La Cosa Nostra, This Thing of Ours Read online

  La Cosa Nostra

  This Thing of Ours

  Amie Nichols

  Copyright © 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Cover Design:

  Sara Eirew Photographer & Designer

  Models:

  Sebastiano Tiralongo

  Joanna Skrzypczak

  Editor:

  Colourful Wordwench

  Proofreader:

  Josie Lynn Weaver

  Prologue

  Chicago 1984

  "Wake up, Teresa." I hear the gruff whisper in my ear. My heart stops as my worst fear is realized. They found me. I knew Chicago wasn't safe, but really, if Giovanni Esposito wanted to find you, nowhere was safe. I slide out of bed quietly, not to wake the love of my life sleeping beside me, and follow my brother-in-law out of the bedroom.

  "I have always liked you, so I will do you this one favor. I will not kill them, but know if my brother ever finds out about them, he will not be so kind," Leo whispers, holding the nape of my neck, guiding me. "You know you are going to be punished severely for this. He has spent a lot of time and money these past two years to find you."

  "Yes," is all I say. I do know what awaits me back in Italy. "Please, let me see him one more time," I plead with Leo outside my baby's nursery. He nods with pursed lips. Out of everyone looking for me, I am truly lucky that Leo is the one who found me. None of the others would leave them alive.

  "I hope someday we can be together again, my sweet boy." I kiss my sleeping baby's little, round cheek. "La mamma ti ama così tanto, Liam." I tell my son I love him in Italian. Tears roll down my cheeks as I know this is likely the last time I will ever see my boy. I turn to go with Leo to accept my fate.

  Chapter 1

  "So I told her that she can stick it where the sun don't shine, and then she like, rolled her eyes and … Harper, are you listening to me?" My best friend Tara says over the phone. Truth be told, I wasn't really listening. I was too busy being a nervous wreck, while excited at the same time about starting my new job tonight.

  "Look, Tara, I'll talk to you later, okay? I've got to start getting ready for work," I tell her, hoping she will get the hint. If you let her, Tara Klyn would talk your ear off about really nothing at all.

  "Harper Troy, you don't have to be there for two hours. Are you blowing me off?" She huffs into the phone.

  "It's my first day, I need to get there early." This seems to appease her. Wishing me good luck, she lets me go.

  Luck, I was going to need a lot of it. I was going to work for The Guardian, an upscale gentlemen's club in Lincoln Park, Chicago. It was owned by the Tarseta family, one of the richest families in Chicago. They were old money with plenty of new money. They owned businesses, hotels, and apartment buildings all over town. Some of the buildings were high-end, condo style apartments, some were not. The Tarseta family actually owned my building, but it was not high-end at all. In fact, some would call it a slum. It's half way clean and the rent was cheap. It was all I could afford right now. So my little one bedroom apartment, in the not so desirable neighborhood, was what I had to live with.

  I had moved here from Iowa three years ago to attend The University of Illinois. My grades in high school were mediocre, so I didn't land any great scholarships. My parents are farmers so they didn't have much to contribute, which is fine. They work very hard for their money and I never expected them to spend it on me. So I was working my way through college, which was not to say I didn't have a massive amount of student loans.

  I’d been working at a little diner off-campus for the last year, but had been barely making rent. I heard some girls in the commons talking about The Guardian one day. They knew a girl who worked there and she would bring home $500 in tips on a slow night. Hell, that was more than I would make in tips at the diner in two weeks if I was lucky.

  I heard them saying that they only hire a certain type of girl. I wasn't sure what that meant until I entered The Guardian a week ago to fill out an application. All of the waitresses and bartenders were gorgeous with bodies to die for. They had to be, by the uniforms they were wearing. Very short black miniskirts and I mean short, the kind where if you bent over even just a little bit you were showing butt cheek. They all had on the same button up white shirts that were very tight fitting, and they were unbuttoned to the point you could make out the tops of their black lace push-up bras. The swell of their breasts was very evident.

  The patrons there were all very well dressed in expensive suits, men who all looked like they dripped money. Needless to say, when I saw this, I looked around for a moment before I turned on my heels to beeline for the door. No way was I getting hired here. I mean, I have a nice body and work out like hell to have it. I know I'm not unattractive with my long, thick, curly brown hair, but this was way out of my league. Besides, it seems they only hire blondes who wear way too much makeup.

  I just about reached the door to exit when a forty-something, distinguished, handsome man stopped me.

  "Can I help you with something?" he asks, studying me. I look at his salt and pepper hair, and his firm jaw. Yes, Mr. Gorgeous, if you were about ten years younger you could help me a lot.

  "Um I was … well actually I was here to apply for the bartender job, but I don't think I am what you are looking for," I admit, embarrassed, looking at the ground.

  "You here for the bartender job?" he asks. I look up at him and he almost looks amused. I'm sure he is thinking the same as me. Like, what the heck am I doing in a place like this. Yes I know, Mr. Handsome, I would stick out like a sore thumb, please don't say it.

  "Yes, but I won't waste your time. I can see I am probably not right for the job," I say, pushing on the door to exit in a hurry. Get me out of this place now.

  "Well you're here, so why don't we do an interview anyway." He motions for me to come back in the building as I have one foot out the door.

  "Thank you, I'm sure I am not the type of girl you usually hire. I appreciate the pity though." I'm pissed at the way he keeps looking at me, so pitiful and amused.

  I don't need you telling me I'm not "right" for this job.

  "Well, I don't know what you see when you look in the mirror, but I assure you, you are very right for this job." He looks me up and down making me feel even more uncomfortable. "So can we do this interview now, Ms… "

  "Harper Troy," I answer, putting my hand out to shake his.

  "Come with me, Ms. Troy. I'm Matty Tarseta, by the way," he says, shaking my hand before leading the way to an office in the back of the club. Holy crap, no pressure being interviewed by one of the Tarsetas.

  Stepping in a large, very manly office with dark brown leather furniture and a dark wood desk, he motions for me to take a seat in the chair across from his at the desk. He leans forward placing his elbows on his desk, interlacing his fingers in front of him.

  "Have you heard of us?" he asks with a half amused smile.

  "Yes, I've heard the name." Duh, of course I've heard of you. You and your brother Salvatore own half the town.

  "All good things I hope?" He's still smiling, I'm sure he knows that there are many rumors about the Tarseta family. Everything from being linked to the mob to being saints, rumors of contract killings, and at the same time donating to orphanages and hospitals.

  "Yes, of course all good," I breathe. What the hell am I doing here?

  "So tell me, Ms. Troy, do you have bartending experienc
e?" Okay straight to the interview, might as well be honest because there is no way in hell they will be hiring me.

  "No sir, I have none. Please call me Harper."

  "Okay, Harper, please call me Matty. Now what about waitressing experience?"

  "Yes, I have worked as a waitress at The U Diner for over a year."

  "Haven't heard of that one."

  "It's a small diner off U of I, where I attend college."

  "So you are in college, what are you studying?" He seems intrigued, genuinely interested.

  "I graduate in the spring with a Bachelor's in Science and then hopefully Veterinarian school," I answer the question that has nothing to do with this job.

  "In what area of expertise, may I ask?"

  "Large animal, mainly equestrian," I answer him.

  "Really, horses? And why is that?" Okay, am I applying for a bartending job here?

  "I grew up on a farm in Iowa, I've always loved horses." I am keeping my answers short and to the point, because frankly I have no idea what any of this has to do with the job.

  "Well you have one thing right, Harper. You definitely are not like the other girls that work here." I look down ashamed. I already knew that, thanks for making me feel even worse.

  "Not like you are thinking. You have the looks, and well, the body. Yes, you definitely have the body. I am talking about up here." I look up and he is pointing his finger at his temple, like he is saying in the brains department.

  "I have to say that every one of the girls that work here have one goal and one goal only. That is to land a rich man," he says bluntly. "But you are refreshing and I like it. I want to hire you, I want you to start next Monday."

  "What?" is the only word I can form, I'm so shocked.

  "I'll train you on slow nights at first, but eventually I'll want you on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Also, how are you at handling yourself?"

  "How do you mean?" With smooth talking guys trying to get in my pants, I can handle them no sweat. After all, I'm a farm girl with two older brothers.

  "I mean with girls; bitchy, catty girls. None of the girls like each other because they are in competition. Harper, I can say with certainty that they won't like you. Especially when they find out you are getting the prime nights," he says with all seriousness.

  "Well I guess since I'm not here to land a sugar daddy they shouldn't have to worry about me. I am here for the paycheck, to make my own way. I'm not looking for someone to do that for me," I answer bluntly.

  "Well, okay then, we'll see how it works. I'll have you meet with John, the manager, to fill out paperwork and get you uniforms."

  Chapter 2

  Putting on the uniform, and rereading the instructions that came with it, I start to feel panicked.

  Rule #1 - Hair must always be worn down.

  Rule #2 - No less than the first four buttons from the top must be undone.

  Black lace bra was part of the uniform, as well as the skimpy black lace panties, and black high heel pumps. No panty hose, but stockings with black lace at the top were to be worn. The skirt was so short the lace on the thigh high stockings was barely covered.

  As I stand back looking in the mirror, I am pretty sure if I walked down the street not far from my apartment, I would be propositioned. I pull on a thigh length jacket and grab my bag I packed with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt for the way home. Knowing the club closes at 2:00 a.m., there is no way I am going to be out in this outfit that late.

  Walking into The Guardian, I head straight for the back avoiding all eye contact with the other girls checking me out. I find the dressing rooms and see I have a locker already labeled with my name. I take off my coat and place it and the bag in the locker before heading out to find John.

  "I must say, Ms. Troy, that is exactly the effect that uniform is designed for," John says, surveying me up and down. If the effect is hooker, then achieved. My face must flush because John looks amused.

  "You might as well get used to the compliments, my dear. You are like a diamond in the rough here. Salvatore likes blondes. You're the first brunette we've had here in a while. I must say, he doesn't know what he is missing."

  "Okay, you can stop now." I'm not used to these kinds of compliments. Other than the occasional club night with Tara, my wardrobe is mainly jeans or yoga pants.

  John is about thirtyish, I'd say, and very good looking. He is muscular with manly features. He has stubble on his chin, with thick black curly hair poking out of the top of his button down shirt. He screams testosterone. Even though I find him easy on the eyes, he is not my type.

  John shows me around the kitchen, then the VIP section. The VIP is visible from the bar which he shows me next. Walking through, I get a couple of very nasty looks from a few of the other girls.

  "Ignore them, everyone is in competition here. So I hear that Matty wants you for the VIP section as soon as you're trained." Um, wait what?

  "I thought I was hired to be the bartender?" I shoot out my question to John who stops for a second to shake hands with a patron.

  "No, Matty said specifically he wants you in VIP as soon as possible. I hate to say it, girl, but that is not going to make you any more popular. There's not a girl here that doesn't want to land one of the VIPs, and they all fight for the position," he says placing his hand on my back to lead me out of the VIP section toward the bar.

  "Why would he want me in there? I really think I'd prefer to stay behind the bar." Really, what could he be thinking?

  "All I know is that you made an impression on him. Unfortunately for you, like I said, that is not going to make you very popular around here. There's not one of these girls that wouldn't give anything to land one of the single Tarseta men," he says, raising his eyebrows. I know of three single Tarseta men. First the oldest, Salvatore, his much younger brother, Matty, and then there's Salvatore's son, Liam, Chicago's most eligible bachelor. Gorgeous from head to toe, everything about him screams sex and money. I've seen many pictures of him in papers, on TV, and the internet. He was hardly ever seen without a gorgeous woman on his arm. He was drop dead delicious, with black hair, dark skin, the darkest eyes, and always in an expensive dark suit looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ.

  "Sarah, this is Harper, the new girl," John introduces me to the blonde already behind the bar. Sarah, looking much like the others, shakes my hand. She doesn't give me the stare down and the I-hate-you look like the others. She actually seems friendly. John leaves, telling Sarah that I need to learn everything and that he will check on me later. The club doesn't seem really busy. There are a few groups of men scattered around the tables. I wonder if there is a dress code for them also, because there is not one of them not dressed to the hilt.

  Sarah tells me that behind the bar we'll get the occasional customer, but mainly we get the drinks for the girls on the floor. She also says to be ready for attitude because they all think their order is most important and will be completely bitchy about it. Oh is this job going to be fun. The money had better be good.

  "We will get 20% of their tips, so really making their drinks fast is just as good for us as it is for them," Sarah says, showing me where some different stuff is.

  "We also have a five star kitchen. From 8:00 to 11:00 is the only time women are allowed in the club. It will pick up a little by then, so you have a couple of hours to familiarize yourself with the bar," she says, grabbing a green bottle of beer from the cooler for a man sitting at the bar.

  "Sarah, I need a whiskey neat and a scotch on the rocks." One of the blondes comes up to the bar and notices me. "Who the hell are you?" she snaps at me like I'm robbing the place.

  "Harper," I answer, let the fun begin.

  "Be nice, Kandi," Sarah warns before handing her the drinks she ordered. Kandi sets them on her tray and with a flip of her hair she is off to serve her drinks.

  The club picks up as the night goes on, filling the club with the sound of dull chatter. I help Sarah as much as I can, watching care
fully as she mixes drinks. Most are straight forward, cranberry and vodka, white Russian, screwdriver, and many that I am sure I can pull off. I am a scientist, after all. It's just like chemistry, right?

  "That is Salvatore Tarseta," Sarah says motioning with her eyes in the direction of the door. Walking in is an older version of Matty Tarseta, with silver grey hair. A blonde I haven't seen yet appears as if she was waiting in the shadows. She rushes up to Salvatore, putting her arm in his, walking him to the largest booth in the VIP. It's in the corner, a half moon shape made up of black lush leather.

  "Who's that one?" I ask Sarah, motioning to the waitress that just appeared out of nowhere.

  "That's Monica," she rolls her eyes. "She considers herself their personal waitress. It is a self-proclaimed title. She and Liam Tarseta have an on-again-off-again thing, even though he's in here with other women all the time. She says she knows she will be the one he settles down with eventually."

  "Liam is Salvatore's son, right?" I, of course, already know this. I watch as Monica flirts and pushes her boobs in Salvatore's face. As he sits down, she leans over to take his order.

  "They are in here almost every night for dinner. Sal's a widow, and Matty and Liam are both single," Sarah explains. "Monica is always doing anything and everything to please them."

  "I had heard rumors that Liam's mother was murdered or disappeared or something," I say nonchalantly. I had Googled the family this past week. There is nothing on Mrs. Tarseta, not a name or a picture. There was some bad publicity about four years ago for Liam. Apparently, one of his girlfriends claimed he had beat her when he found out she was pregnant. The girl up and disappeared also. It was in one of the tabloids, so it really didn't hold a lot of merit in my book. It did show a picture of a beautiful blonde with a black eye.

  "I have no idea. All I know is that Liam's mother is never mentioned. I know enough not to ask. I hope you do the same." Her tone is low as if she is warning me.