. I’m good enough for Broadway, just not desperate enough to stoop to some other man’s standards for what I should sing and wear—well, any man other than Mickey.

“How are the tips?” I ask the other woman who shrugs and tosses her hair piece into a laundry bin to be washed. I have one last look over my makeup and turn and walk toward her. She hands me the mic.

“They’re mostly dried up, but there is a table with a new guy and another couple of men by the bar just came in. They look ready to pay up.”

She begins to peel her costume off as she talks and I turn toward the door, hoping one of those men is Rome. After the lecture I got from Tony last week, I know I need to begin to step up my game. It’s only a matter of time before I find the way to do what I’d like to do—take them all out at once—and Rome is my ticket to that. Why? Because I have him wrapped around my finger.

More than eight weeks ago he came backstage to visit me with a “gift.” Ben let him see me after I told him it was okay. He’d been coming to my shows for months anyway and after being tasked with taking him out, I thought it harmless—beneficial even. So, I allowed him to visit which led to some very kinky sex talk, which in turn led to him fucking me over my vanity while I watched in the mirror. Since then, we’ve had an understanding.

I walk out into the wings and wait for the stage manager to announce me. The din of piano and saxophone fills the air and I take flight, belting out my melodies to a cheer from the crowd. Before I’m even on stage, flowers are being thrown. My last song of the night is off to an excellent start as I step out into the blinding spotlight and make my way to each blue X marked on the stage. My hips turn and dip, my arms sway and I caress my body in a seductive pattern.

Only after I step off the stage onto the short blue carpet do I see the chiseled jawline I recognize so clearly. Rome is seated front and center, hand wrapped around a glass tumbler. His five o’clock shadow looks a few hours old, his platinum hair coiffed stylishly as always. I can’t wait to tousle his hair, watch his jaw tighten down against my advances. I move his direction in minx-like fashion and continue serenading him with my haunting melody.

His eyes drink me in, and I know why. The dress leaves little to the imagination, with a slit all the way to my hip on one side and my tits bulging out of the top. It’s skintight, and though it’s difficult to move in, it has the desired effect.

I walk around behind him, running my hand over his shoulder, then up through his hair. When I glide back to the front of the table, I plant my ass firmly on his lap and drape an arm around his shoulder. My wink at another table earns me a whistle, and I shake my shoulders back and forth, jostling my tits. I feel Rome swelling beneath me. I know why he came tonight, and I intend to make sure he gets what he wants.

I sit for a few more seconds, tempting him to touch. But no one touches. Only me. It’s a house rule. Ladies can fawn over the men, but if they touch back, they get thrown out. I know it has to be tormenting him, by body that he enjoys so well just out of reach. So, I relieve him and stand, making sure to give him the best view of my ass as I climb the few stairs back to the stage to finish my number.

When I bellow out the last few notes, applause goes up and I lock eyes with Rome. He is determined and full of lust. I offer a polite smile, then bow, again showing off my tits, and then I blow a kiss to the rest of the crowd and wave as I exit stage left to the beat of their applause. Before I’m even fully out of the wings, I tell the stage manager to show Rome back to my dressing room, and then I wait.

Within a few minutes someone is tapping at my door. The other singers are all gone for the night now. With my performance being the final one, it’s easy to have a bit of privacy. The stage manager will be putting props away, turning off instruments and sound equipment, and setting up for tomorrow afternoon’s crowd. The customers will have their final round while the kitchen and wait staff shut the place down, and I will be having the best sex imaginable.

“Come in…” I plump my tits and sit on my vanity chair facing the door. The knob turns and the latch clicks, and Roman Gusev’s face appears as the door sweeps open. I poise myself for his words as I lift the head piece off my head and set it on the vanity. Before he’s fully in the room I smell him—a musky mixture of whiskey, cigars, and cologne. He has my groin tensing already.

“Wonderful performance as always.”

“You were late.” I pluck the pins out of my raven hair one by one and lay them by the headpiece. My long wavy locks fall bits at a time, framing my face and draping across my shoulders and chest.

“Business,” he says, shutting the door behind himself. I see the bulge in his pants that indicates this is anything but business to him and again my pussy aches. He takes a few steps into the room and pushes his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The tan-colored suit he wears is a good look on him. It stretches across his broad shoulders and thick biceps and makes me crave what’s beneath.

---