Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Read online

  Which is where I found myself as I did jumps ninety-seven, ninety-eight, and ninety-nine, stumbling only slightly when I landed jump one hundred. My stomach roiling, I walked on shaky legs over to the corner where I'd put my bottle of water, taking a moment to swallow some before setting the metronome again, this time for a hundred grand plie with my arms held in the Spanish fourth position.

  "Whore," I heard whispered as I started my plies, startling me and causing me to lose focus. I looked around, but my studio was empty, the polished wood floor gleaming and the front window showing nothing but the mostly empty parking lot of the strip mall I was renting space in. It was Sunday morning, and even in mostly casual Seattle, not too many people did shopping at that time, especially in a strip mall that had a Chinese restaurant, a dry cleaner, my dance studio, and a dermatologist's office in it. I shook my head, knowing it was just my insecurity and recent memory talking, and reassumed the proper position in the mirror, waiting for the right beat of the metronome.

  "Why not just spread your legs instead?" a voice whispered again, and I stopped, grinding the heels of my hands into my forehead, whining in rage and frustration. I didn't need to place the voice. It wasn't like it belonged to any one particular person, but it was the amalgamation of a hundred different voices, all of them people who had looked down their noses at the stripper who wanted to pretend she could be a dance instructor. The majority of what made up the voice was male, of course, but there was one little voice, the youngest, that scared and hurt me the most. It was my own voice, the voice of the pretty sixteen-year-old with her own boobs who'd never have gone into stripping, and certainly not sleeping with men for money. No, the sixteen-year-old Carmen was going to make her impact in the dance world, even if the American Ballet Company said her turnout wasn't good enough because she had spirit and guts. Besides, there were a lot more types of dance than just ballet, weren’t there? Shakira wasn't exactly a prima ballerina either, but she was known worldwide.

  "Yeah, but that isn't what you are most scared of," I whispered to myself, looking in the mirror. "You . . . you're worried that . . ."

  I couldn't even say it to myself, sinking down to the floor and weeping, feeling every bit the tramp and whore that Eduardo Mendosa had made me feel two days before. I’d heard things like that before, but it was starting to get to me. For the first time in years, I felt dirty and felt quiet desperation grip my heart as I wondered if I'd ever find someone who'd look beyond my past and if I could ever escape the years I'd been a stripper.

  I was so caught up in my despair that I didn't hear the door to the studio open, and I shrieked when I felt someone touch my shoulder. Whoever it was took a step back, but his voice was calm, and thankfully, familiar. "Carmen, shh, it's me."

  I wheeled around to see Tomasso, wearing a tank top and shorts, and I smacked myself in the forehead. "Tommy. You wanted a massage. It's Sunday morning."

  "It is, but never mind that," Tomasso said, sitting down on the floor beside me. I'd worked with him about once a week ever since he crushed his ankle, first with low back massages before helping him make sure his ankle was fully rehabilitated. Nowadays, I just worked him over generally, as he tried to stay in top condition while still handling his work for his father along with being a husband and father.

  He continued, his face etched with concern. “What’s up? I can deal with my lower back later in the hot tub at home."

  I sniffled, wiping at my nose and told him. "After Friday night . . . yesterday was hell. I had one of the kids’ classes I teach, and a father came in with his daughter. Apparently, he used to be a customer of the Starlight Club a few years ago."

  Tomasso grimaced, knowing what was coming. "Did he cause a scene?"

  "Yeah . . . in the end, I lost half the class, as apparently, some of the moms didn't know either. They've sat there for six months or more watching their sons and daughters take classes the whole time, everyone smiling and having fun, but apparently, my past is more important than that. So there goes a hundred and eighty dollars a month, and God alone knows what the damage will be if the story spreads."

  I sighed, gaining control of myself as I shared the story. At least it was in the open now. “Before, I was able to defend myself, stick up for myself. I mean, I'm a good enough dancer that men like him would spend good money just to see me shake my body for them, but suddenly, I'm not worth thirty bucks a month so their kid can have lessons once a week? Normally, that works, but after what happened with Luisa's brother . . . I just didn't have the nerve."

  "Well, you'll be happy to know that Eduardo is already on the way back to Brazil, and sporting a full set of lumps and a sprained shoulder courtesy of his sister," Tomasso said. “Luisa whooped his ass good yesterday morning before we shoved him on an economy class ticket all the way back to Porto Alegre."

  "That's at least a little bit of good news,” I said, depression quickly washing over me again.

  “You know, we’re all proud of you. You're going after your dream, and you're not letting things stop you. You're strong, which is more important than anything else. You're going to make it. You're going to be a success."

  "This isn't Pretty Woman, Tommy. You know that. A success for me is not having to go back to stripping, nothing more."

  "Stop that," he said, his voice having just a hint of harshness. "You are going to be more successful than that. Hell, look at it this way. You had an asshole hit on you Friday night, but you also had a guy stick up for you too. Now when was the last time you got white knighted?"

  I chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, that felt nice. Who was that guy anyway?"

  "Degrassi. One of the associates," Tomasso replied, leaning back and putting his head against the wall. "Kind of a hard luck story in his own right. Nothing you need to know about. It's Bertoli business, but let’s just say he's got his own string of issues to overcome."

  "Really?" I said, surprised. "He looked like a part-timer to me, what with that off the rack old suit of his. So not your style. He had a cute smile, though, to his benefit."

  Tomasso laughed and shook his head. "You know, you're nearly the first person who has ever told me anything good about Dante Degrassi? Oh, he never has had anything bad, really, but he's been the invisible man to my family for years now. Someone else must have seen what was going down, and yet nobody stepped in except for Dante. That's something that I won't tolerate. I’ve told you before, but if anyone disrespects you, talk to me."

  I shook my head. “It’s been okay, for the most part. Some of the men remember who I am. Obviously, one of them told Eduardo about me. They’ll probably always think of me as hired entertainment.”

  Tomasso shook his head again and put an arm around my shoulders. "By the way, I know about your apartment. Daniel drove by the other week to bring you a little gift. Nothing much, just some stuff he picked up on his most recent trip out of state. When he went by your place, he found someone else already living there. Were you going to tell us?"

  I shook my head, feeling a bit of my pride flare up. "I made my decision on my own, Tommy. I'll live by it too. The studio needed new flooring, and in order to pay for it, I had to cut my budget in other areas. My choice, my decision."

  Tommy hummed and hugged me tighter. "That's what makes you special, and godmother to Johnny, remember? Ninety percent of the other people who have even half the relationship you have with my family would have come hitting us up for more money for renovations, and often sacrifice a lot less than you have."

  I shook my head. “I still don’t get why you guys believe in me. Is it because I was willing to take Daniel in when nobody else would?"

  Tomasso laughed and nodded. "That, and your going off on a few Bertoli men when they came looking for him certainly helped too. You've got guts, brains, and heart. That's enough in my book.”

  "Still, it's like I'll always have that scarlet letter hanging around somewhere. I mean, what sort of man—what sort of good man, I mean—would be interested in damaged goods
like me?"

  “One who can see what we see," Tomasso said softly, consoling like a big brother. "Who knows? The right guy could walk through the door of this place tomorrow."

  I was about to protest when the phone for the studio rang, and I got up. Picking up the call, I listened and quickly realized it was someone trying to find out class information. I pulled the phone away and held my hand over the mouthpiece, looking over at Tomasso, who'd gotten up off the floor. "Tommy, I’ve gotta take this. Uh, potential customer. But thanks. I know you did your best to try and cheer me up. Listen, if your back is giving you problems, come by tomorrow around two.”

  "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Keep your head up, Carmen."

  Tomasso walked out, and I took my customer off hold. "Sorry about that. Now what classes can I help you with? We've got ballet, jazz, hip-hop, and ballroom, if that's your thing."

  Chapter 7

  Dante

  I was getting ready for my evening shift at work when there was a knock on my door, and I flinched, cursing as my razor slipped and cut my cheek. "Motherfucker! Who the fuck could that be? Brad, I swear to God, if that's you, I'm going to kick your ass. I told you that—"

  I pulled open my apartment door to see Tomasso Bertoli standing in the narrow downward staircase, dressed in his custom tailored Italian suit. "Did I catch you at a bad time, Dante? I tried to call, but it kept going straight to voicemail."

  "Oh, ah, no, Mr. Bertoli," I said, stepping back. I felt something drip onto my chest, and I looked down to see a drop of my blood. "Sorry, I was just shaving for work and was startled when you knocked. What’s up?”

  Tomasso nodded, then looked around. "Mind if I come in? And get a cloth for that cut. It looks a bit nasty. What do you use, a Mach 3?"

  "No . . . dollar store special," I replied, snatching a washcloth from my kitchenette and pressing it to my face. "If you came about the stuff you lent me, I washed it today, but I didn't fold that laundry yet. Give me a minute, and I'll get it for you. Sorry if I've been slow in bringing it back."

  "Don't worry about it," Tomasso said. He closed the door behind him and looked around. "Not the biggest place I've seen. Saving up for something else?"

  “Um . . . no," I said, trying to play it cool. "Just finances are a bit tight right now, that's all. Want something to drink?”

  "No thanks," Tomasso said. "How long have you lived here?"

  "About four years now," I replied, going to my dresser and pulling out a white undershirt. "It's not the greatest, but the rent's cheap, and it's close to my part-time job."

  "I know. I checked into you after Friday night," Tomasso said. "Have a seat. Let’s talk. Are you scheduled to work tonight?"

  "Yeah, but not for about two hours," I replied, wondering why he was asking.

  I went over to my couch and sat down, making sure to keep the cloth pressed against the cut on my face. There was no need to have me dripping on my undershirt, after all. I tried to get comfortable, but to be honest, having Tomasso Bertoli standing in my crappy basement apartment while bleeding and getting ready for a shitty part-time job was a little intimidating.

  "Your reputation among a lot of the Bertoli men isn't the greatest," Tomasso said, finding the only other piece of furniture in my apartment, a rickety chair, and spinning it around, sitting in it reverse style. "In fact, since driving you home, I've been asking. You've got a penchant for picking up unflattering nicknames."

  I wanted to argue, but the way he said it, there wasn't any derision in it, just him laying out the facts. I sat back, frustrated. "A few fuckups in the past, and you get labeled for years. Sometimes for life."

  “Maybe,” Tomasso replied, crossing his arms on the back of the chair. "But sometimes, you can change it. With hard work and a little luck.”

  “But you can't just depend on luck," I said. "If I kept sitting around waiting on luck, I'd be living in worse than this apartment."

  Tomasso looked around, nodding in agreement. "It's not the best place I've seen, but it's not the worst. That reminds me. Speaking of reputations, what do you know about Carmen?"

  "Nothing," I said honestly. "I figured she was a friend of your family, but that’s it."

  "Nobody said anything about her to you?" Tomasso asked, his voice intense but not threatening. "Someone disrespected her and is spreading rumors. I’m just trying to find out who."

  I shook my head. "Nobody. In case you don't know, not too many people talk to me, at least not in your circle. So no, nobody said a thing to me about Carmen. I didn't even know her name until after the tussle with your brother-in-law."

  I was getting angry, and I took a deep breath. Tomasso was the last person I wanted to say something to that I shouldn’t. Besides, it wasn’t him that I was mad at. Still, he noticed, and his eyes tightened slightly. "Why do you do that?"

  "What?" I asked, sitting back.

  "Get angry, then choke off the anger. I've seen you do that before, on Friday, when Eduardo gave you that half-assed apology."

  "What's the point of being angry?" I replied, looking down. "Just gets me into trouble."

  “And sometimes, it gives you the courage to do stupid but brave shit. Like when you tackled an arrogant jackass into a pool, even though you probably took the worst of it.”

  "I did, but I'd do it again, like I said."

  "Which is why I'm going to do what I'm going to do," Tomasso said, standing up. "My father wants me to take the next step in taking over for him.”

  "Congratulations," I said, confused. “But what's that got to do with me?"

  "Well, part of that is me getting my own crew," Tomasso said. "Dad's decided to have me be in charge of a group of operators, with those people not answering to anyone but me. They answer to me and me alone."

  “That's a lot of responsibility," I said, impressed and at least somewhat happy for him. "So who's your crew?"

  "Me, obviously," he said, "And Luisa's going to be my lieutenant. You'd expect that. According to what my father told me, that leaves me up to four more slots. I'd like you to be one of those people."

  Silence dropped over the room, and I stared at Tomasso stupidly, shocked. "What did you just say?”

  “I said I want you to be one of the four,” Tomasso said, a grin breaking out on his face. “What do you say?”

  "Why me, though? You could have had your pick of the best of the Bertoli men.”

  "I could have, but I’m looking to the future. This crew, they're going to be the people that form the nucleus of the Bertoli organization's next generation. I don't need people at their peak now. I need people who have the potential to grow and become better. And you showed me a spark of potential Friday."

  "I don’t know what to say,” I said, shaking my head. I blinked and wiped at my chin, seeing that the blood had stopped. "This could backfire on you."

  "It could," he agreed, "but then again, it could make me look like a genius. Which brings me to one of the things I need to tell you before we shake on this and make my offer official. You've got a lot of hard work you're going to need to put in."

  I nodded, a growing sense of excitement forming in my belly. “I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this.”

  I saw Tomasso's eyes flash, and he nodded. "Good. But if you're going to work for me, I need you to be a lot better than what you are. So here's what we're going to do. First, you're going in to work to tell them you quit. Then you're going to get your school supplies."

  "School supplies?" I asked, slightly confused. "Like what?"

  "A decent suit, for one, and some other clothes. I won't have you working for me looking like a thrift shop case. There’s more, but I’ll text you a list."

  "Uh . . . that won't work," I said, reddening. "My phone doesn't work right now."

  "What do you mean? I thought you said you left it at your apartment," Tomasso said, confused. “Whatever. I’ll write it down, and we’ll get you set up with another phone."

  Tomasso started to han
d me the note, then wrote one more thing down. “By the way, Carmen’s a dance instructor as well as a masseuse. You're going to need her services with what I'm going to put you through. All my men are going to be in tip-top shape. Here's the rest of the list. You've got less than two days to get this all put together. You're going to come to the house the day after tomorrow, eight in the morning, your suit in a hanging bag and wearing your workout clothes. We'll start with your training then."

  Tomasso reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “This should cover everything to get you going. We'll start on the rest of the financials on Wednesday."

  Tomasso went to the door, opening it before stopping and snapping his fingers. "Wait, I forgot something."

  "What?" I asked, my eyes going to the stack of cash on the counter of my kitchenette. Between that and what I still had from Friday night, I hadn't seen that much cash that I could call my own in years, maybe since my father died.

  Tomasso turned and smiled, sticking out his hand. "Welcome to the crew."

  An hour later, after quitting my job and even getting to say a few words to the manager that I’d been dying to say, I got back in my car, relishing the fact that it turned over so easily now with a new battery. The engine actually sounded happy for the first time in more than a year. Oh, it still was in major need of a detailing and a wax, but those could wait. I had supplies to pick up.

  My first stop was to a men's clothing shop, where I let myself be measured and tried on a few suits.

  "How long will it take for you to get this done? I need it by the day after tomorrow."

  "It'll cost you a bit extra, but we can have it ready by five tomorrow afternoon," the seamstress said, ticking a box on her slip. "Okay, get dressed, and I'll get the salespeople to ring this all up."