Monica Jewell is
determined to find the man who murdered her stepfather—even if she has to work
undercover to do it.
She suspects one
of Chicago’s top mobster leaders to be the killer. Justice needs to be served
even if she does it herself. When she meets the mobster’s incredibly handsome
chauffeur, Anthony Kelly, she worries he’ll become her worst distraction,
especially, when he takes liberties with her and steals a kiss—a kiss that
confuses her greatly. He works for the mob, which makes him a criminal, too.
He’s already
stolen her heart. What other crime will he commit?
“I’m going to kill
him with my bare hands!” Monica Lange bunched her hands into fists as a mixture
of anger and sorrow filled her soul in the wake of her stepfather’s death. Blinking
back the tears, she allowed rage to be the main emotion controlling her right
now. As she paced the floor in her stepfather’s den, her mind headed in one
direction—in the only direction it could.
“When I finally
meet Norman’s murderer,” she continued, “and just as I’m snatching the last
breath from him, the last words he’ll ever hear will be, you messed with the wrong woman. Then, when the man laughs in my
face—” She paused and peeked over her shoulder at her cousin, Anna, who sat on
the sofa, listening to Monica’s outrage, “—and I know he’ll laugh at me. Evil
men like him always think they are in control.” She gave Anna a sharp nod. “But
when he laughs, I’ll tighten my fingers around his throat and strangle the very
life right out of him.”
Her mind
envisioned this horrendous crime although she couldn’t see the murderer’s face.
The punishment fit the transgression. The pain in her heart over her
stepfather’s death weighed at least one-hundred pounds and she could scarcely
breathe from the heaviness crushing her chest.
Finalizing her
thoughts, she crossed her arms over her chest. The need for justice pumped through
her veins, and she took on the responsibility to see that justice was served
now. Waiting for the cops would be a waste of time. Yet, as she repeated the
words she’d just spoke in her mind, they didn’t sound realistic. Good heavens,
she was only a college student; twenty-three years of age, and the killer was
probably a large man.
Frowning, she added,
“Oh, blast it all! I can’t strangle him. He would be bigger and stronger than
me.”
Growling, she ran
her fingers through her long hair, lifting the thickness off her neck as she
pondered her next move. “Let’s see…how can I kill him?” She paused for a brief
second as she dropped her hands from her hair, making her locks fall to the
middle of her back. “I’ll stab him.” She glanced at her cousin again who sat
quietly on the only stitch of furniture left in the study. Anna was two years
older, and her expression was mixed with disbelief in Monica’s threat, and a
genuine maternal concern for her state of mind.
Ignoring her
cousin, Monica continued, “I’ll take Norman’s favorite knife and stab the
killer.” She made the motions through the air with her hand, emphasizing her
words. “I’ll keep on stabbing him until he’s dead.”
She stopped again,
rehashing it through her mind. Finally, she concluded this was indeed, doable.
She’d certainly be able to accomplish her goal now. Satisfaction filled her and
she smiled in triumph. “Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Justice will be served
nicely, don’t you think?”
Anna remained on
the couch, sitting very still. Not even an eyelash moved, although the look of shock
was still etched in her expression. Monica knew she’d surprised Anna. Usually Monica
wasn’t this violent or calculating. It was almost humiliating to have the avenging
demon inside her show itself in front of her cousin.
All during her
childhood, Monica had been the shy, demure child. There wasn’t a mean bone in
her body. Unfortunately, circumstances had changed drastically and she wasn’t a
child any longer. Nor was she going to allow her stepfather’s killer to get
away with what he’d done.
Hopefully, Anna
understood and would help. Monica had been losing control of her life since the
police told her last week that her stepfather had been murdered—a bullet
through the head. Then, three days later she found out his life-long business
had been sold right before he died, and yet not a dime of the money was in his
bank account. Nothing made sense anymore.
Although Norman
wasn’t her biological father, he was more of a parent than the first man who’d
been married to her mother for a short while. The early years of Monica’s life,
her grandmother had raised her because her alcoholic mother was unable to take
on the task of motherhood. Then the woman married Norman. He’d turned Monica’s
mother around, and for several years, they had been a happy family. Slowly, her
mother returned to her old habits. Little by little, the bottle of whiskey
became her companion instead of Norman. During this time, Monica had clung to
the one parent who showed her love—Norman. When her mother divorced him, Monica
begged her mother to let her live with Norman. Thankfully, the woman wasn’t
sober long enough to argue.
Anna released an
audible sigh and sat forward on the couch, leaning her elbows on her thin
knees. “You’re forgetting one thing, Monica. If you bump off the man who killed
Uncle Norman, you will be no better than a murderer, yourself. Do you want that
on your conscience, let alone a rap sheet of murder? Do you want to sink to
their level? I can assure you, if Uncle Norman knew what you were planning,
he’d turn over in his grave. Not only that, I think he’d haunt you.”
For a few minutes,
Monica stood firm as her mind raced to find answers to her cousin’s remarks,
but no answers were forthcoming. Defeat swept through her, burning her hopes to
ashes. She slumped on the couch and sat beside her cousin as tears gathered in
her eyes. “You are correct. I don’t want to be considered in the same class as
a murderer. Forgive me for saying such vile things Anna, but I’m all balled up
inside. I don’t know what to do.”
“Perhaps there’s
nothing you can do.” Anna frowned. “Let it rest. Justice will prevail sooner or
later.”
Monica massaged
her forehead with her fingertips, trying to make the throb in her head
disappear. “It’s not fair. Someone killed Norman and nobody knows who it is,
and the low-down dirty creature is walking the streets free as a bird, while my
stepfather is six feet under.” Her voice cracked slightly. “There’s got to be
something I can do.”
Anna placed her
hand on Monica’s arm, and rubbed small circles on her skin in a soothing
gesture. “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing at all. Do you understand? If
Uncle Norman’s neighbor, Mrs. Beckstead, is right and the mafia ordered the
hit, then you’re at a standstill. You cannot mess around with men like that or
you’ll end up dead like your stepfather. We have to believe that sooner or
later the man who killed Uncle Norman gets what he deserves.”
Raising her gaze, Monica
looked into Anna’s big green eyes. As always, she wished for the perfect life
her cousin had, and especially the perfect looks. For as long as Monica could
remember, she’d wished for the green eyes and the short, black hair, like her
cousin. Instead, she was cursed with dull blue eyes and plain blonde wavy
locks.
She managed a weak
smile for her cousin. “Anna, thank you for caring. I know you’re trying to
help, but right now all I can think about is revenge. Someone needs to put
Norman’s killer away for what he did.”
“I know you can’t
help but feel this way. It’s to be expected for someone who is grieving as you
are.” Anna continued softly rubbing her hands on Monica’s arm. “Norman was more
of a father to you than that imbecile on your birth certificate. But seeking revenge
for Uncle Norman is not the way to ease your conscience.”
Sighing deeply in
desperation, Monica leaned back in the couch. “I suppose I should put my
worries aside and finish packing Norman’s things.”
“Where will you
go? Back to live with your mother in Michigan?”
Monica wrinkled
her nose. “Not on your life—or mine. I’m staying right here in Chicago until
I’m old and gray. I don’t plan on going back to her unless she changes her drunken,
wild lifestyle.” She shook her head in disgust. “You know, if she keeps picking
her boyfriends younger, she’ll soon pick one my age, and then maybe he’ll fall
in love with me and want to marry me instead.”
Anna chuckled,
making her emerald eyes twinkle. “Will you continue to live at the University?”
Monica shook her
head. “Unfortunately, Norman paid every semester for that privilege, and now that
he’s dead, there are no funds for me to continue. I’ll have to find a job,
maybe get an apartment with three or four other college girls. The money my mom
sends me isn’t much.”
Anna stood and
tugged on Monica’s arms, helping her up. “I have a nifty idea. You can stay
with me until you find a job and another place to live. Let’s get a wiggle on
so we can pack your things. We don’t have very much time, do we?”
Sadness
encompassed Monica again. “Unfortunately, time is something that nobody has
enough of.”
She struggled
through packing the remainder of her belongings, and each step out to her car
to load the boxes, her heart sank. How could all this be happening to her? She
thought for sure her stepfather would change his will and leave her everything—since
she was the daughter he’d never had—but the lawyer told her Norman hadn’t put
her in his will. Even if he had, there was nothing to get. According to the
lawyer, her stepfather sold every item he possessed—including the store—leaving
her with nothing. She wondered where the money from the sale had gone, but
according to the lawyer, Norman had nothing in his bank account. The only thing
she knew was that some man named Damien Chiappa owned the drugstore now that
Norman was dead.
Why didn’t the
police see the quick change of ownership as suspicious? Obviously, the mafia
had them in their clutches, too.
Angrily, she
realized it was up to her to find answers. No matter what Anna said, Monica
needed to do something. She had to find out who killed her stepfather and stole
his money. Mafia or not, evidence was what she needed to put the killer away.
After she placed
the last box in the car, she stepped back and gazed upon the two-story
red-bricked building. It had been her home until she started going to the
University. Now she was homeless, yet it was the loss of Norman that made everything
bleak.
“Hey, Mon, I’ll
meet you over at my apartment. I have to swing by and pick up Paul first.”
Monica glanced at
her cousin. “Who’s Paul?”
“A new man I met.”
Monica flipped her
hand in the air in a dismissal wave. When wasn’t Anna meeting men? “No need to
worry about me. I’ll see you later.”
She climbed in her
brown interior, two-door Sedan and drove across the street to the ice cream shop.
Memories crashed through her, leaving shards of her heart to keep her company.
Norman had taken her here for hot-fudge sundaes once a month since she was six
years old. She’d definitely miss those monthly chats with the man she’d wished
was her true father.
On weary legs, she
moved to her favorite booth and sat. Norman’s drugstore was right in view. The
sun descended behind the building as pink light gleamed through the sky. Tears
filled her eyes, and she realized she hadn’t grieved for Norman like she should
have.
After giving her order
to the waitress, Monica stared out the window until the girl delivered her bowl
of vanilla ice cream with hot fudge poured over it, sprinkled with nuts. As she
ate, loneliness crept over her. Anna was the only family left here in Chicago.
All of Anna’s family moved to Boston two years ago. One would think because of
this, Monica and Anna would be inseparable, but her favorite cousin rarely had
time to spend with Monica. Anna was a woman of the 20’s—a real flapper. Men
(many of them, in fact), alcohol, and dancing were all her cousin wanted in her
life. There was no room for boring, puritan Monica. She’d always been a
wet-blanket.
As she ate the
last spoonful of ice cream, a tear slipped down her cheek. Time to start a
new life. No more going to her stepfather to ask advice. No more surprise
birthday parties and no more eating ice cream once a month…even on very cold
days.
Norman had taught
her to ride a bike. He taught her many card games, and she could whip his
friends in a friendly game of poker. He was the one who bought her first car
before entering college, and of course, he was the one who made certain she
could drive it without dinging the fenders.
Gathering her
purse, she fished for her keys amongst everything that filled her bag. From out
the window, a car pulled in front of the drugstore and stopped. Zeroing her
attention to the vehicle, she sighed in awe. Never before had she seen such a
beautiful vehicle in this part of town.
Since Norman had
been a fan of the stylish motorcars, she knew all about this one. The 1907
Rolls Royce Silver Ghost was furnished in the style of the French King, Louis
XIV. Silver plating fittings highlighted the vehicle. Although in convertible
style, the back seat was separated from the driver’s front. A low built unique
and beautifully shaped radiator shell sat between the front wheels, and long
multicolored hood lined with rivets accented its crisp hard edge shape. With
its built-in stone guard, the car mounted on a pair of black rubber handballs,
which neatly embedded in the casting attached to the radiator and chassis.
Norman would have loved to see it, and for certain, he’d have drooled.
The driver opened
his door and climbed out. Dressed in a chauffeur blackish-gray suit, he moved
with the ease of a jungle cat when he walked to the back and opened the door.
Never had Monica gazed upon a man who made opening doors for others look like
an art form.
An elaborately
dressed man in a black and white pinstriped suit ascended from the vehicle. On
closer inspection, she noticed his olive skin color. Could he have Italian ancestry?
Was he a mobster, too?
She peered closer,
but bumped her nose against the shop’s window. Grumbling, she pulled back and
rubbed the sore spot, continuing to watch the activities across the street. The
fancy dressed mobster stood in front of the store and pulled out a ring of
keys. Her heart picked up rhythm when the man entered. Could this be the man
who now owned the building? Damien Chiappa?
Once again, the
inner demon of revenge ate away at her soul, moving her from the booth and out
the front door. Determination led her across the street, and with every step,
hatred burned a permanent mark in her heart.
Sneaking around to
the back of the building, she tiptoed in between the hedges bordering the
property as she made her way to a window. Hesitantly, she peeked inside, taking
caution not to be seen. The Italian stood in the center of the store, assessing
every little detail of the layout. Most of the shelves were empty, and she
figured the person who killed her stepfather had something to do with it.
The man scratched
the small patch of hair on his chin then turned back toward the front door. She
hurried to watch his departure, moving around the building. Staying as close to
the building as she could, she practically scurried around the corner—and ran
into a solid form.
Surprised, she
fell back and landed on her bottom. Locks of her hair bounced into her eyes,
blocking the full view of the person she’d hit. Using her hand, she swiped away
her hair and looked up. How could she have forgotten about the chauffeur?
“Oh, I’m sorry, miss.”
He knelt beside her and touched her arm. “I didn’t think anyone was on this
property. I didn’t expect to run into somebody back here.”
Neither did I.
“Forgive me, because I’m the one to blame.”
He grabbed her by
the wrists, assisting her to her feet before stepping back. The setting sun
highlighted behind him, spilling right into her eyes. She squinted and tried to
block the glare with her hand, but she still had a hard time seeing him. All
she could see was an amazing sculptured face, and a wonderful smile. He even
looked as if he might be Italian, too.
“I’m…I…um, I was
just looking for my dog.” She fibbed, not wanting him to guess her true
purpose. “I thought he had come this way.”
The man looked
around him and shrugged. “I haven’t seen a dog.”
“Oh, well, then
I’ll keep looking. Thanks anyway.”
Before he could
say any more, she swung around and hurried to the alleyway. When the man didn’t
try to stop her, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Once her heartbeat started
knocking a normal rhythm once again, anger for the interruption shook through
her body. If that chauffeur hadn’t stopped her, she may have been able to study
the man inside the drugstore a little better. With that information, she could
have turned it into the police, too.
She rolled her
eyes. They wouldn’t have done anything. But…
A grin tugged on
her lips. Perhaps that would have given her something to do while she mourned
for Norman. If the law wouldn’t help her, she’d certainly seek justice
herself.
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