Married to the Mobster

return these clothes. And when you get mine back, you should get rid of them.”
“Mm,” I say. “Well, you know, I’m fond of that hoodie. I like showing off that my Pops went to Harvard.”
“And you, too,” he says back. “Eventually.”
“Ooh, was that a burn? You don’t think I got the chops to tell my daddy I don’t wanna go to Harvard?” I give him a smirk, but I hate him a bit, nonetheless.
Because he’s right. I don’t have the sack to do my own thing, because I have this crazy idea that maybe doing what Pops wants me to do will make him like me more. Besides, he says he won’t shell out anymore if I don’t get my ass to Harvard, and I love Pops’ money as much as anything else in this life right now. Money is the only thing that makes existence bearable for me.
Except maybe this fucking guy.
I follow him back into the other room like a puppy, dancing around his heels, in front of him, trying to slow him down. “You don’t have to go yet—we can order up room service. Frank, you could eat, right?”
“Dude, I don’t know you,” Frank says, bored.
“But you will,” I assure him. “I’m amazing.”
“You ready, Georgie?” he says, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
Allegedly-Not-Georgie turns to me, and I can see it. He wants me, just as much as I want him. There’s a fire in his eyes and it’s one I lit.
“Stay with me, Georgie,” I say. “Stay with me and make me your New York Queen. Marry my fortune, take my lands, use my body to sire your heirs.”
“Uh, it doesn’t work that way, dude,” Frank snorts, shaking his head.
But I don’t even glance at him. I’m busy staring at the love of my life.
Maybe it’s the remnant of those drugs from last night, or maybe it’s Fate clobbering me over the head. But I’ve known it since I saw his blazing aura on the dance floor at that shitty nightclub. This is it for me. He’s it for me.
“I’m in love with you,” I tell him.
He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you right down to your fucking blood cells. And you know me. Don’t walk away from me.”
He kisses me for that one, and I put my whole being into that one kiss, because it’s my only shot.
I guess it’s not enough, though, because he pulls away from me. There’s regret in those eyes, but he blinks it away. “Have a great life, angel,” he says.
“You done it again, Georgie,” Frank sighs, as my eyes begin to sting with tears.
Lucifer and his brother leave without another word.

Chapter Six


LUCA
FIVE YEARS LATER
When faced with the prospect of his own mortality, every man becomes a mewling pile of flesh.
I’m standing over the latest fool I’ve had to beat down on orders from my Capo, having an existential crisis about how alike all humans seem to be. They’re always such a disappointment by this stage, when their teeth are broken and their spirit along with it.
If I had a heart, it might affect me. But my reputation for being calculating, cold and merciless is well-earned. I’m not the muscle, not myself. But I give the orders, and more importantly, I have the ideas. I know how to break a man. I deploy the appropriate tool at the appropriate times. Sometimes that tool is the fist of one of my men; sometimes it’s a quiet word in the ear of our target.
What it comes down to is this: I know how to make a man cry.
And now here I am, a made man, despite my so-called unnatural desires, and all I can ever think about is how small-time these crooks are that I run with. What a waste of my time it is to be tasked with these jobs. How I need to better myself so I can take what’s rightfully mine. The city, yes. But ever since that angel with the green-gold eyes opened my own to the possibilities, I’ve craved even more. But before I even get started, I need an awful lot of self-improvement.
And before self-improvement, I have to deal with this crawling, puking bag of flesh before me. The boys have done most of the handiwork. I’ve been using the stick instead of the carrot so far, but I think it’s time now to change tack.
“Come on, O’Leary,” I sigh. “Just tell me what I need to know so I can let you go.” This guy is old-school; I was almost starting to despair he’d ever tell me what I need to know. The Irish haven’t been serious players in this city for a long time, but I can see how they’ve clung on to pockets of power here and there. Sheer fucking obstinacy.
Jim O’Leary here, for example. He was a faithful bodyguard to the Donovan family for years, until the drinking got to be too much of a problem. They cut him off without a second glance a few months back. The guy is stubborn to the end, though. He’s taken more hits than Muhammad Ali in his heyday. But he’s almost there, I can tell. He just needs a little more persuasion.
I crouch down next to him, trying to avoid getting his blood on my shoes. “They kicked you curbside, those swanky Donovans,” I remind him. “You’re not beholden to them.”
He looks up at me, or tries to. Both his eyes are closing over, puffed out and blackening. “I tell you, you kill me,” he pants.
He has a point, and I’m running out of time. “I won’t kill you,” I say. “We’ll have to keep you here until we have the package, but I’ll let you go after that. You have my word.”
He tries to laugh at that. “What good is that?” he asks, spitting blood. But he doesn’t spit it on me, at least, which tells me something.
“I keep my word, once