Swan Song

Swan Song: #1 Whiskey Sour

By Audrey Cole

Copyright © 2013 by Audrey Cole

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

This city is full of predators. There are more dirty cops than clean ones, more mobsters than grocers. For a girl living on her own trying to make it in the big city, life can be very dangerous. You have to be smart, you have to be hard but most of all, you have to be heartless. I’m all of that and more. I’m also talented which makes everything both better and worse. Men want to “help” me. They want to give me my big break, discover me. But at what cost? Whatever it is, I promise you it’s more than I’ll ever pay.

My parents died when I was sixteen, leaving me alone in a tiny cow town in Nebraska with barely a cent to my name and dreams bigger than my hands or heart could hold. Those dreams weren’t going to come true in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest so I sold it all. Every last item they ever owned. Then I took the money, took the bus and landed here; Chicago. I’d rather it was New York but beggars can’t be choosers. Though I could have afforded the bus ticket to NYC, I wouldn’t have been able to afford anything else once I got there. I’m a dreamer but I’m no twit. Desperate women do desperate things and before you know it you’re a dead eyed whore wondering where it all went wrong. That’ll never be me.

I was smart, I took my time and I did it right. Now here I am, six years later, center stage in one of the hottest joints in town with my name on the marquis outside. Or at least the name I’m using now. No one knows my real name. They don’t need to know. That girl got left behind in a drafty house back in Nebraska with everything else of zero value that I couldn’t sell. The name in lights outside reads Adrian Marcone. That’s me, through and through. A raven haired, stormy eyed, statuesque siren. I’m lucky I’m determined. I’m lucky I’m talented. But most of all, I’m lucky I’m beautiful. I got my looks and the last name from my mother. She was half-Italian with olive skin, warm eyes and an hourglass figure she graciously passed down to me. My father was a decent man but a terrible drunk, a vice that spelled doom for the two of them one night on a dark country road, but I’m grateful to him as well. Thanks to him I know how to handle a man. I know how to calm a raging temper, sooth an angry drunk. I can also see when it’s a lost cause and time to head for the hills. Or a room with a lock on the door.

I spent a lot of years in a lot of small clubs when I first got here. I was building my name, gaining a reputation. Then two years ago I struck gold. A guy in the audience of a small time dive bar heard me sing. He liked what he heard. He liked it so much he came back night after night for over a week listening to me perform. He told me later he wanted to make sure I wasn’t a fluke, that I hadn’t had one good night that couldn’t be repeated. He should have asked me. I would have told him I’m flawless every show. In the end it didn’t matter. He was convinced I was a showstopper, a headliner waiting to happen, so one night he came in and told me he wasn’t leaving without me. Once he told me where he worked, I went without a fight.

That man was Ralph Capone, Al Capone’s big brother.

He manages the Chicago Cotton Club in Cicero, deep in mobster territory. It’s the sister to the New York City Cotton Club, aka The Big Time in my mind. That’s where I want to be. That’s the dream. Right now, Ralph and this joint are just a stepping stone to the big show. I’ll get there one day, I know it. I just have to keep my head above water swimming in this tank full of sharks.

As you can imagine, a club run by a man high up in the Crime Syndicate is swarming with gangsters. Some are gentleman, some are charming, some are assholes and some are downright scary, like Tommy.

Tommy is a demon. He’s also one of the reasons I’ve been able to stay unmolested by most of these gangsters. He’s Ralph’s right hand man at the club. He’s also my unofficial handler and bodyguard, though his concerns with my body are entirely his own assigning.

“You had a good show tonight.” he tells me now, watching me in the vanity mirror of my dressing room.

He’s standing in the doorway leaning against the frame, one leg kicked over the other and crossed at the ankle. His hands are in his pockets, flaring out his tuxedo jacket and showing me the stark white of his shirt skimming close to his lean frame. Tommy, demon or no, is perfection. He’s tall and thin, all wiry muscle that is deceptive in its tameness. Make no mistake, Tommy can be a monster of incredible strength. I’ve seen him do things to men, things that would make me scream in my sleep if I let myself think about them.

He’s a devil in the flesh with a face to match. It’s all sharp angles with fierce eyes and hair that’s golden in any light, reminding me of an unholy idol. He’s handsome as any movie star or actor out there but there’s something about Tommy, something animal that’s too real for the average person to digest. You’d never believe him as Romeo. He’d do better playing the poison.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a good thing too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Al Capone was in the audience.”

I stop fussing with my hair to stare at him in the mirror in shock.

I actually met Al one night about a year ago. I was ushered up to his table after my performance where I immediately recognized him, half his goons and Big Bill Thompson, a former Chicago Mayor. According to Tommy, he’ll be Mayor again soon if the Capone’s have anything to say about it. I met Al only for a second, just long enough for the world’s shortest conversation.

“You got quite a set of pipes, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Capone.”

Then Tommy quickly swept me away.

“He was here?”

“Still is.” Tommy says with a nod. “He’s got a meeting with Ralph and a fella from out of town.”

I turn in my seat to face him. “Who’s the fella?”

“No one you gotta worry about.”

I frown at him. “He must be a big deal if both brothers are meeting with him.”

He shrugs, looking away.

“Where’s he coming from?”

“Are you writin’ a novel?” Tommy asks, scowling at me. “What’s with the third degree?”

I shake my head at him, exasperated. “Why bring it up if you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I didn’t think you’d care so damn much.”

“I care more because you won’t talk about it. Don’t be so secretive and it won’t be so interesting.”

“Don’t be so nosy and I won’t have to shut you up.”

I roll my eyes and turn my back on him.

None of that is a smart thing to do. Not to any gangster and certainly not to Tommy “Two Thumbs” Giordano. I don’t recommend it. It’s basically like punching a lion in the face then closing your eyes and expecting it to go away. More than likely, you’re gonna want to see if there’s a doctor in the house. That’s if you’re lucky. What’s lucky for me is that Tommy and I have a history. We know each other’s limits and we push them on the regular. Will I get away with the disrespectful behavior tonight? Yeah, I think so. Would I if he was in a mood? Or if I pulled that act in public? Not a chance.

“You done asking questions?”

I reapply my lipstick, a shocking shade of red to match the evening gown Tommy’s picked out for me tonight.

“Are you gonna keep evading them?”

“New York.”

I frown. “What?”

“He’s from New York.” Tommy repeats, watching me closely.

My heart skips a beat at the mere mention of it.

“Yeah.” he says, grinning darkly. “I thought you’d perk up at that.”

I shake my head, focusing on the mirror again. “What does he do there?”

“Nothing you need to know about.”

Here we go again.

“So he’s not a baker, I take it?”

Tommy smirks. “Or a candlestick maker.”

“Butcher.” I groan. “Just what we need around here.”

“We do actually. Or are you forgetting the Hawthorne?”

Two weeks ago, back in September, eight carloads of men emptied machine gun fire into the restaurant at the base of the Hawthorne Hotel. Al wasn’t hit despite the rain of over 1,000 bullets but it was a clear message. The Irish aren’t happy with him. And rightfully so; he had their Boss, Dean O’Banion, killed in ’24 for a double cross. Ever since then it’s been all out war around here. Security at all of the Chicago Outfit’s holdings and family have been tighter than a drum. There’s no clear end in sight and the tension it causes is wearing on everyone. Eventually, something has got to give.

“So that’s why he’s here?” I ask, straightening my dress as I stand. “Because of the Hawthorne?”

“Did I say that?”

“You’ve barely said anything.”

“You should follow my example. Are you ready or what?”

“You tell me.” I say, spreading my arms to present myself for final inspection.

Tommy steps into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. He circles me slowly, looking at every angle in every light. Remember the lion from earlier? Well here he is, focused in on his prey. As he passes behind me his body blocks the light from the lamp on the far table, plunging me in shadow. His shadow. I can see it in front of me on the wall where it eclipses my own, entrapping me inside it.

This gown has an open back that dips low, exposing my skin down to the lowest point possible without being indecent. I’m not surprised when I feel his fingers, warm and rough, running along my spine. They trace it from my neck, exposed to his touch by the high pile of curls he insists upon, down to where dress meets skin, then back up again. I shiver, my breath catching in my throat. But I remain perfectly still. I let the predator sniff and paw at my body. I let it decide if I’m worth the kill or if I’ll be allowed to run free. And I wonder what I want because at moments like this, I’m never really sure.

Tommy and I, we aren’t built for love. We aren’t made for intimacy. We’re both too driven, too crazy for anything normal and nice. But that doesn’t mean we’re dead. We’re both beautiful people with beautiful bodies and I cannot lie; Tommy knows how to touch me. He’s been wanting for years to get between my legs and there are nights when I lie alone in bed with my fingers between my thighs imagining that I let him.

“Tommy, I—“ I cut off my question as his fingers dip into the fabric of the dress. They run along the swell of my ass, skimming across my flesh. I try to shut it out, to keep my breath even. But inside I clench. I burn.

“What, Adrian?” he asks. His voice is low and rough, tickling against my ear where I can feel his hot breath. “What were you going to say?”

His fingers trace the outline of the dress, following the fabric up the right side of my back, tickling over my ribs. He halts his hand just below my arm. Barely an inch from the side of my breast.

I swallow hard.

“What part of New York is this fella from?” I whisper.

Tommy chuckles softly and I feel my tense body relax as his fingers recede from the dress. From my body. He lays a quick kiss on my shoulder, slaps my ass hard and heads for the door.

“Shake a leg, would ya?” He opens the door for me. “I got shit to do.”

I follow him out the door into the hall feeling like I just dodged a bullet.

“You’ll sit at a table in the back tonight.” he says brusquely, turning all business in an instant. “I’ll have Joe send one of the girls over with a whiskey.”

“I hate whiskey.”

“Too bad. We’re flush with it so that’s what we’re all drinking. You can have your scotch when the next boat comes in.” He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a hard drag. “I’ll join you after I swing by the office to check on Ralph. See if they need me for anything.”

I’m paraded through the club to smile and greet anyone of note inside tonight. Were Al and Ralph still holding court out here I’d be brought to them immediately, but they’ve since disappeared. I notice quite a few of their guys in the area, though, the Outfit’s presence heavy tonight. Tommy hurries me through the routine of meet and greets to deposit me in the promised dark corner hidden behind two guards. I feel like the Mona Lisa. A whole lot of fuss for a tiny bit of decoration.

“You good?” Tommy asks as he sits me down.

“Aces.” I deadpan.

He grunts as he stalks off. Female eyes all around the club watch him go, looking on with longing and lust. If they only knew what they’d be getting themselves in for…

I hate this. I’d rather go home or have a scotch with the chorus girls. Instead I’m put out here in a corner to be seen but not heard. On nights when big wigs aren’t here I’m free to roam but if anyone important wants to see me, I better be available. The security posted stiffly on either side of the table clearly says, ‘Back off’ to anyone even thinking of approaching me.

My whiskey arrives but I choose to smoke instead of drink it. Fifteen minutes drag by. Where the hell is Tommy? When can I get out of here?

“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice rumbles behind me.

I turn abruptly, shocked that someone has gotten behind me. I’m about to shout to my guard when I meet his eyes. They stop me cold. Deeply set in a rugged, tanned face beneath a shock of jet black hair are the most startling eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re ice blue and sharp as daggers. He looks down at me, his face hovering only inches from mine, and I feel like he’s seeing through me. Into me. All of me.