Men of Mayhem Page 4

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  Gian

  Lisa Cardiff

  Evangeline

  I hate silk boxers.

  Oddly, this thought floated through my mind as I threw Kevin’s last pair of blue silky boxers out the front window onto the tree-lined street. You’d think as his clothes, shoes, and other personal effects tumbled out the window of the brownstone, somebody would stop and ask me what the hell I was doing. That’s what would’ve happened in my hometown, but I lived in Brooklyn now, and nobody cared, or at least not enough to pull their ear away from their cell phone for one second to ask.

  My phone vibrated on the coffee table as I sat down on the couch and lifted the last sip of Bordeaux to my lips. Drunk, but vindictively happy, I had polished off two bottles of Kevin’s precious 2009 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild. I think it retailed for around two thousand dollars, and it probably wasn’t meant to be inhaled by one person over the span of an hour, but fuck it. I didn’t give a shit. When faced with the decision to throw them out with the rest of his crap or drink two bottles, I decided somebody might as well enjoy it. I had. There’s nothing like four thousand dollars of liquid courage to make me realize my seriously sad excuse for a life had to change.

  Picking up my phone, I contemplated Kevin’s tenth text message in the last two hours. The first one made me cry, but this one made me giggle hysterically. It was the kind of laugh that could only be found at the bottom of a bottle of wine…or two.

  Kevin: Evie, please forgive me. It will never happen again. I love you, only you. Nobody can replace you. You’re my everything.

  I guess I preferred it to his initial excuse, when he tried to convince me the sex meant nothing, that it had been part of the creative process. Seriously, did he really think I was an idiot? Yes, he did, and I didn’t disagree. Somehow, over the last year he sucked the life out of me until I turned into a shell of my former self.

  As the last of my tears dried on my face, I considered throwing my phone out the window with the rest of his stuff. After all, he paid for the phone, the brownstone, my car, my clothes, my shoes, and my entire fucking life. Not one thing in this entire apartment belonged to me. I should probably throw myself out the window and leave the rest of the shit here because other than me, every last item belonged to him.

  I picked up one of his shiny white marble coasters, sitting on his perfectly polished espresso stained coffee table. I rolled it between my fingers before I tossed it at the original artwork of Ana Ivanka, his latest conquest in the art world. Foolishly, I believed his little protégés were just learning the ropes from the incredibly talented and renowned Kevin Ryder. Apparently, I had missed the mark by a football field wide margin. But now I understood it clearly. For Kevin, the ropes meant painting and fucking. Mostly fucking.

  Dumb, right? No wonder none of his protégés were men. He claimed it had something to do with the creative synergies between men and women, which in reflection, really meant, “I like fucking random artists on the side.”

  Granted, I missed plenty of clues over the last year. No, missed didn’t adequately describe my behavior.

  Dismissed.

  Rationalized.

  Ignored.

  Overlooked.

  All four words more accurately described my behavior when the truth flashed in front of my face like a neon sign on a daily basis.

  I could attribute my behavior to many things, but it all came down to one defining event. Exactly one year ago, I’d ruptured my Achilles tendon while auditioning for what could’ve been my third role on Broadway. At the time, reviewers heralded me as the next big star. I was a shoo-in for a lead part, or so all my friends in the know told me.

  But like all good things, my life had been ripped apart in a matter of seconds. One minute I leaped into the air, the next I landed and rolled my ankle. I heard a snap just before flames shot up my leg. I didn’t need to see a doctor to know it was more than a sprain.

  Unable to work and lacking resources, I desperately clung to all the remaining pieces of my life. At the time, that meant investing my energy in my relationship with Kevin. In retrospect, I should’ve packed my meager belongings and caught the first flight home.

  Now, I found myself in the same situation, only amplified one hundred times. I didn’t have any money, aside from the three hundred dollars in my wallet and the joint bank account I shared with Kevin, but I refused to touch it. I hadn’t contributed any money to the account.

  Dropping my head into my lap, I screamed a slightly unhinged and utterly unbalanced cry. It didn’t even begin to relieve the stress building inside my body with every passing second. What could I do? I was jobless, moneyless, and homeless, or least when I rallied enough courage to walk out the door.

  When I left my mom’s house two and a half years ago, she warned me New York would eat at my soul until I became nothing but a hollow shell. I laughed in her face because I didn’t think history would repeat itself. Unlike her, I wouldn’t settle for being a second-rate dance and acting teacher in a little-known town in Nebraska. I refused to give up until I had the world in the palm of my hand.

  In my mind, I had more discipline and talent than my mom and that was all I needed. Unfortunately, neither of those things accounted for much in New York. It might open a door or two, but to keep that door open, I needed connections, lots of connections, more than a girl from Nebraska could ever dream of having, and a really good string of luck.

  Just then, the buzzer rang. I opened the door to find Carmela Trassato’s hopefully cautious face on the other side. I’d met Carmela in a coffee shop a few days after I moved to New York. Hopelessly lost, I asked her for directions to an audition, and she walked me there. We exchanged phone numbers, and slowly she became a permanent fixture in my life.

  “Hi, Evie.”

  “Hey, Carmela,” I responded, opening the door wider, welcoming her into my soon-to-be ex-apartment owned by my soon-to-be ex-fiancé.

  “I guess I’m a little late to stop the shit storm.” Carmela pushed her almost black hair away from her face as she looked around my normally meticulous apartment.

  “Yep, and I already drank his precious bottles of Bordeaux so I can’t even offer you a really good glass of wine.” I kicked the door shut with my foot, enjoying the black smudge my shoe made on the pristine white paint. Kevin would freak when he saw it.

  Carmela flopped down on the sofa, propping her feet on the coffee table, another thing that would drive Kevin crazy. He never liked Carmela. He said she was too aggressive, but that’s probably because she always called him on his lies and pretentious behavior. She saw through everyone. She had to. She came from a huge Italian family that I suspected had more than a few unsavory connections. She never admitted anything and anytime I questioned her, she changed the subject so skillfully I barely noticed until a few hours later.

  “Do you think he’ll let you stay here when he sees the debacle on the sidewalk?” Carmela picked up the empty bottle of wine and inspected the label.

  “He says it won’t happen again.”

  “And you believe him?” Carmela asked, raising her beautifully sculpted eyebrows, the kind you can only find in a salon.

  I sighed. “No. I’m not that dumb.”

  “Thank God.” She raised one hand into the air. “Finally. You’ve seen the light. Are you telling me I won’t have to endure another moment in his company?” She never referred to Kevin by his name. Instead, she referred to him as the prick, the art douche, or scecco, which I think loosely translated to jackass.

  I shoved her shoulder lightly. “About time, huh?”

  “No comment.” She tossed the
empty wine bottle on the floor. A few deep burgundy drops splattered on the white and black cowhide rug. “So what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t have one, but I’m done with Kevin.”

  A disbelieving look flashed across Carmela’s face, and even though I hated that she doubted my conviction, I understood. I had overlooked so much of Kevin’s crap in the past six months that I barely believed myself. “For good this time. I promise.”

  Carmela shifted toward me and pointed at my ankle. “How’s physical therapy going? Do you think you can start auditioning again?”

  My stomach bottomed out just like my life. My gaze fluttered around the room as I considered my words. I settled on the truth. “I’ve been lying to you. I haven’t gone in a really long time.”

  Her almond eyes narrowed. “What qualifies as a really long time?”

  I rubbed my tear stained face. “I haven’t been to rehab in nine and a half months. I haven’t tried to dance since the day I fell.” My voice wavered, and I wondered when Evie from Nebraska disappeared and this weak, pathetic girl hijacked her body. If someone told me I would be in this position after living in New York for a little over two years, I wouldn’t have believed it. I was better than this. A better dancer. A better actress.

  Somehow, after I met Kevin my life fell apart—first my career, then my ambition, and slowly my friends disappeared one by one, except Carmela. Now, I only had a worthless ex-fiancé to show for my life.

  “Do you still want to act on Broadway?”

  “I do, but every time I think about what the doctor said, I want to curl into a ball and die.”

  The corners of her lips tugged down into a frown. “The doctor said if you finished rehab, you could dance again.”

  I rubbed my hands along my thighs. “Not exactly. He said I might be able to dance again, but that he couldn’t guarantee anything.” I lowered my voice. “A ruptured Achilles tendon can be a career-ending injury for a dancer.”

  “So you gave up without knowing for sure.”

  “I was busy.” Even as I said the words, I realized they were a lie. In actuality, the thought of packing up my bags and crawling back to Nebraska scared me to death. When Kevin proposed, I seized the opportunity to focus on something other than the end of my childhood dreams. I put my career on hold and micromanaged every detail of our wedding plans.

  Carmela jumped up and clapped her hands together. “Well, let’s pack your stuff and get you out of here before Kevin shows up. I’m not sure you’re strong enough to face him yet.”

  I would’ve argued with her, but Carmela knew the truth, so I didn’t bother. “Where to? I don’t have money to rent my own place.”

  Carmela looked pointedly at my finger, where I still wore my two carat custom designed wedding ring. “Pawn your engagement ring. It will pay for a few months of your living expenses and physical therapy. But tonight, you have me, and that means you can stay at my place until you figure out how to put the pieces together.”

  Exhaling loudly, I twisted the ring on my finger, contemplating pawning it for cash. I never liked it. I told Kevin I wanted a sapphire, not a diamond, and something rough-cut, not refined and uptight like the ring he designed for me. He never listened to me. Everything revolved around him and what he wanted.

  When Kevin had to work late, I convinced myself he had to finish a few commissioned paintings.

  When I saw a red lipstick stain on his collar, I attributed it to paint.

  When he spent an entire party introducing his protégée to all of his friends and ignoring me, I called him a good mentor.

  “Don’t you think I should give it back?”

  Carmela’s eyebrows shot up. “No, you caught him screwing another woman in his art studio. Consider it your severance package.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Which part?” she questioned.

  “Both.” I took off the ring and stuffed it into my pocket. It didn’t mean anything, and all things considered, it never had. “I feel so dumb,” I mumbled.

  “Why? He took advantage of you. He should feel dumb. You, on the other hand, should feel lucky you found out before you married him.”

  I shoved my tangled strawberry blonde hair away from my face. “Not about the cheating, although that is embarrassing, but after we’d been dating for a month, I asked him what color my eyes were.”

  “And?” she said, her eyebrows furrowed as she planted her hands on the sides of her hips.

  “He said blue. Can you imagine? My eyes aren’t even close to blue. What a fucking loser.”

  She shook her head.

  “He could have said brown or hazel, but no, he said blue. I shouldn’t have talked to him again after that, but I kept making excuses because I wanted the fairy tale.” I tipped my head to the ceiling. “Now look at me.”

  “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  I scoffed. “Broken, depressed, and unemployable.”

  “No, you’re smarter and more worldly. Every girl needs a reality check now and then, and now that you’ve had yours, you’ll be smarter next time.”

  My phone vibrated on the coffee table again. “He’s getting impatient,” I commented, watching the phone skip across the slick, dust-free surface.

  “Then, let’s move.”

  Gian

  “No way, Carmela. I won’t even consider it.” I picked up a towel and wrapped it around the back of my neck as I walked out of my home gym. “Stop asking.”

  “Gian, you need a personal assistant, someone to stock your kitchen, water your plants, go to the dry cleaners, and stop by the house when you’re out of town,” she yelled after me. Her four-inch red heels clicked against the wood floors with every step. “You’re rarely home between running the nightclub and your social life. What’s the big deal? You’ll barely see her.”

  I halted mid-stride and turned around, glaring at my twin sister. “The big deal is that I don’t want a fucking assistant. I don’t need anyone nosing around in my business, especially someone who’s not family. I can’t have random people in my space. You know that. Besides, I don’t need anyone else when I have you.”

  Carmela folded her arms across her chest. “Evie isn’t random. She’s my friend, and I don’t have time to do any of that stuff for you. I have a life too, you know.”

  “I know you do, but I don’t want a stranger in my home.”

  She huffed. “Fine. Can you find a position for her at the club? She could do inventory or bartend.”

  “Does she have any experience?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but what’s so hard about counting bottles or pouring a drink?”

  “It’s a lot harder than it looks,” I murmured, rubbing the towel down the side of my face.

  She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes. “Please, Gianluca. I need you,” she said, drawing out my full name. I hated that name. Nobody called me Gianluca except our dad and strangers.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “No, and you’re going to help me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you’re my favorite brother, and you’re always there when I need you, and right now, my really good friend needs you, which by extension, means me.”

  “I don’t have any openings.”

  She clipped the back of my head with her open palm like my mom had when I was a kid. I fucking hated it. “Well, then, make one.”

  “Easy, Carmela. No need to get violent. I’ll find something.” I leaned my hip against the wall, placing myself out of striking distance. “Tell me about this friend.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, what’s her name?”

  She chewed on her lower lip for a second. “Evie Jeffers.”

  I lifted my eyebrows and placed my hands on my hips. “Am I supposed to know the name or something?”

  Carmela lifted one shoulder and then dropped it. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Gre
at.” I rolled my eyes. “Tell me what makes Ms. Jeffers so special.”

  “Like I said, she’s a close friend of mine, and she’s had a string of bad luck. She needs a break.”

  “What kind of bad luck?”

  “She’s an actress and—”

  I held up a hand, interrupting her story. I didn’t need to hear one more word. I dated an aspiring actress last year for three months. She tried to sell a sex tape of us to a few websites, thinking it would give her the exposure she needed to land a breakout role. I shoved my foot so hard up the buyer’s ass as soon as I got wind of it, and it never saw the light of day, but I learned my lesson. I’d had enough of fame whores to last me a lifetime. Besides, I needed to keep a low profile.

  I’d been promoted from soldier to capo six months ago when our dad’s health had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t work. At twenty-seven, I became the youngest capo in the Trassato crime family. If everything went my way, I’d be promoted to underboss or consigliere by the time I reached thirty-five. As for Dominick, the boss and my uncle, I wanted to position myself so I was on the short list to be his replacement when the time came.

  Without question, my promotion had pissed off a few people, and I couldn’t risk adding fuel to the fire. My dad only agreed to step down if I succeeded him. Some of the older soldiers didn’t like it—especially Carlo, but he could go fuck himself. Everyone knew he had the tendency to disappear when it came time to do the “heavy lifting.” He’d always make up some pathetic excuse about being sick or not knowing how to find the person.

  I may not have been around as long as Carlo, but I earned the promotion. I’d been doing my dad’s job plus mine for a solid year after my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Dominick didn’t fight my dad, which didn’t surprise me. He encouraged made men to nominate their sons for membership, believing it incentivized the members to keep the omertà, or the oath of silence.