Closer Than Blood Part 1 by Jayne Lockwood & Lady Jaguar

Author:Jayne Lockwood & Lady Jaguar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dark romance, mobster romance, suspense, crime, noir
Publisher: Hollow Hills Publishing
Published: 2021-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Frank

The first thing Mancini did when he closed the door into his small brownstone apartment was grab the bourbon and a heavy crystal tumbler before sinking into his favourite black Corbusier chair.

Whenever he sat in it, he could imagine Pagan Freemantle lying on the bed opposite. If he ever succeeded in getting her alone, he could easily envisage what they could be doing on that bed. Her provocative clothes, the silent challenge in her eyes, she was so fucking hot and had no clue what she was doing to him. He didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss her or slap her across the room.

He closed his eyes and relived their scene in the alley, word for word, kiss for kiss, touch for touch. She was unleashing something that could easily spin out of control. He was happy to let her, but not yet. Not yet.

He thought about calling Vinny. The man’s lean, compliant body would be enough to take his mind off Pagan for a while, but he had to prepare for the task ahead.

He laid out his weapons on the smoked glass coffee table. First the switchblade. His preferred weapon was a Frank Beltrame Black Widow, an Italian stiletto with a black handle and black acrylic blade. Long and elegant, it fitted neatly in his shirt sleeve and could be deployed at any moment. Mancini was left-handed, which could have made life difficult, but he had spent years making sure he was just as efficient with either hand. As blades went, it looked good and was reasonably priced, but they were getting rare, so his next choice was an eleven-inch stiletto with swing-guard action and ivory handle, again a Beltrame model. The front opening knives were easier, but they were for the young hoods. He was old school, and style still counted as much as getting the job done efficiently. Butterfly knives looked the business, but he had never been able to get on with them. And he disliked the chunky American blades, the serrated ones like hunting knives. They were messy and too short, and the one thing he disliked intensely was having someone else’s blood on his hands.

He took time cleaning and polishing each blade as Nina Simone played in the background. Depending on the hit, he used a variety of cheaper, throwaway models that did the job just as efficiently before being dispatched to the bottom of the Hudson. But he took no chances that they might fail him at the crucial moment, so he took the same care over cleaning each weapon, oiling and buffing, checking the mechanisms worked perfectly. One by one, he laid them out on the coffee table. There was a Mason blade tucked into a black webbed belt which he wore all the time, and another small knife that could be hidden in a holster that he wore around his left leg. He was nothing if not prepared, and the streets were getting meaner with every passing year.

Satisfied with the state of his knives, he turned his attention to his handguns.

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