Page 1 of Secret Mafia Daddy

1

ANGELO

I roll over in bed and there’s a half-empty bottle of tequila on the nightstand. That explains the throbbing in my head but not the stinging sensation on my back and shoulders. I turn the other way and there’s the culprit from the scratches on my back – a cute little brunette, her mascara and eyeliner smeared.

I sigh and scratch my belly.

This has been my life for so long. No attachments, no deep connections, no regrets. And yet, I’m beginning to regret choosing this lifestyle. I’m kind of getting tired of this faceless, nameless string of women who warm my bed for the night but leave me cold inside. They bring nothing new to my life.

Sometimes, I wonder what life would be like if I just actually tried to have a relationship.

No use dreaming about an impossible life, no matter how appealing it might feel.

Sitting up, I tap her on the hip.

“Hey, sweetheart, time to go,” I say, gently enough, and she gets up with a pout and staggers around, finding her clothes.

“You know, Angelo,” she says dryly. “This is the third time we’ve hooked up and I’m not sure you even know my name.”

“Sure, I do,” I say easily, although I’m wracking my brain to try and remember.

“Uh-huh,” she mumbles, her eyes narrowing. “Well, listen, don’t call me again.”

“Okay, baby.”

Truth is, I don’t know if I will call her again, but I'm pretty sure that if I did, she’d answer. After all, she came this time too, didn’t she?

I think we met at The Angel, a downtown New York City club.

I hate having to be back in New York, so any down time I have, I just want to lose myself in booze and companionship, as hollow as it may be. This place doesn’t have good memories for me, so I rather not remember anything about it, and keeping my mind numb with alcohol and sex when I’m not working helps.

She doesn't look Italian or Italian-American, so I guess I didn’t meet her through work, but who knows? There’s plenty of ladies who aren’t of Italian heritage that hang around wiseguys.

I should know. I’ve been with a lot of them. Tall, short, curvy, thin... I don’t discriminate.

And they generally like me. At least until I stop calling them, and then they tend to hate me. Not that I ever lie to them and promise more than I’m willing to give them, which is a fun night. But I guess they think they can change my mind. Spoiler alert, they can’t.

A fun night is all I want. All I have in me to share.

Or at least, it was, until lately.

Dante and Nico, my best friends, are both tied down now. They both took the leap, and I’d certainly never expected it from either of them. I’d thought we’d be the three fucked up musketeers forever.

So lately, I’ve been thinking about it. What would it be like to wake up to the same woman every day? Have her to worry about you when you went out on jobs?

Would it stifle me? I’ve always been wild and I don’t want to be tamed. But at the same time, seeing my friends with their better halves makes something inside me react and yearn for that. That closeness. That connection.

Suddenly, in the back of my head, I think about a pair of silver eyes blinking up at me, and wonder where the hell that came from.

I can’t quite remember the rest of the face, but I remember those gray eyes, wide and fringed with long, black eyelashes.

The brunette is yelling something at me but I’m not paying attention, and finally I just get up and walk her to the front door, opening it, and just standing there as she walks out.

I shut the door and sigh, walking to the bathroom to shower.

As I’m getting out of the shower, my phone starts ringing. I head to the bedside table, and after looking at the caller ID, I pick it up, answering the call.

“Status report?” a barking voice asks.

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