King of Bourbon Street: A Dark Mafia Romance (Mafia's Throne Book 1) Read online

  “He’s probably right. I’ll go,” Adrian offers. “I’m practically your twin. All I have to do is say I’m you. They won’t know any different.” He sounds much like the loyal man my father described him to be. Then he ruins it all by adding, “Besides, I wouldn’t mind running into that redhead again.”

  I rub my chin thoughtfully as my gaze travels over his face. It amazes me that we’re nearly identical, same pitch-dark eyes, black hair and olive skin. Same tall, broad frame. But when I look in the mirror, I see ruthless determination. While in Adrian, all I see is…not me.

  Straightening, I blow out a long breath. “I’ll go. It’s time I meet Callaghan since it seems none of you have been able to take care of this.”

  “En—” Tony begins, but I lift my hand to shut him up.

  “You’ve had weeks to deal with him. Now he has our trucks, our fucking money, and Danny.”

  “He didn’t seem like a threat,” Tony admits.

  “Clearly that was an incorrect assumption. We’ll meet again tomorrow. Lucian, in the meantime, I want you to put in a call to New York. Find out exactly how untouchable James Callaghan really is.”

  “My father might have—”

  “No. Not your father. Call Don Lombardo directly. It’s better to get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  Lucian nods. “Keep an open mind about my father.”

  “Meeting’s adjourned,” I state.

  Everyone leaves except for Adrian. He remains as he is, with that goddamned smile on his lips.

  “What?” I ask with annoyance.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Careful, you might sprain something.”

  He cackles, slapping his jean-clad leg. Then his smile fades, and without it, his face seems almost unrecognizable, making me listen. “Remember the day the Westies almost took over New York?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Ex-fucking-zactly. It didn’t happen then, we can’t let it happen now.” His expression disturbingly serious, he stands and goes to the painting that hangs behind me, from where my father looks down at us with scrutiny. Adrian crosses himself, muttering, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Then, turning to me, he takes my head in his hands and plants a kiss to each of my cheeks. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  Chapter 3

  ENZO

  Original Sin, also known as The O.S. Club, is a very high-end strip club, once owned by the notorious criminal Angelo Bianchi. I never met the bastard, though I did meet his daughter, Angel, when she took it over.

  She made it a haven, a safe place. Neutral ground for those at war within New Orleans. It worked.

  Dillon Callaghan bought it two months ago and immediately turned it into a battleground. He declared war on all of us who’ve been here for decades by ending the mandatory truce for those who enter. Now, though it still caters only to the rich, it’s just another club full of criminals.

  My driver, Louis, parks my silver Bentley in front of the main entrance. Directly behind us is a black Mercedes that carries Adrian and three of our guards.

  Through the rear window, I can see two of the men step out of the vehicle cautiously, taking in the surroundings, assessing each face that passes by. Though I hardly consider drunk tourists with colorful beads around their necks a threat, my men are on high alert. Their hands are on their belts, and though they’re concealed, the Glocks they hold there are cocked and ready.

  Gio nods toward us, and my guard, Henri, steps out, then opens my door.

  As we approach the entrance to the club, a blond woman dressed in a tight black pantsuit and flanked by two men larger than me greets us. She’s holding an electronic tablet and brings a mic down to her lips and says, “Mr. Marcone has arrived.”

  “You know me,” I say to her.

  “Wouldn’t it be against the law not to?” she quips.

  “There are some who still don’t.”

  Her red lips pull into a perfect smile. “Then perhaps it’s time they meet you. My name is Kiera Stephens and I’m the manager here. I personally greet our most prestigious clients.”

  “Isn’t everyone who comes here prestigious?”

  “They are. Which is why I’m busy all night. If you’ll please follow me.”

  I turn to Adrian. “You stay out here.”

  “Hell no. I want in there.” He points to the door.

  “You stay out here,” I repeat with impatience.

  He huffs but nods because he understands. Having the two highest ranked Marcones under the roof of the enemy isn’t smart. Fuck, I didn’t want him with me at all, but he nagged me until I relented. “Sure thing, Boss.”

  We step into what was once the foyer of an old Victorian mansion, now an elegant checkpoint where we’re all inspected for weapons. None of us pass.

  Kiera’s mouth purses. “You may leave your weapons in our safe.”

  “We’re not going in unarmed,” I inform her, glancing at the two goons beside her.

  “Then you’re not going in. And if I’m correct, there’s a hefty prize waiting for you inside.”

  “Lady, you either let us in the way we are, or we come back another time without an invitation. I promise you won’t like that,” I threaten.

  Her eyes narrow as she seems to bite back a retort. Both the guards with her place their hands on their guns, ready to kill if ordered. But the woman lifts a finger up to them, then she holds her headset tighter to her ear and nods. “Well, it seems you’re getting a pass from the boss.”

  Quickly, I search the room for a camera. “We’re being watched.”

  “Always. Keep that in mind before you try anything funny. Follow me.”

  The door that separates the foyer from the main hall is opened, and instantly, music fills the space. I’ve been here on only one occasion years ago, when business needs dragged me out of my own castle because the enemy didn’t trust our promises of safety. Though I generally don’t enjoy strip clubs, this place doesn’t leave me feeling dirty. I’m glad to see that at least not much of that has changed.

  Unlike most of the bars on Bourbon Street, many of which I own, that are meant to get a man drunk fast and drain his wallet even faster, the O.S. Club is a place of business. The business of pleasuring the wealthy and powerful.

  Everything here has been chosen carefully, with taste. Rich silks and velvets cover almost every surface; deep cherry woods gleam and large crystal chandeliers provide subtle light. Girls in skimpy tuxes cater to their clientele’s every whim, serving them expensive steaks, caviar, and only the finest champagne and liquor.

  We pass a group of elegantly dressed men and women, who are deep in conversation about some business transaction. Scantily clad girls mingle among them, finding a lap to settle on or a neck to wrap themselves around.

  A beautiful woman is on the stage dancing to some modern hip-hop remake of an eighties classic. She comes to the edge and begins to move for the gentleman sitting there. He’s completely entranced by her, and almost hypnotically, he reaches for his wallet and swipes his card along a reader at his table.

  No, this is certainly not a place meant to drain the contents of your wallet quickly and send you on your way. This is the type of place that keeps you here and drains your bank account directly.

  We walk beyond the bar to an intimate booth with a small round coffee table that has a perfect view of the stage. When I look back, I see that I’ve lost Henri to the girl dancing up there. He smiles at her in that same idiotic way the man sitting by her did, and I half expect him to pull out his credit card and fork out a couple thousand dollars for her electronic tip jar.

  Fortunately for him, he turns to me and catches sight of my scowl. Remembering himself, he comes to stand at the edge of the booth.

  “I’m going to arrange a more private room for you to inspect your fee,” Kiera tells me. “But in the meantime, enjoy yourselves. The night is on us.”

  “When will Callaghan be here?” I ask impatientl
y. While I certainly appreciate the luxurious treatment, this is something I’m accustomed to receiving every day. Being made to wait is not.

  “I’m afraid Dillon is tied up at the moment,” she says.

  “Isn’t he coming?”

  “I’m not sure if you’ll have a chance to meet today.”

  My jaw works with frustration at her words. “We agreed to meet tonight. That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

  “Actually, if I’m not mistaken, you were invited as a guest of the O.S and to receive a payment due.” As she says it, a pretty redhead appears with a tray. “Gentlemen, this is Ginger. She’s Dillon’s personal server and yours for the night.”

  The girl does a nervous curtsy. “What can I get for you tonight?”

  I grind my teeth as I attempt to quell a burst of anger. “Get me Callaghan’s usual.”

  “That would be a Redbreast 27 Year Old, neat,” Ginger says.

  I nod, accepting the order, then point to Henri. “Water for my friend here.”

  A few minutes later, my drink is against my hand. I bring it to my nose and inhale the woodsy aroma before taking a sip. The rich amber liquid fills my mouth and burns as it slides down my throat.

  Instantly, my body warms and I become languid, relaxed. The anxiety I felt coming in here begins to dissipate and the more I imbibe, the less I care that I’m being made to wait.

  Henri doesn’t seem too bothered, either. Two girls cling to him, running their fingers through his scruffy silver beard. He says something to them, and his heavy Cajun accent makes them giggle and wrap themselves tighter around him.

  “Is someone sitting here?” I hear beside me. I turn to find a pretty blonde, already topless, scooting closer to me. “My name’s Mina. What’s yours, sugar?”

  I glance at her chest, noticing the way her hard dark nipples point directly up, despite the size of her breasts. They’re nice tits, even though they’re fake, but not nice enough to get me going. I sigh, too uninterested to bother sending her away. It’s not that she’s not attractive, because she is. She’s got everything most men would want, which is why she’s here in the first place. Large dark eyes, waist length hair, deep red lips.

  The problem is that I’m not attracted to her. Even so, because I’m accustomed to this type of company, I don’t push her away when she presses herself against me.

  Lifting my finger to Ginger, I order another whisky. When it arrives, I throw it back, drinking half of it in one gulp. The moment I set it down, Mina picks it up. “Do you mind?” she asks.

  “Have at it.”

  She bats her long lashes, then takes a sip and coughs when it burns her mouth. That makes me laugh, though I have to clean the spray from my jacket. Most women can’t handle a hard liquor like that. Hell, a lot of men can’t either.

  “Excuse me.” She wipes her mouth and leaves as quietly as she came.

  Left alone once again, I watch the dancer as she gathers her garments and walks off the stage, her high heels clanking against the wooden floor all the way.

  From overhead, the DJ introduces the next performer, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Dillon Callaghan would like to welcome you all to the new and improved Original Sin club. As you all know, our new benefactor’s family hails from the Emerald Isle and, to celebrate the new ownership, would like to gift you with this beautiful Irish rose.”

  The lights dim further and a single spotlight appears in the center of the stage. Then slowly, a delicate figure appears. Her long hair pours down her back like molten copper. Long dark lashes rest against skin that seems to glow, and she takes a deep breath, causing her full breasts to swell above a white corset. When she opens her eyes, not even the distance or the darkness of the room can hide the translucency of her irises, yet I can’t make out if they’re green or gray, or maybe gold, and I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.

  The entire place quiets, watching in fascination as the woman—angel, devil, whatever she may be—begins to dance. Even I can’t help but feel captivated by her.

  She doesn’t move like any of the girls I’ve seen on a stage. Her dance isn’t filled with innuendos and gyrations meant to mimic sex. Instead, she sways gently, like a flower in the wind. Each lift of her arm and extension of her leg is graceful. She reeks of inexperience and innocence, from this world at least. Which makes everything she does so much more sensual.

  My throat dries as I remain completely focused on the beauty, and I reach out in search of my whisky, but when I drink it, I find it’s still not enough to quench whatever thirst this woman has caused.

  She moves about the stage but doesn’t pay much attention to any of the men who are now lining it with credit cards at the ready. It’s as if she’s scanning the room, her eyes roving over every face. Then when they reach me, they stop. Her gaze locks on mine, and it’s a connection I can’t sever. Now it’s as if when she moves, she does it for me only. Everyone in the room disappears, leaving me alone with this fae-like creature.

  I’m so hypnotized by her that I don’t notice when she steps off the stage and begins to walk toward me. It’s not until Henri blocks her path, and thus my view of her, that I become aware of how close she’s gotten. It annoys me to no end that he was willing to let Mina in, yet this one, the one I want, he blocks.

  The Irish rose looks to me, and I nod at him. He moves, letting her pass. Small hands come up my chest, then around my neck. The moment her skin makes contact with mine, it lights a fire that starts in the pit of my stomach and spreads like a raging inferno, engulfing me in something I’ve never felt before. Something fierce and dangerous for a man like me.

  I should shove her away, yet it’s the adrenaline rush I get from knowing the danger that allows her to continue.

  She straddles my lap, pulling back only when she feels the pistol in my holster. I tense beneath her as she glances down. But if she sees the hilt of the gun peeking from inside my coat, she doesn’t show it.

  Instead, she leans in, pressing her core against me. Her soft scent invades my nostrils, completely overpowering the whisky until all I can smell is her. And damn me, but when I see her shyly bite her plump lower lip, I want to drink her.

  Her hands tremble as they grasp the ends of the ribbon that holds her corset together and pull. The bow comes undone, and she removes the lace from the first loop, then another and another, slowly exposing her breasts.

  Scorching heat pumps through me as I anticipate what she’s about to reveal. But when Henri shifts beside me, I suddenly realize I’m not the only one watching. I peer up to see him with an expression of salacious interest I don’t like one bit. And it’s not just him.

  Inexplicable rage fills my gut and I wrap my fingers tightly around hers, stopping her. Her gaze snaps to mine as a frown forms between her delicate brows.

  “Thank you once again, lovely flower,” the DJ announces, ending the dance, and moves on to another girl.

  Still, my hands remain on hers, keeping her hostage.

  “You don’t want me to finish?” she asks nervously.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She tries to move away, but I hold her to me.

  “You don’t need to be in a place like this,” I say to her, taking in every inch of her fair beauty.

  “Do you have somewhere better for me?” she asks. The music is louder now, making it harder to discern what she’s saying.

  “My bed,” I say.

  Her eyes widen, then flick upward, and mine follow. Above, on the second floor, there’s a one-way window.

  I tug on her to get her attention back to me. “Is Callaghan watching from up there?”

  “It’s the office.”

  “Is Callaghan there now?”

  “No,” she says. “But someone is always there. Always watching me.”

  “Why?” I narrow my eyes as I study her. Something about her screams that there’s more to her. Her pale skin may speak of a life lived in the dark, but I don’t buy that she’s a dancer, not for a moment, e
ven if she was just paraded around as the main event. “Who are you?”

  She leans into me, bringing her lips to my ear. It’s almost too low for me to hear, but I can just make out the words. “I. Am. Dillon’s.”

  I push her away, my gaze intense on her. “What does that mean?”

  Before she can answer, Kiera appears with two security men beside her. “Mr. Marcone, if you and your guard will please come with me. I have the room ready.”

  Reluctantly, I release the Irish rose. She moves off me, looking up at the one-way window again, and I automatically aim my eyes in that direction too.

  “Mr. Marcone,” Kiera reminds me she’s still waiting.

  Standing, I follow her through the club. The Irish rose joins us, staying close to me as we walk to the back and up a set of stairs that lead to the second floor. Here, we pass several doors, some closed, but I manage to peek into the ones that are open. In every one, I find familiar faces, men I’ve dealt with previously. Some friendly, some not so much. The O.S.’s ownership may have changed, but it seems the clientele has remained the same.

  “Here we are.” Kiera stands back, indicating for us to enter, then she comes in and locks the door behind her.

  We all stand in a circle around a table in the middle of the room, on which is located a black briefcase. She spins it around to me and opens it to reveal ten stacks of cash.

  The rose glances between it and me expectantly, her eyes wide as if she’s never seen so much money in her life. It’s not surprising, most people haven’t.

  “He owes me more than that,” I inform Kiera.

  “Will this cover it?” Reaching in, she moves the top layer of bills to expose several bars of gold, leaving me speechless. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “It only covers what he owes me. But we still have much to discuss. I want to meet him.”

  “In due time. Dillon Callaghan is extremely busy. In fact, there’s a trip coming up that will impede a meeting. But when it’s over, you will meet. For now, we ask for patience and hope this will put a hold on any actions you may have planned against us.”