Page 2 of Mine to Love
2
I stareinto the dark abyss of my half-empty coffee cup, finding every crucial moment leading to this very day amongst the cold, black bitterness. It’s been twenty years since I witnessed my first murder and entered this world of blood, bullets, oaths, and alliances. My childhood ended at fifteen. In some ways, so did my life. At least, the life I knew. The existence I’ve led since has been one of loyalty and loss, surrounded by darkness and depravity. I wouldn’t have chosen this for myself. Yet, it’s the only way I now know. Which is why, despite recent events, I sit on the same stool in the same bar I have every Tuesday evening for the past decade. Only, this time, I am not informing my boss of reports from the capos or exchanging contracts with business associates. No, this visit is even more tense and carries steeper consequences.
“More coffee, sir?”
“Bourbon. Please,” I say as I release the cup, let out a sigh of frustration and undo the top two buttons of my black dress shirt. The friendly waitress whose bared witness to the three-hour shitshow of me trying to find a housekeeper gives me a knowing look. She quickly relays the order to the bartender dressed inthe typical Arnaud’s white coat with a black bowtie. Arnaud’s French 75 Bar is one of my favorite meeting spots—small enough for privacy with a vintage sophistication and a legacy in New Orleans dating back to the 1800s. Its history is almost as old as the Amato family’s. Though, I suppose their legacy—our legacy—has finally ended. It’s with that notion that I return my attention to the applications of the two least objectionable candidates. I glance at the papers half-heartedly, but find it only frustrates me more.
My residence on the grounds of the Amato estate used to be tended to by the same staff tasked with maintaining the main house. But with the FBI’s investigation into my boss, Alister Amato, and his departure from New Orleans, the Mafia has been dismantled. The staff has been dismissed, save for the groundskeepers. And while I may be skilled in many things—negotiations, diplomacy, marksmanship, tactical warfare, and torture, all things necessary in my position as Underboss—cooking and cleaning aren’t part of my extensive repertoire. So, here I am, in search of a suitable live-in maid. Someone skilled in domestic duties, capable of cooking at least three meals a day and tending to my newly acquired rottweiler, but most importantly, someone I can trust. I suppose that’s where the true issue lies and why it’s taken me so long to seek help.
Trust is a rare commodity in this world. The FBI’s investigation into the Amatos has just successfully wrapped. They found nothing tying them to organized crime because I made sure there was nothing to find. But during that process of disposal and an active investigation, I couldn’t risk hiring someone who could witness my efforts or plant evidence against them. It’s been months of takeout, frozen meals, and I won’t even get started on the state of the house itself. I should be ashamed I’m not better at caring for myself. Though, perhapsthere’s another reason I’ve been reluctant to invite anyone into my world.
I let out another sigh as the waitress brings me my bourbon. She delivers it with a smile, and I give her one in return. The first sip settles my frustration. The second releases the tension in my muscles. As I admire the amber hue of the beverage, the hum of chatter between men in their day-suits and women in their expensive dresses fades away.
For the first time in hours, it’s quiet, so quiet it’s as if I’m not even here. The peace the first few sips of bourbon bring only lasts seconds. But it’s enough to remind me of home and how much I love the quiet privacy I find between those walls. It’s the only place I can truly relax, be myself, take off my armor, turn my brain off and not have to be Gio Moretti—the stoic boss and chess master. To invite someone into my safe haven is to lose that haven altogether. I will become the observed rather than the observer. Constantly on guard, I won’t have a moment of peace. I shake my head and take another sip of my drink. Yes, that’s where my true frustration lies—not in the candidates themselves, but in having to choose one to begin with.
It’s then that a soft chime draws my attention to the arched doorway facing Bienville Street. Light filters in behind her as a woman, who couldn’t appear more out of place in her wrinkled, cream-colored sundress and white tennis shoes, enters. She holds the hand of a small girl with similar light features. Both are strapped with a backpack. Despite the whispers of displeasure coming from the few remaining patrons, I find her the most captivating person I’ve seen all day. She’s a sight for sore eyes at that.
My dark gaze lingers on her longer than it should as I take in her humble clothing, gentle demeanor, and angelic beauty. She has bright blonde hair, almost white in the sunlight streaming in through the windows near the entrance. There’s a natural waveto it, which somehow invites an air of sexiness to her aura. As my eyes drift lower, I spot sweat on her pale neck. It drips down her chest, creating the most inviting glow atop her plump cleavage. She wears August in New Orleans well.
Feeling my mouth go dry the longer I stare, I turn away from her. Yet, I quickly find her reflection in the mirror lining the wall behind the bar. I watch her as she makes her way to the antique, cherry-stained bar top. I take in her soft, womanly body as she moves. She has a full chest complimented by dramatic curves from her breasts to her waist to her wide-set hips, which are still obvious despite the dress she wears.
Perhaps the quiet solitude I so enjoy isn’t as friendly as it seems. The way my eyes dance across her flesh makes me feel less like the gentleman I strive to be and more like the monster I must be. Reminding myself of my manners, I withdraw my lustful gaze completely and re-direct my eyes to the glass before me. Though, my attention is all but elsewhere.
“Please,I understand I’ve been out of the workforce for a while.”
“Ifyou can consider yourself ever having been in it.”
“But I’m desperate for a job. Anything, please. I’ve just moved here, and I have a daughter to provide for.”
After five minutes of listening to her plead her case to the less-than-sympathetic bartender who turned up his nose the second he saw her, the desperation in her voice tugs at my heart. I turn my head slightly in their direction without looking directly at them. In all these years, I’ve never caused a scene or been a part of one here at Arnaud’s, but the desire to stand and slam the slick-headed idiot’s face into the very bar he tends hasme itching. “Listen, this is a fine establishment. It’snota truck-stop with clientele interested in beer and…breasts.” However, I believe exceptions were invented for instances such as this.
As his disrespectful remark taints the space between us, my eyes shift into slits. The muscles in my shoulders contract. With silent rage bubbling inside of me, I put down my glass before I break it and stand, cracking my knuckles as I do. My movements are so abrupt, both the woman whose name I don’t know and the asshole bartender face me. Though, as I turn to them, it is a third pair of eyes that draw my attention and stop me dead in my tracks.
I lost my innocence because of the violence of men. I won’t take hers the same way mine was. Instead, I reach into the inside pocket of my black suit jacket, remove my cellphone, and send two texts. The first is to ensure tonight is that asshole’s last shift. The second is to ensure he pays for his disrespectful remark in blood.
As the tension in the room settles and the woman reluctantly accepts his rejection, she lets out a heavy sigh. Hers is even more disheartened than the one I earlier released. “Well, can you at least pour me a drink and a juice for my daughter, please?” She asks as she places the small girl atop one of the wooden stools and lets her backpack slide off her shoulders. As she does, the red marks left on her pale skin suggest the pack is quite heavy. Perhaps the sweat on her skin isn’t simply the result of the Southern sun.
It’s then that the bartender replies, “Can you afford it?” As fresh frustration courses through my veins once more, my cellphone vibrates. I glance at the new message.Perfect timing.
“I think she can afford it,” I say, returning my phone to its place. “Unless there’s a problem with my Black Card?” I close the distance between us, keeping my chilling glare locked directly on the bartender. His frightened expression is all too familiar.I make a living instilling the fear of God in the world’s most dangerous men. To no surprise, he loses his sense of arrogance and superiority and does as he’s told.
“Of course not, Mr. Moretti. I’ll put them on your tab.” The spineless man bows his head as he backs away. I offer him nothing in return except the mercy of allowing him to retreat unharmed—for now. He should be ashamed for treating a woman,a mother, like that. “And while you’re at it, I’d like a beer. You do serve beer in thisfineestablishment, don’t you?”
“Uh, uh, yes sir. Right away, sir.”
I nod. “As I thought.”
I take a moment to shake the frustration from my features before turning my attention to the woman. As I do, I’m taken aback by her sweet, musky scent and breathtaking beauty, which is even more noticeable in close proximity. Though, it is her tear-filled, sparkling blue eyes that leave me truly speechless. I’m not sure if her tears are because of me or despite me, but as she thanks me, she does her best to make sure they go unnoticed.
“Um, thank you, sir,” she says, lowering her gaze to the black-and-white tiled floor. As she speaks, she wraps a protective arm around her daughter, who sits on the stool between us. “You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate your kindness.”
“It’s my pleasure, Ms.?” I ask, hoping to learn her name.
As she returns her eyes to mine, she says, “Darcy. Just, Darcy.” I nod, sensing her nervousness. In those three words accompanied with her shrunken demeanor, she’s told me more than she realizes. She’s exhausted, anxious, intimidated, kind enough to be appreciative and yet wise enough to be cautious. And, with a clear dismissal of any surname, I sense the reason for her caution and sudden move to the Crescent City resides in her past. Or perhaps something or someone she’s hoping to leave in the past.
I’m not sure if it’s her beauty, her desperation, or her angelic aura that draws me to her—a light in the darkness that is my life. Perhaps it’s all three. And yet, even more still. But, now that I’m here, I can’t seem to walk away. I want to know her. I want to help her. The depraved part of me wants to explore her. And of all the people I’ve met today, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in my space, my home. Perhaps, my dilemma can be her solution and she mine.
“Well, Darcy, I’m Gio. Welcome to New Orleans. I hear you’re looking for a job and I am looking to hire someone. I’d love to tell you more about the opportunity over dinner. My treat, of course, with no obligations. Though, I insist. I can’t in good conscience allow you to leave without eating something. I sense you have had a long journey.”
