Dom's Ascension Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MAKING ANGEL SNEAK PEEK

  DIAL A FOR ADDISON SNEAK PEEK

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MAKING ANGEL SNEAK PEEK

  DIAL A FOR ADDISON SNEAK PEEK

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  By

  Copyright © 2017 by Harley Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  Dedicated to:

  my bestie, Piper, who doesn’t let anyone get in my way… especially not me.

  Thanks for your steadfast friendship, your brutal honesty, and your unwavering support.

  I love you!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dominico

  April 4, 1992

  IT WAS SATURDAY night and I’d been hustling since early morning. With my sights fixed on the black Porsche 911 in front of me, anticipating the party it would soon drive me to, I almost got my ass handed to me in the parking lot of my father’s casino.

  Thankfully, my friend, Mario, had my back and was paying attention. “Heads up, Dom, we’ve got company,” he whispered, nodding behind us before slipping away.

  Head down, I kept walking, pretending not to notice the two sets of footsteps closing in on me. It would take a special kind of stupid mother-fucker to believe he could jump me on my own turf.

  “Hey you, hold up!”

  I recognized the fake southern drawl of the cowboy from tonight’s poker game. At least it wasn’t one of the rival families. Just some chooch—some moron—in search of his pride after Mario and I had cleaned out his wallet during the game.

  Taking a deep breath, I halted my steps and spun around to surprise them with an attack. A fist came flying at my face, not connected to the cowboy from tonight’s game. I didn’t recognize the attacker, who was all corded muscle with a thick-neck and a hard expression. Probably in his late thirties, a thug hired to intimidate, but didn’t know how to fight. He’d overcommitted to the punch and when I dodged, he lost his balance. Before he could recover, I countered with an uppercut, striking the bottom of his chin with a crunch, ringing his bell good for him.

  In the seconds it took him to get his bearings, I stepped back and scanned the area. The wannabe cowboy, Dean Jones, watched from the opposite side of a silver sedan. Wearing a black felt cowboy hat, a teal western shirt with honest-to-god ruffles, and a shit-eating grin, Dean was so busy watching the fight he didn’t see Mario circling back around.

  Not wanting to draw attention to my sneaking friend, I turned back to the hired thug. He raised his fists like some sort of boxer and came at me again. Did he expect me follow suit? Like I’d be stupid enough to box someone twice my size. Not hardly. I kicked him in the kneecap. His body bucked to the side and he limped a step backwards, mouth gaping open as he stared at me like I’d broken some cardinal rule. I laughed, enjoying myself. The bastard had jumped me in a casino parking lot and expected me to fight fair? I was about to show him a thing or two about fighting dirty when the sound of a round being chambered drew my attention.

  Mario had never been a fighter, claiming his hands were far too valuable to be busting up faces. My friend was possibly the best card shark in all of Vegas, with a sleight of hand that even the Pope would call a gift. Because he didn’t fight, Mario always came heavy and never hesitated to draw. He pressed the business end of his Glock 19 against Dean’s side. The hired thug limped another step back and raised his hands in surrender.

  “Easy there,” Dean said to Mario. “We’re just messin’ with the kid.”

  “Messin’ with me? I’m disappointed in you, Dean.” I tutted. “Having your guard dog jump me from behind? Fuckin’ coward. You should have come at me yourself, and from the front, like you had some balls.”

  “It’s the jeans,” Mario said. “My god, they’re so tight I bet you can’t even bend over. Probably cut off the blood flow and shriveled his twig and berries right up.”

  Dean looked from me to Mario. “I knew that game was fixed.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Dean must have had at least two brain cells to rub together after all. Of course Uncle Carlo’s “executive poker game” was fixed. Only the high rollers with more money than power and brains were invited. The buy-in was three grand, the drinks were strong, and the servers were built and dressed to distract while we ran the table. Mario played the part of some dumb kid who’d come to town to blow his newly-received inheritance, and I pretended to be the bored son of a traveling tycoon. I’m sure most of the losers knew they’d been played, but sucked down their free cocktails and slunk back to their room to lick their wounds and reinvest whatever cash we’d let them walk away with. Rarely did anyone hire muscle and come after us.

  “Oh no, Dom. We got a real scholar on our hands. What should we do?” Mario asked.

  I chuckled and patted both men down. Dean had a knife in his pocket but was otherwise clean. His associate had a pistol. I pocketed the knife and released the safety on the gun before pointing it at my attacker.

  “Just give me back the money you stole and we’ll be on our way,” Dean said. “I won’t even rat you out to the other players or the casino management.”

  Mario and I had their guns, and the dipshit was threatening us? I laughed. “Cowboy, you’re in no position to negotiate, and your money is long gone.”

  Funds were allocated even before the poker game started. My father—our family boss—took his cut off the top. Next came Uncle Carlo’s management fee. He was the family underboss, or second in command. Incidentals and staff were paid, and then the remainder was split between me and Mario. The two of us had each walked away with a little over five grand. It was a drop in the bucket compared to the thirty-three large we’d lifted from Dean and the rest of the shmucks at the table, and there was no way he would get a dollar of it back. Especially not while Mario and I held him and his crony at gunpoint.

  “Don’t be stupid, kid,” Dean warned. “You know I’m loaded. Lots of resources. I’ll find you and take back what you owe me.”

  “He’s got a point, Dom,” Mario said. “Maybe we should just shoot him so we don’t have to worry about it.”

  Most people underestimated Mario. Shy of six feet tall with a wiry build, his stature didn’t exactly strike fear into the heart of anyone. But his eyes were another story. Someth
ing terrifying raged deep within and when Mario got pissed, you could look into his eyes and see your death.

  Dean must have seen it now, because he paled.

  Good. It was time to let him know who he was dealing with. We weren’t some punk kids; we ran this city. Or, at least, we would someday. I glanced at my watch counting down the valuable minutes of free time I had remaining. Damn this idiot for keeping me from a much-needed good time. “No time. We’ve got a party to get to, remember?”

  “Can we call someone to clean up the mess for us?” Mario asked. “Anyone in the family owe you a favor?”

  Dean cut his eyes back and forth between us a couple times, and then he guffawed. “The family? That’s rich. Just because you’re Italian, you expect me to believe you’re part of some mafia family? Everybody knows the FBI chased the mobsters out of Vegas more than a decade ago.”

  Everyone knew what the mafia and the FBI wanted them to know. It helped common people sleep at night and politicians get reelected.

  “We gotta do somethin’ with them,” Mario said, jabbing his pistol into Dean’s side. “Any ideas?”

  We were toward the back of the parking lot, but I still didn’t want to chance being seen holding two idiots at gunpoint. That was almost as bad for business as leaving bodies lying around. Dean was a guest of the casino and loaded enough to buy friends who would miss him if he didn’t make it home. And my old man would kick my ass if I brought a police investigation to the doorstep of his casino.

  I gestured for Mario to follow me with Dean as I led his thug to the back entrance of the casino. I beat on the door until it swung open, and a soldier by the name of Dag filled the doorway. Dag stood about six feet tall and was three hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle. He had the jowls of a bulldog and the legs of a horse. I knew, because I’d been kicked by him while in training. Since his size and constant scowl frightened the guests, Carlo kept him stationed by the back door, which meant Dag spent most nights underutilized and bored out of his mind.

  “Yeah?” the big man barked.

  I stepped aside so he could see the men behind me. “Mario and I are running late for a…a meeting, and these two tried to jump us.” I pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of my pocket. “I’d deal with ’em myself, but I don’t got time, so I’d appreciate it if you could set ’em straight for me.”

  Dag grinned, and I had to force myself not to wince. His eyes lit up as he took my cash and stuffed it in his pocket. Then his two meaty paws reached past me, landing on a shoulder of each of the men. He yanked them forward and shoved them into the casino. “You betcha.”

  “Thanks, Dag. I owe you one.”

  His grin widened. “You don’t owe me shit, Dom. I’m lookin’ forward to this.”

  “Nothing above the shoulders. They’re guests, and you know how Carlo gets when guests come hobbling in with their faces all busted up. But make sure you let ‘em know what happens if they try to rat us out.”

  Dag gave me a hard look, conveying that he knew how to do his job, and then the door closed.

  My old man would beat my ass good if he found out I’d shirked my responsibility like that, but I rarely got a night off. I should be half-wasted with a girl on each knee by now. Besides, I’d just made Dag’s night and knew he wouldn’t go waggin’ his jaw.

  “All right,” I said, pocketing the stolen gun and palming my car keys. “Let’s hit that party.”

  As we walked away from the door, I wondered how much damage Dag would have to do before the cowboy realized the mob will always run Vegas.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annetta

  “THIS IS IT, Papa, the one I’ve been looking for,” I said, highlighting the help wanted ad. “Chef needed ASAP, knowledge of classic Italian dishes a must, come prepared to cook. None of that “prior experience necessary” nonsense. This has my name all over it!”

  My father smiled down at me, patting the back of my head, patronizing me with a kind gesture. At twenty-one, and freshly graduated from the Culinary Academy, I was in search of my first full-time job, not six and excited about being a butterfly in the school play. And I needed this, since the part-time grocery clerk position I’d held since high school wasn’t exactly a cocoon I could grow my wings in.

  “I thought we decided you were going back to school first,” Papa said.

  Here we go again.

  Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I reminded him of our last conversation about my future. “I love you, Papa, but I’ve passed all my classes and I have glowing recommendations from my instructors. I’m not going back to school. What I need now, is a real job so I can start paying off the loans you took out to make that happen.”

  “You let me worry about the loans while you focus on getting the best education you can.” He picked up the University of Nevada Las Vegas course catalog, which conveniently kept finding its way to our kitchen table, and thumbed through it like he didn’t have the whole thing memorized. “I know you want to cook, luce dei miei occhi.”

  Light of my eyes. The Italian term of endearment was sweet, and I’d always appreciated it, but lately it felt like Papa’s love for me was leaving him blind.

  “Want to cook? Papa it’s much more than that. This is my dream, and I’m good at it, you know I am. You promised you’d support me in this.”

  He sighed. “I know, and I do.”

  Hearing the hesitancy in his tone, I eyed him, waiting for the “but.”

  Instead, he let out another long, drawn-out sigh, finally relenting. “You’re right, it sounds like a great opportunity.” He plucked the phone from its wall base, untangling the cord as he held it out to me. “Call them and request an interview.”

  Since I was an adult, I didn’t need my father’s permission, but knowing I had his support made me feel like I could leap over even the tallest of hurdles. And no work history in the food industry had been an ankle-breaker for sure. I needed a little pep talk to get through this.

  “It says come ready to cook. If I could just get the opportunity to prepare some dishes for them…”

  “You’ll not only get the job, you’ll win over their hearts as well.”

  I accepted the phone, his endorsement giving me the courage I needed to make the call.

  ***

  The chef position was at Antonio’s, one of two five-star Italian restaurants in Vegas. Unable to contain my excitement, I practically pranced all the way from the bus stop and through the mahogany and glass doors, before skidding to a stop. Shy of nine thirty a.m., the restaurant wasn’t open yet, giving me the chance to gawk at its beauty in peace. I’d spent my entire life in Vegas, but had never seen the inside of Antonio’s. Dinner here wasn’t exactly in our family budget. Crystal chandeliers hung over mahogany tables draped with red and white checkered tablecloths to maintain the Italian feel. Pristine hardwood floors were accented with classy rugs that played off the colors in the drapes, the dark upholstered booths, and the custom moldings. I could almost picture my dishes on the table, placed before salivating guests who were ready to give us raving reviews. It was exactly the fine dining experience I’d dreamed of being a part of.

  “Can I help you?” someone asked.

  I snapped my jaw closed and turned to find the suited maître d’ watching me, his lips turned up in amusement.

  Feeling shabby and underdressed in my standard white chef coat and pinstriped pants, with my hair pulled back in a bun and a backpack of my mother’s old recipes slung over my shoulder, it was an effort to keep my back straight and my chin up.

  Confidence, Annetta, pretend you belong here.

  “Hi.” I gave him my friendliest smile. “I’m here to interview for the job. The chef job.”

  He nodded at my clothes. “I gathered that. Résumé?”

  I opened my backpack and pulled one out for him.

  He looked it over then nodded. “You’re early. Stay here and I’ll check and see if they’re ready for you.”

  He drifted behind a mirrored wall,
leaving me in the entrance with no clue what to do with myself. I picked up a menu and scanned the salads, appetizers, and entrées. There were a few dishes I didn’t recognize, but for the most part nothing sounded too difficult. The menu had room for additions, and I allowed myself to dream about adding a couple of my specialties. And removing a few of theirs.

  “Fettuccini Alfredo? Seriously? It’s not even Italian.”

  I smacked a hand over my mouth and glanced around, thankfully still alone. Nobody wanted the opinions of a freshly graduated chef with zero experience. Especially not before I got the job. Sliding the menu back onto the stack, I leaned against a booth and kept my mouth shut as I waited.

  Three other people dressed in chef coats showed, clustering around me as they checked out the restaurant.

  The maître d’ returned and showed us to an immaculate kitchen full of stainless steel industrial appliances. A few chefs were working on food prep, but we stepped around them and were each assigned to an empty station. A silver-haired stocky man with a slight overbite laid down his knife and turned to address us.

  “Hello. My name is Frank. I’m one of the chefs here and I’ve been asked to explain the duties of the position. If selected, you’ll be responsible for directing the preparation, seasoning, and cooking of all dishes while you’re on shift. You’ll be expected to participate in the planning and pricing of menu items, the ordering of supplies, and keeping of records and accounts. You’ll supervise and participate in cooking, baking, and food prep, as well as the scheduling and monitoring of kitchen personnel. This is not an entry-level position. However, we find ourselves down a chef unexpectedly and need to hire someone today. But only if we find the right candidate.”

  He paused, and his gaze drifted over us. I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. I straightened my shoulders and pasted a smile across my face, refusing to let some monotone who’d obviously memorized his script intimidate me.

  “We are aware that sometimes skills speak louder than experience, so management is giving each of you a rare opportunity to impress their taste buds before they look at your résumé. You will be expected to prepare an original Italian entrée, not on our menu.”