The Man in Black_A Standalone Mafia Romance Read online

  The Man in Black

  Chicago Syndicate, Volume 9

  Soraya Naomi

  Published by Soraya Naomi, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE MAN IN BLACK

  First edition. August 9, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Soraya Naomi.

  Written by Soraya Naomi.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 2 | Michael

  CHAPTER 3 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 4 | Michael

  CHAPTER 5 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 6 | Michael

  CHAPTER 7 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 8 | Michael

  CHAPTER 9 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 10 | Michael

  CHAPTER 11 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 12 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 13 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 14 | Michael

  CHAPTER 15 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 16 | Michael

  CHAPTER 17 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 18 | Michael

  CHAPTER 19 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 20 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 21 | Michael

  CHAPTER 22 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 23 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 24 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 25 | Michael

  CHAPTER 26 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 27 | Michael

  CHAPTER 28 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 29 | Michael

  CHAPTER 30 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 31 | Michael

  CHAPTER 32 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 33 | Michael

  CHAPTER 34 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 35 | Michael

  CHAPTER 36 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 37 | Michael

  CHAPTER 38 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 39 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 40 | Michael

  CHAPTER 41 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 42 | Michael

  CHAPTER 43 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 44 | Michael

  CHAPTER 45 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 46 | Michael

  CHAPTER 47 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 48 | Michael

  CHAPTER 49 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 50 | Michael

  CHAPTER 51 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 52 | Brielle

  CHAPTER 53 | Michael

  CHAPTER 54 | Brielle

  EPILOGUE | Michael

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS | Soraya Naomi

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE NOVEL

  Sign up for Soraya Naomi's Mailing List

  "Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply in our being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable." ~ Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

  CHAPTER 1

  Brielle

  “ARE YOU DONE, BRIELLE? I’m going home,” chef Gianni says, sliding his hat over his bald head as I wipe the grey-veined white marble countertop.

  “I’ll clear out the desserts and then I’m going too.”

  “Okay. Good night.” He waves and strolls out the door into the restaurant, leaving me alone in the enormous kitchen.

  I place the leftover chocolate cake and tiramisu in a box and move along the counter that spans the length of the wall toward the walk-in refrigerator, my shoes clicking off the black tiled floor as I go. Opening the door, I step inside and turn to the empty shelves at my left but freeze when I hear a noise; however, it remains quiet, so I slide the container onto the top shelf, expelling a puff of air as I rush back out.

  My gaze travels to the black island in the middle of the room that has the same white marble countertop and five silver bar stools placed in front of it. On one wall are the stainless steel appliances – a triple-bowl sink, four ovens, and three stoves with a square silver exhaust hood hanging high above the cooktops, the rim of it decorated with a variety of olive oil bottles from Italy. The connecting wall stores a row of dishwashers built inside charcoal cabinets, giving the entire space the contemporary look of an oversized residential kitchen.

  I can’t believe I’ve just had my first workday as the pastry chef at Palermo, a posh establishment in the Chicago Loop. Smiling, I continue on to the door and take my salmon jacket from the coat rack next to it, slipping my arms into the sleeves and winding my wool scarf around my neck. After I sling my purse over my shoulder, I flip the first button on the light switch that turns off the spotlights above the island, but when I notice something lying on the corner of it, I tread forward. Seeing a pistol, I whip my head around to check if I’m alone, and I get nervous when I realize that everyone except the host left after Palermo closed half an hour ago.

  So why the hell is there a gun in here? And who left it?

  I shift to the door and open it to find an empty restaurant.

  “Hello?” I call out, but no one answers, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

  Returning to the island, I reach for the pistol and pick it up. It’s a heavy semi-automatic and it appears to be a nice one.

  If someone here has a license to carry a gun, why would they be so irresponsible and leave it lying around?

  Then, without warning, I hear a screech and a deep voice speaks, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Spinning around with the weapon in hand, I impulsively direct it at an imposing frame that darkens the doorway, shrieking, “Who are you?!”

  He slowly cocks his head yet doesn’t respond, exhaling in apparent annoyance.

  “How did you get in here?” I demand, trying to look past his shoulder.

  “Lower. The. Gun,” he orders, ignoring my question.

  So I retort, “No. Who are you and how did you get in here? The restaurant is closed. And come out of the shadows!” I start to sweat from anxiety. “You’re freaking me out!”

  He steps out of the darkness, prowling toward me like a large, predatory cat as our gazes clash, and I’m momentarily awed by the ruthless beauty of his angular face and sculpted lips. His jet-black hair is fashionably long on top and casually disheveled, as if he’s brushed his fingers through the shiny layers, making his ashy-grey eyes more noticeable. His fitted black suit hides a muscular physique that must be over six feet tall, and there’s a commanding ease in his movements as he stops right in front of the barrel of the revolver.

  “I’m freaking you out? You’re aiming my gun at me,” he says with deadly calm, his tone flat but sharp, before he casts me a chilling glare. A flush of scarlet creeps up from his collar to his temple, and it appears as if he wants to strangle me for touching his weapon.

  Instantly, panic pounds in my chest.

  CHAPTER 2

  Michael

  “I’M FREAKING you out? You’re aiming my gun at me,” I tell her, aggravated, as I meet her flame-bright green eyes that are heavily lashed and filled with the tiniest bit of rebellion.

  “Who are you?!” she repeats, her voice smoky and not at all what I would’ve expected.

  I clench my jaw and point out, “We’ve met, Brielle. I saw you upstairs with the owners earlier tonight.”

  I recall meeting her because of the silver bracelet around her wrist that brings back memories better left in some dark place in my mind, and I wonder who she is exactly or if she has an ulterior motive for working here. Although it seems that she doesn’t know of me at all.

  She wrinkles her small nose, dragging my focus to her lips that are naturally pink and remarkably full. And with her wavy blonde hair
pulled back, secured with a comb at her crown and left to spill over her shoulders, I notice how young she looks. The dimple on each cheek also suggests a certain innocence.

  When she pauses, seemingly debating over what she should do, I let out an impatient sigh. Being Valentine’s Day, it’s been rough, and I’ve been in a foul mood all night as seeing couples celebrating has only reminded me of what I’ve lost. As a result, I forgot my Smith & Wesson when I set it down five minutes ago, which is negligent and unlike me. Moreover, it’s dangerous since I have an organization to protect.

  I snap my fingers to get her attention and add, “I’m the security director of Palermo.” Which is partly the truth, but hopefully, it explains why I carry a gun, even though that’s something she shouldn’t have ever discovered. It’s obviously not customary for restaurant security to be armed, but we’re not a regular restaurant – the staff isn’t aware of that fact, however.

  Still, she seems to doubt me, and I finally lose my patience, moving toward her and driving her backward. Then, lightning fast, I smack the gun down, spin her around while I hook my arm around her chest to trap her, and with my free hand, I try to seize my piece, but she has a surprisingly strong grip on it.

  “Stop it!” With her back to my front, her ass presses into my groin as she struggles against me, her medium height putting her right at my chin.

  And even though her heavy fur coat and loose-fitting black slacks mask her figure, I can clearly discern the shapely contour of her hips.

  When she turns her head and looks up, our noses bump, her perfume distracting me for an instant with its unique sweet jasmine smell before she insists, “This isn’t necessary. Let go of me!”

  Growling, I command, “Hold still and I will. If you’d lowered the gun sooner, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “Let go!” she persists, and when she tries to come closer to my face, I release her as if she’s burned me, the nearness too much for me to handle, and she scoots away, nearly hissing at me while still holding my weapon.

  “So do you remember me?” I ask.

  Her scowl deepens, and since she glances away, I’m positive she’s lying when she says, “No, I don’t. And you didn’t have to manhandle me!”

  “Trust me, I wasn’t manhandling you. You’re lucky I’m too tired for this right now.”

  Her eyes round slowly in indignation.

  Christ! Did I offend her?

  “Oh, am I lucky? You leave a gun lying around in my kitchen—”

  “Your kitchen?” I cut her off, and she furrows her delicate brow. “It’s the owner’s kitchen.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t,” I throw back, and she gives me a stony stare before switching topics.

  “And it’s pretty reckless of the security director to forget his gun. Why do you even need one? This is just a restaurant.”

  Fuck! She can’t discover who I really am, so I tell her, “This is a high-end restaurant that the rich and famous visit. To ensure nothing happens, I carry a gun.”

  “Only you? Or does the bouncer have one too? And shouldn’t management inform us about that to avoid these kinds of situations?” she inquires further.

  “Christ, you ask a lot of questions.”

  “Can you blame me?” She squares her shoulders. “I think it’s irresponsible, not to mention dangerous, for you to lose your gun.”

  “I didn’t lose it,” I defend, and then I take in a breath – I’m not letting this slip of a girl bait me. Regardless, I need to do damage control to cover up, so I continue to lie, “I’m the only person who has one, and there’s no need to tell anyone. It’s for your protection too.”

  “Somehow, you with a gun doesn’t make me feel safe,” she insults, and I suddenly realize that this girl has caused me to get entirely off track.

  I hold out my hand. “Give. Me. My. Gun.”

  She brings it up in astonishment, as though she’d also forgotten she still had it during our argument, just as, unexpectedly, the door behind me opens and a guard calls out, “Michael, can we lock up?”

  I crane my neck to answer him, hearing a clank at the same moment, and when I look back, I see that the blonde has placed my gun on the island.

  Then she hurriedly says, “You guys can lock up. I was just going.” Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and marches to the fire exit at the opposite end of the kitchen.

  “We’re not done, Brielle!” I warn her right before she sends me a disdainful glance and crosses the threshold. “I’ll find you and we will finish this.”

  The door shuts behind her as I shake my head at the odd encounter. She knows I’m management here, so why is she running from me?

  “Michael?” the guard speaks.

  “Yes, we can go. I just had an altercation with the pastry chef,” I grind out and grab my piece to stash it in the back of my waistband.

  Following him out, I smack a floating heart-shaped balloon out of my path, wanting to be home but knowing I won’t find peace in sleep.

  “DON’T BE NERVOUS, RACHEL,” I whisper to my fiancée, who’s standing next to me as guests arrive to our palatial white mansion on the outskirts of East Hampton Village for our announcement.

  “I’m not,” she assures me, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear while she clutches my hand.

  Out of the blue, a loud bang echoes through the air. Shots ring out and mayhem ensues. People scream, dodging behind furniture while uninvited men barge inside my house, glass bursting around us as they recklessly spray the room with gunfire. Everything in chaos, bullets fly free and smoke drifts in front of my eyes, so I cover Rachel, but when she collapses in my arms, we topple behind the couch.

  “Rachel!” I shout, turning her over, and my hand becomes wet when I grip her side.

  Angry red lines of blood form across her chest as her head lolls back, and I shake her, yelling her name. Pressing my fingers into the pulse at her ear, I feel nothing while my men around me overpower the attackers.

  I fire up into a sitting position, drenched in sweat, even though I’m wearing just my black boxers, my heart racing. Then I look around, calming down when I realize I’m in the sanctuary of my bedroom in the Chicago Loop, far away from the horrendous event I left behind in New York.

  It’s been exactly four months since Rachel died due to business gone wrong while I was the boss of the New York mafia. She was a civilian who fell in love with me, giving up her normal life to be a part of my merciless world. However, while she offered me love, in return, I gave her death, something I’ve seen way too much of in my thirty-three years.

  I lie back down, yet, as usual, sleep doesn’t come. A sense of aching remorse seeps relentlessly through my blood. Everyone said the pain of losing her would lessen with time. That time heals all wounds. But this wound keeps festering, and I don’t anticipate it stopping anytime soon.

  Wanting to escape my own thoughts, I get out of my king-size walnut platform bed at the crack of dawn. As I cross the wide expanse of the master suite to go into the bathroom, I’m reminded of the desolate loneliness I constantly feel in my chest. Although sometimes I wonder if it’s sheer regret that’s eating me up inside.

  After taking a quick shower, I put on my black dress shirt and one of my custom tailored suits. And for the first time in four months, I think about another woman besides Rachel when the pastry chef, whom I still have a bone to pick with, pops into my mind, our encounter of last night giving me a whole new set of worries. I loathe that Brielle caught me during an irresponsible moment. A moment no one can discover, so I’ll have to search her out and make sure she understands to keep her mouth shut. Also, I need to dig into Brielle’s past due to that damn bracelet of hers that fills me with questions.

  WHEN I ARRIVE AT PALERMO, I make my way past the tables in the dining room to the staircase and climb up to the balconied second floor where the office of the owner, Adriano, is located. Opening the door, I see that the entire mana
gement team is present – five men, all wearing expensive suits similar to mine.

  “Good morning,” Adriano greets, seated at his glass desk in front of the arched windows, casually smoking a cigarette, as Luca, the co-owner, sits beside him.

  “I was just telling them that the opening went fantastic last night,” Carmine says, sinking down into a padded chair opposite Adriano and next to Logan and Henry, who pockets his black-rimmed glasses.

  “The host told me we’re booked with reservations until fall,” Luca puts in.

  “That’ll make it a lot easier to keep running our money through the restaurant,” Carmine responds as I stand beside Henry.

  Together, the six of us form the highest ranks of the elite Chicago Syndicate – Adriano is the boss, Luca is his underboss, Logan is head captain, Carmine acts as Consigliere/counselor, Henry is our hacker, and in reality, I’m actually the head guard of the Syndicate, not simply the security director of this restaurant.

  The Syndicate rules the import and distribution of the purest heroin and cocaine in the state of Illinois, and we have a legion of captains who take care of the actual drug dealings in and around Chicago. We also have powerful associates in high places ranging from local law enforcement to the federal government and everywhere in between.

  Our center of operations is here at Palermo, which is a chic Italian restaurant with an underground bar that we use as a front to launder money and to make us appear to be law abiding entrepreneurs.

  Adriano and I both joined the mafia in our early twenties, yet while Adriano stayed in Chicago after graduating business school, I went to the New York Syndicate and became boss for a year before resigning from the position after Rachel’s death.

  I decided to transfer to Chicago a month ago because I’ve grown accustomed to this lifestyle and I couldn’t go back to being poor. Besides, once you’re in the mafia, there’s no life outside of it, and since Adriano and I are mafia brothers, he welcomed me back and made me security director.