Chapter Eight
Landon
Manhattan
There's a small barb of guilt that buried itself in my heart seeing how excited and hopeful Harper is. I hate the fact that I have to lie to her. I hate the fact that I'm gonna lose out on the gold mine she can be even more. She was my ticket to easy street. She was my ticket to bigger things and the good life.
But, I don't have a choice – not if I want to keep breathin' anyway. Rossi's guys made it real clear that I need to get their money to them – and get it quickly. The problem is that most of my hustles are pretty small time. Enough to get me by – pay the bills, put food in my belly, and shit like that. I don't have anything goin' that can put that kinda cash in my pocket. And no prospects for big-time hustle either.
Except for Harper. If I don't want to catch a couple of bullets to the back of the head, she's the one and only card I have to play.
A few days after my “meeting” with Frank and Jimmy the stone giant, I called Marco Rossi to see if there was any way we could come to some sort of an arrangement. An arrangement that doesn't end up with me floating in the river.
I'm sitting in a booth at the back of a bar with my stomach in knots, nursing a beer. It's a seedy dive bar in a rough neighborhood, but it's nothin' I'm not used to. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Made my bones hustlin' for some of the big boys who ran their game out of joints even seedier than this.
It's not the location that's got me worried. It's the man walking through the door – Marco Rossi.
Five-foot-eight, with a pot belly, slicked back dark hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and an expensive, well-tailored suit, Marco looks like the stereotypical, old-school mobster. It's an image he seems to cultivate. One he seems to relish.
Close behind him are two of his goons – a pair that makes Jimmy the stone giant look small by comparison. Spotting me sitting in the booth, Marco says something to his men and walks toward me. A hush falls over the bar and everybody seems to be holding their breath until Marco and his men pass them. I even see a couple of the old guys genuflect when Marco walks by without even giving them a glance. Everybody knows Marco Rossi. Knows what he's capable of.
And they're all terrified of him – with good reason.
The Rossi family has a well-earned reputation for brutality. They're not people to screw with. I never would have gotten into bed with them if I'd had any other way to raise the money to get my club open. It was literally, my last resort. The last thing I ever wanted to do.
But, I'd been so sure it would go over like gangbusters, so I made my deal with the devil. And now, after it flamed out and my club went to shit, I'm left holding the damn bag.
“Marco,” I say. “Good to –”
“Shut up,” he snaps as he takes a seat in the booth across from me.
I take a sip of my beer to quench my suddenly parched throat and try to settle nerves that are stretched tighter than a drum. Marco's goons take a seat at a table near the booth, their eyes never leaving me. I can see the butt of the guns in their shoulder holsters peeking out from their jackets – not that they're making much of an effort to hide them. They don't really care – nobody's going to hassle them in this neighborhood. Not to mention the fact that they want me to see them – intimidation factor.
And if I'm being honest, it's working.
A waitress comes over, silently setting down a shot of tequila and a beer in front of Marco and then scampers away like she's on fire. Never taking his eyes off me, Marco downs the shot of tequila – sans salt and lime. After that, he takes a long pull of his beer, letting the silence between us linger.
“So, I assume since I'm sitting here,” he says, setting his mug down, “that you have some good news for me.”
I clear my throat and give him a small nod, feeling the sharp lump in my throat. What I'm about to agree to do is wrong on so many levels. It's evil. I know it is. But, it's the only way I'm going to get out of the hole I'm in. It's the only way I'm going to survive.
And in the end, that's what this is all about. Survivin'. Livin' to hustle another day.
At least, that's what I keep tellin' myself. On some level, I know I'm just trying to rationalize and justify what it is I'm doing. I know that Harper doesn't deserve this, but there's nothing I can do. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place.
It's a dog-eat-dog world and you gotta do what you gotta do if you want to survive. She's a strong girl. A smart girl. If anybody can come out of this on their own two feet, I know it's her.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I think we can work that out.”
“Excellent,” he says. “I'm very happy to hear you say that.”
I clear my throat and sit back in the booth, taking a long drink of my beer, still trying to settle my nerves. Marco also takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He knows I'm scared and he's enjoying the hell out of it. He enjoys seeing people squirm.
“I just want to go over the terms of the deal again,” I say, trying like hell to keep my voice from shaking.
Marco sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fine. You get the girl to LA and turn her over to my guy,” he says. “You get one hundred grand – sixty of which will go to pay off your debt to the Rossi family.”
I know damn well they're going to get a hell of a lot more than a hundred g's for Harper. A twenty-year-old virgin that looks like her? She'll probably go for five times that amount. Easily. But then, I'm not in much of a position to negotiate. I've got no leverage. Nothing to bargain with.
I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I'm going to get anything out of this deal at all other than saving my skin. Forty grand is a tidy sum and will set me up in a good position. It's gonna suck to have to start from square one again. I don't know when or if I'll find another talent like Harper. But, at least I'll be alive to try. That's gotta count for something.
“And after that,” Marco says, leaning forward, his voice low and menacing, “I don't ever want to see your goddamn face again. You're banned from New York –”
“Come on, Marco,” I say. “You can't ban me from the city.”
“The hell I can't,” he replies. “When our deal is done, I see you in the city again, I put two in the back of your head. You got that?”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“What the fuck do I care?” he snaps. “Stay in LA. Go to Chicago or Miami. I don't give a shit. But New York is off limits to you.”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. New York is my home. It's all I know. Having to start up a new hustle in a city I don't know – it's gonna take years to get my feet under me again. I look at Marco and see that he's not kidding. The look he's giving me sends a cold shiver down my spine. He really will kill me if he sees me again.
But then, New York is a big city. And there's no way in hell I'm giving it up. I'm a survivor and know how to stay off people's radars if I need to. A small-time hustler like me probably isn't going to attract a lot of attention. I just need to make sure I steer well clear of Marco and his men.
“Fine,” I say. “Deal. Whatever.”
Marco gives me a long, level look. “I ain't fuckin' around, kid,” he says. “You show your face here again, and it's over for you.”
“I said fine,” I snap, knowing full well I have no intention of honoring that part of the bargain.
“Okay then,” he says. “We got a deal.”
I cock my head. “Don't you need to run it by the man first?
I thought Rob –”
A dark look crosses Marco's face and I get an ominous feeling. His face flushes and he looks like a volcano ready to explode.
“Rob ain't here,” he growls. “I am. I'm the man in this city and I make all the decisions. You got me, asshole?”
I hold up my hands. “Yeah, got it. Sorry,” I say. “I just thought –”
“I don't give a shit what you thought,” he says. “We're done here. Get the bitch to LA.”
Marco stands and storms out of the bar, his goons close on his heels. I watch him go, more than a little surprised by his sudden outburst. I'd clearly hit a nerve with him.
My understanding was that after Abramo – father of Rob, brother of Marco – was killed, Roberto, aka Rob, took over the Rossi family business. I'd heard some rumblings about changes being made and Rob hasn't been seen in New York in quite a while, but as far as I know, it's business as usual. Rob is the shot caller and all decisions run through him – not Marco.
Which is why his reaction is so interesting to me. There's obviously some tension and Marco didn't seem all that pleased with his nephew. I'm not entirely sure what to make of it, but it's an interesting nugget of information that I'm going to keep squirreled away. One that might just come in handy at some point in the not too distant future.
For now though, I need to focus on me and doing what I need to do. And what I need to do is get Harper to LA. Sooner, rather than later.
See how Rob and Harper’s story unfolds. Get His Property