The Woman at the Docks: A Mafia Romance

  Contents

  Title

  Rights

  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

  Epilogue

  A Note to Readers

  Also by Jessica Gadziala

  About the Author

  Stalk Her!

  The Woman at the Docks

  —

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ Oleggg

  Dedication

  To my readers.

  For demanding this one.

  Chapter One

  Luca

  The first time I saw a man murdered, I was seven years old, sneaking out from the backseat of my father's car, where he'd told me to stay, to keep an eye on my little brother.

  But at seven, curious, and resentful at having to babysit to a three-year-old who was still grieving the loss of our mother, I had given Matteo my comic book he wanted but I had always told him he couldn't play with, climbed out, and made my way through the long, abandoned parking lot.

  The smell of saltwater teased my nostrils, mixed with a distinctly fishy smell thanks to the low tide.

  The docks, that was what my father called this place. His business. I didn't understand what, exactly, he had to do at this place with the massive cranes and the endless shipping containers being moved off of ships and onto land. Or vise versa.

  I did know that he and all his men were always in suits, always had twinkling cufflinks and shiny watches, which made me think it had to be important work.

  But when I asked him what he did, all he responded with was I run the docks, Luca. That is all you need to know. For now.

  And, at that age, I was tired of being told for now or when you're older.

  I wanted to prove I was big enough to be a part of this secret world of his. Even if that meant I had to force my way in, so he could see that I was old enough.

  As I crept along the line of containers that I'd seen my father disappear between after meeting up with one of his men, Leandro, a tall, wide man who my father claimed 'clearly enjoyed his food a little too much,' had a thick accent that was from the Old Country, and a giant golden ring on his right thumb.

  My father had a lot of men, but Leandro was probably the one who was around the most, an almost constant fixture in our house after our mother's funeral.

  "For moral support," my father told me when I'd asked why Leandro was there for the third day in a row, sleeping in the guest room.

  I was pretty sure that was a lie, though, since there were also a lot of men outside our house, walking around, shining flashlights here and there when they thought they saw or heard something.

  I didn't understand why, but I knew it was strange, knew that it had only ever happened once before.

  A couple weeks before my mother died.

  I remembered her coming into my room, climbing into bed with me after checking on Matteo, wrapping me up, telling me what a big, strong boy I was, how I was going to become an even bigger, stronger man. Someone just like your father, she had told me proudly, kissing me on the temple. When I'd asked her why she was in my bed instead of her own, she'd told me that she was scared. When I asked of what, she told me that there were a lot of scary things in the world, which was why it was important I grew up to be like my father.

  I didn't understand, but it was nice to have her in my room, even if I would never admit that to my friends. Her hair always smelled like flowers. And her hands of onions because if she wasn't dressed up really nice and running errands, she was in the kitchen making big batches of food for us, for our friends, for our extended family.

  I had been especially broken after her death because I had gotten so accustomed to having her there in my room at night, closer than we had been since Matteo came into the world, taking some of her time away from me.

  But she was gone.

  And like my father and uncles had told me at the funeral, I had to be a man now.

  Which was what I was doing.

  Being a man.

  Doing what my father did.

  Just like my mother had wanted me to.

  I didn't know at the time what it would mean to be a man like my father.

  But each step I took along that concrete was taking me closer and closer to the reality that was his life.

  I had just broken into the space where the containers cleared from an alley and into a wider space when I heard my father's voice- calm and collected as it always was, never a man to lose his temper.

  Louder than that, though, was the sound of begging, whimpering, sniffling.

  Like someone was crying.

  Crying was something that seemed out of place to my young ears. Because I'd learned all through the hours after I'd been told that my mother was gone, through the days after, then the funeral, that it was good I was being so strong, that I kept my chin up, that I wasn't showing any weaknesses.

  Crying was not something I had ever seen from the men in my life. Not even when they grieved. My father's eyes had been hollow and devastated, but not water-filled. Not even when the casket was lowered into the ground. So I bit the insides of my cheeks, and blinked hard to make sure I didn't cry either.

  But this man standing across from my father, flanked by two of his men, had been sobbing openly, letting out words that tripped over one another, that ended up making no sense.

  I didn't know what was happening.

  But then my father's arm rose.

  A gun caught the moonlight.

  And a loud bang stole my breath as my body jolted downward automatically.

  And then the man slumped forward, blood around a hole in the center of his forehead.

  I swallowed back the bile that rose up in my throat, trying to take slow, deep breaths, not scream, cry, demand to understand what was going on.

  I guess it didn't matter.

  All I knew was this was what my father did.

  So this was what I would grow up to do.

  That meant that I needed to harden myself to it.

  I turned, walking on stiff yet shaky legs back to the car, climbed into the backseat, stared out my window.

  I didn't even bother to yell at Matteo for ripping the pages out of my comic book.

  Suddenly, comic books, and the men with guns inside of them, paled in comparison to real life.

  I was going to be someone in those stories.

  And it seemed like I was more than likely going to be the villain.

  Like my father.
r />   Who climbed back into the car like nothing had happened, telling us he would get us some ice cream when we got home because we were good and stayed in the car like he told us to.

  I spent the ride back coming to terms with my future.

  As a bad guy.

  Just like my father.

  I wasn't sure why those thoughts were on my mind while I drove to the docks when I hadn't given that night much thought in a couple decades.

  Maybe because the night was much like that one—hot, sticky, making me thankful for the air-conditioned seats in my car as I turned into the parking lot. The sky was like that night as well. Clear, a crescent moon bright overhead.

  It was later than it had been when I was a kid, though, well after two in the morning.

  I'd gotten the call as I had been doing the cash out at the restaurant, dashing my plans of going home, having a drink, and climbing into bed before four in the morning for a change.

  But that was the price you paid when you were taking over. Not fully. It was a process. My father wasn't quite ready to be done yet. And there was the issue with the Five Families in New York who would need to approve of my succession.

  But my father was certainly no longer the one who ran out in the middle of the night when there was an issue. That was my place.

  Leandro and his son Dario were standing there under one of the lights, likely melting in their suits, but refusing to take off their jackets. I left mine on as well as I cut the engine, climbed out of the car, grabbing the gun from under my seat as I went, a motion that was so innate at this point that I didn't even give it a thought.

  "Alright. What's going on?" I asked, approaching them.

  Times were tricky. And it meant you didn't discuss anything over the phone, over text. You never wanted shit leading back to you. So all I knew was I needed at the docks. All they knew was I would show up when I could.

  "We have someone sniffing around," Dario said, looking much like his father had in his youth, but with fifty fewer pounds. They had the same somewhat rounded faces, the dark, sunken eyes, the same wide shoulders.

  "Anyone we recognize?"

  There were always people sniffing around, looking to see if they could get into a container, steal something. We had security, but with an area as massive as this, there were ways around them if you were determined enough. And people often were.

  "No, she doesn't seem to be from around here."

  "She?" I asked, stopping on my way to the office to check out the cameras.

  "Yeah," Dario agreed, nodding. "Pretty thing too."

  "She's not here to meet a guy?" I asked, knowing we had issues with prostitution in the area thanks to a local street gang who didn't realize they needed to keep their asses on their own turf.

  "No. She's on a mission of some fucking sort," Leandro said, shaking his head. "Running around, looking at containers, definitely looking for something. Not someone."

  "You have Angelo keeping tabs on her?" I asked, approaching the squat, square brick building that acted as our main office. It wasn't much of a space, just a front room with a bathroom and sitting area, a reception desk that was empty at this time of night, then a hall that led to two offices. The one for my father, me, and my brother who rarely ever set foot in it. Then the other one, where security was set up.

  "What is she up to?" I asked as I opened the door, finding Angelo sitting there at the desk eight screens in a semi-circle around him, the desk littered with coffee cups and energy drink cans.

  "Looking at numbers on the containers and then shining a flashlight into the top corners of containers. For what reason, I don't have a fucking clue."

  "Where is she?" I asked, eyes scanning the containers.

  "Far left over by the shit that came in from South America yesterday."

  "Alright," I said, turning to walk back out. "Call me with updates if she moves."

  With that, I nodded to Leandro and Dario, watching them take off in the directions as I kept moving in straight toward the left side of the shipyard.

  Just because it was a woman didn't mean we were going to let down our guards. These weren't the old days where it was a boys-only club, this criminal underworld. These were new times, and women could be—and often were—the heads of their own empires. And, in my experience, could be even more ruthless than their male counterparts.

  Had I ever pulled a gun on a woman?

  No.

  But if it was about the survival of my business, I figured I would have to be willing to do that.

  In my experience, people tended to do a lot of talking when they were staring down the muzzle of a gun held by someone in the local mafia. We were top of the criminal food chain for a reason.

  And talking was what she would do when we found her. Because answers were what I was after.

  What, exactly, in my port was so important that it was worth risking her life for?

  Drugs was an easy answer. They were the most likely answer. They came through. I knew they did. The thing is, if you want to retain control of a port, you need not to rock the boat with the imports. The Russians, Chinese, Irish, the Yemeni mobs, along with every small organization with a large ego wanted the docks. Imports were where the money was. And it didn't come with the strife of running guns or kneecap breaking.

  Everyone wanted to take what was ours.

  Many had tried in the past.

  Clearly, none had succeeded.

  And none were going to on my watch.

  Pausing at one line of containers, I took a deep breath, listening to the sounds of the waves, the sirens in the distance, and, finally, the telltale sound of feet hitting the pavement.

  Then, the flash of light.

  Two rows away.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned in that direction.

  Only to hear fucking Dario's phone ringing.

  My eyes pressed close as I let out a silent sigh, preparing for the inevitable chase that was sure to follow now.

  And I would be the one who would be doing the chasing. Leandro was too old. Dario had a bum knee from high school football. I got up at the crack of dawn every morning to clear my head. And prepare my body for this possibility.

  The light clicked off.

  The footsteps paused.

  Then began again, faster.

  "Here we go," I grumbled, breaking into a run.

  Clearly, whoever this was, she'd been hanging around the docks more than I had lately. She weaved in and out of rows, sidestepping dead-ends I didn't know existed.

  How long had she been hanging around without being seen?

  That was a question for Angelo when all this was done. Someone was dropping the fucking ball.

  I caught sight of a body as it whipped around a fast corner. Tall, long-legged, long, dark hair flowing. That was it, though, no distinguishing characteristics to go on if she got away from me. And, it seemed, she was going to do just that.

  Within five minutes, we'd circled back around, my car in the center of the nearly abandoned lot.

  I'd somehow missed the tiny car parked by the side of the dumpster. Seeing her freedom, her body pushed forward, and with the distance already between us, there was no catching up to her as she jumped in, turned it over, whipping her hair back over her shoulders, giving me my first good look.

  I didn't know who she was, but she was fucking gorgeous.

  That dark hair tossed around an angular face—dark brows, tan skin, high cheekbones, oversized lips.

  She was lean and fit in black jeans and an olive tank top, her breasts heaving a bit as she tried to even out her breathing.

  Her gaze held mine for a short moment, eyes not victorious like you might expect after a foot chase that left her in the lead. No, they were defeated.

  But only for a second. Because then she slammed her foot on the gas, and peeled off.

  "Fuck, I thought for sure you'd have her," Dario said coming up beside me a moment later, huffing, hobbling.

  "I would have if yo
u had turned off your phone," I told him, tucking my gun away, feeling the sweat trickling down my back.

  "I know, Luca, I fucked up," he said, shaking his head.

  "She's looking for something. And she hasn't found it yet. I doubt she's done here. I need you to get some more men on this. If Angelo needs more help with the cameras, get someone on that too."

  "Already done," he agreed, going for his phone as I turned to make my way back to the office.

  "I have nothing for you, Luca," Angelo told me when I moved in behind him. "I'll try to run the plates. All I can tell you is she is gorgeous and must spend more time hitting the pavement than you do."

  "She's South American, most likely. That's something. I haven't heard about anyone stepping up from that part of the world. But we'll look into it. Until then, I need more eyes on these monitors, more feet on the ground. I'm having it all set up. You direct them when they get here. And I want first call if you see her again."

  "Will do, Luca. Again, sorry. There's no excuse."

  And there wasn't.

  At least he knew that.

  Knowing that the consequences of fucking up twice could mean him standing between containers with a bullet in his brain meant that he wouldn't let this shit happen again.

  "I want an update tomorrow. Someone needs to have answers for me."

  "We will have something," Angelo agreed, giving me a nod.

  "And have someone figure out what is coming in those containers from South America. If we can find what she is after, maybe that will lead to her."

  "Got it," he agreed, reaching for his phone, calling in his security crew.

  Half the organization would be pulling an all-nighter.

  Once upon a time, when I was the one doing the grunt-work, I figured I would feel guilty when put in the position of power.

  But the fact of the matter was, when you fucked up, it was your job to fix it.

  Security was lax.

  We'd known peace for too long.

  Clearly, the peace was over.

  And the new war was starting the way all the greatest wars have.