Highball and Chain: A Mafia Romantic Comedy (Bourbon Street Bad Boys' Club Book 2) Read online

  Highball and Chain

  Kathryn M. Hearst

  HIGHBALL AND CHAIN.

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathryn M. Hearst. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from SINGLE MALT DRAMA copyright @ 2020 by Kathryn M. Hearst

  Worldwide Rights. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First Edition published by Wyndham House, Inc. February 2020.

  www.kathrynmhearst.com

  Cover art designed by Dar Alexander, Wicked Smart Designs

  Editor Holly Atkinson, Evil Eye Editing

  Proofreader Book Nook Nuts Proofreading

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Shanna

  2. Enzo

  3. Shanna

  4. Enzo

  5. Shanna

  6. Enzo

  7. Shanna

  8. Enzo

  9. Enzo

  10. Shanna

  11. Shanna

  12. Enzo

  13. Shanna

  14. Enzo

  15. Shanna

  16. Enzo

  17. Shanna

  18. Enzo

  19. Shanna

  20. Enzo

  21. Shanna

  22. Enzo

  23. Shanna

  24. Enzo

  25. Shanna

  26. Enzo

  27. Shanna

  28. Enzo

  29. Shanna

  30. Enzo

  31. Shanna

  32. Enzo

  33. Shanna

  34. Enzo

  35. Shanna

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Also by Kathryn M. Hearst

  About the Author

  For Angie, my favorite aunt.

  I could go on and on about how great you are,

  but some things are better said in person over a cup of coffee.

  1

  Shanna

  Cinderella never doubted her social skills. A new dress and glass shoes gave her all the self-confidence she needed to walk in and dance with the prince. Too bad I didn’t have a fairy godmother or a pumpkin carriage to get me through my best friend’s engagement party.

  Who am I kidding? It’s going to take a lot more than pixie dust to survive tonight.

  I’d rather have a root canal than spend a night hobnobbing with New Orleans’ rich and infamous. Then again, high society events and dentistry had a lot in common. Both were agony made barely tolerable by copious amounts of numbing agents.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for the newly engaged couple. They’d managed to do the impossible, find love.

  Me? I’d long since stopped believing in knights in shining armor riding in on white horses to save the day. Heck, if my prince ever did arrive, he’d be a misogynist pig, and his noble steed would shit on my lawn.

  Nope. I didn’t believe in love and romance any more than I believed in fairy-tales. I’d learned to doubt men when my father left. My doubt had solidified into a cynical distrust when I started working for a private investigator.

  I loved my job…most of the time. Tonight? Not so much.

  Two hours hiding behind a planter in a hallway of the Bourbon Orleans Hotel could do that to a girl. If I didn’t shoot some video of the mayor and his flavor of the week soon, I’d never make it to Maggie and Gabe’s party on time.

  Over the previous few days, I’d photographed the elected official with a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—variety was the spice of life after all. Tonight’s spice was an Amazonian woman with dark hair and legs that belonged in the WNBA.

  Most of the good citizens of New Orleans knew their mayor was a cheating piece of crap, but I needed proof. So far, I’d filmed them exchanging documents and what I assumed were envelopes of cash. However, Mrs. Carter wasn’t interested in her husband’s dirty politics.

  Pictures might be worth a thousand words, but for me, an incriminating video was a month’s rent, and the difference between pasta at Antoine’s and ramen noodles.

  The mayor and the brunette exited their room without as much as a boob graze, but I took a couple of photos to document the time.

  I hiked my bag higher and strolled down the hall. My boss had taught me the key to maintaining one’s cover was to blend in, act like you belonged, and deny, deny, deny. Alex was a top-notch private investigator, but he knew squat about being a female in a male profession.

  As such, I took a slightly different approach. I stood out and acted like I didn’t give a flying fig.

  The couple stepped into the elevator. I picked up my pace and jammed a size eight Doc Marten in the closing doors. Once inside, I ignored their frowns and swiped right to activate my smartwatch spy camera. Aiming the lens at the couple, I pretended to scroll through my phone and prayed for him to break his freaking vows.

  Jefferson Carter, father of three, and husband of twenty-six years, did not disappoint. He kissed the Amazon like he was trying to eat her face off. Seriously, I’d seen cows chewing cud with more finesse.

  The recording rolled the entire time. Gotcha, asshole.

  The elevator stopped, and we stepped out. The mayor and the woman turned right while I faked a left and ducked back once they were out of sight. Peeking around the corner, I eased my watch into position and continued to record them. Afterall, when proving infidelity, quantity often trumped quality.

  The brunette’s eyes went wide. “Hey! Stop!”

  Busted.

  Carter didn’t scare me, but his playmate looked like she could pick me up and toss me out the window without chipping her nail polish. I made a break for the exit and didn’t stop until I reached Royal Street. Heart pumping, thigh muscles screaming, I bent at the waist to catch my breath.

  The bells of St. Louis Cathedral chimed seven times, reminding me I was late for Maggie and Gabe’s party. The Marchionni-Guthrie nuptials would take place in Sicily, but the couple’s mothers had strong-armed them into holding a pre-wedding event—a black-tie event. My jeans and T-shirt weren’t going to cut it.

  Lucky for me, I’d been a boy scout in a former life. Always be prepared.

  I headed down Royal and ducked into Landry & Sons Antiques.

  The owner, and one of my oldest friends, glanced up from his paperwork. “Shanna, what a surprise.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Jack.” I pointed to the backroom without slowing my pace. He might or might not have groaned, not that I cared. I had places and people and all that jazz.

  Five minutes later, I emerged from the stockroom in a vintage dress that would make Jackie Kennedy drool and a pair of second-hand Jimmy Choo knock-offs. “How do I look?”

  He quirked a single brow and motioned for me to turn. “Wrinkled.”

  I smoothed the fabric over my hips. “It was in my bag all day.”

  Jack, bless his heart, walked to a jewelry case and pulled out a necklace. “Here. Put this on, and no one will notice the dress.”

  The thing looked like it cost more than my car. “I can’t. What if I lose it?”

  “It’s insured.” He motioned me closer. “A girl has to look the part, ev
en if the girl lives on a dental floss budget.”

  I turned my back to him. “The term is shoe-string.”

  “Honey, in your case, it’s more like thread.” Jack fastened the necklace and spun me around. “Gorgeous, but you’re late.”

  “I know. I know. I was working.” I zipped my backpack and hoisted it to my shoulder.

  “Leave the bag.” He pointed at my wrist. “And the watch.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have a purse and this dress doesn’t have pockets.” I batted my lashes. “And without my watch, how will I know how many steps I’ve taken?”

  This time, Jack did groan. “One of these days, I’ll make a girl out of you.”

  Laughing, I handed over my backpack and spy watch. “It’s woman, and no thanks.”

  “Well, you’re all woman tonight.” His voice came out somewhere between strangled and breathy.

  I turned and caught him checking out my ass. That’s new. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “I have a gold brocade bag in back that will match the embroidery on your dress…”

  I’d wasted another ten minutes, but Jack had hooked me up with an antique clutch and earrings.

  “Thanks. You’re the best.” I planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “So you keep saying.” He looked me over as if I were one of his antiques. “Remember, be polite, smile a lot, and for God’s sake, don’t talk about religion or politics.”

  “Not a problem. I don’t plan on talking to anyone except Maggie and Dahlia, and all we gab about is sex.” I checked my reflection one last time. Thanks to the ballcap I’d worn on the stakeout, my hair stuck out at odd angles. I smoothed the short pieces in hopes of achieving an Audrey Hepburn vibe.

  “Live a little. Branch out. Cozy up to one of the Marchionni brothers before they’re all married off.” He sounded like he’d swallowed something foul.

  No-freaking-thank-you. “If you’re so interested in the Marchionnis, you should come to the party as my plus one.”

  Jack lowered his brows. “Unless you’re proposing a threesome, I’ll have to pass.”

  “Now there’s a mental picture I’ll never be able to un-see.”

  In all honesty, Jackson Landry had it going on in the looks department, but he was like a brother to me. The thought of him getting busy with anyone, male or female or anything in between, gave me the heebie-jeebies. As for the Marchionnis, they could bump uglies with whoever they wanted as long as it wasn’t me.

  He wrapped his hands around my upper arms and waited until I met his gaze. “Seriously, Shoshanna, isn’t it time you let someone in besides your cat?”

  “Hey, don’t you dare besmirch Mr. Boogerre. He’s soft, round, and is happy as long as I feed him. He’s the perfect man.”

  “Stop deflecting.” Jack folded his arms. “There are men in this world who would never hurt you if you’d only give them a chance.”

  “I know, but if I set the bar any lower, I’ll have to bury it.” Best-guy-friend or not, I didn’t have time for this conversation. “I have dated, and I’ve learned battery-operated-boyfriends are a better bet. Less disappointment.”

  “You’re deflecting again.”

  “Bye, Jack.” I shook my head and exited the shop.

  I didn’t hate men or anything. I just didn’t have much luck playing the dating lottery. I’d shared few magical hours with Enzo Marchionni, a card-carrying member of the Bourbon Street Bad Boys’ Club. After which, I’d spent my nights on the phone and my days texting with him. For a brief shining moment, I’d thought we had a connection.

  Enzo asked me to dinner, but he’d canceled and ghosted me like a bad Tinder hook-up. A few days later, I’d caught him with an Italian super-model type.

  Fool me once and I’ll never give you the chance to do it again.

  Heels clicking on the uneven sidewalk, I hurried toward Enzo’s, as in Lorenzo Marchionni, AKA the Ghoster. It made sense he’d host his older brother’s engagement extravaganza, but I’d rather have eaten out of trash cans than set foot in his restaurant.

  The things we do for our friends.

  I’d agreed to be Maggie’s maid of honor the second she’d asked. A few moments later, I’d realized my duties would entail seeing a lot of Enzo and rubbing elbows with NOLA society. Not that my friends and I belonged to the upper crust, or lower for that matter. We lived in the middle of the pie between the chunks of chicken and peas.

  I rounded the corner and groaned. It looked like a luxury car dealership had exploded in front of the restaurant. As I’d predicted, the engagement party was the social event of the season.

  Squaring my shoulders, I weaved my way through the cars and guests.

  Maggie, the bride-to-be, climbed out of a limo. “Shanna! Perfect timing.”

  I gave her a quick hug and found myself one breath away from a wardrobe malfunction. “Strapless dresses weren’t invented for women with B-minus cup sizes.”

  “You look gorgeous.” She looped her arm with mine.

  I took in her flowy pale blue dress and matching heels. “Thanks. So do you. Where’s Gabe?”

  “Something came up at work. He’s meeting me here.” Maggie squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She might have tried for calm, cool, and collected, but I knew better. The woman was as nervous as a cat in a dog yard.

  I squeezed her hand. “You got this.”

  “I’ll feel better once I’m inside.”

  “Morning sickness?”

  “More like morning, noon, and night sickness.”

  “Are you going to survive a transatlantic flight tomorrow?” I hated to think of her spending the trip from New Orleans to Sicily in an airplane bathroom, even if said bathroom was on a private jet.

  “We’re flying at night. I plan to sleep unless this little one has other ideas.” She rubbed her slightly bulging belly.

  After months of listening to Maggie describe the early stages of her pregnancy, I had absolutely no desire to experience motherhood. “You had to know this baby would be a pain in your butt. Look at its father.”

  “Be nice.” Laughing, Maggie slapped my arm. “And relax. You might actually enjoy yourself tonight.”

  “I doubt it. I’m not comfortable around these people. All of this wealth makes me break out in hives.”

  She lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “They aren’t all bad.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  Maggie was right. They weren’t all bad. I’d changed my mind about her fiancé, Gabe, after he’d proven himself to be a stand-up kinda guy. Though he’d broken her heart years before, he’d proved that some bad boys can morph into good men. I mean seriously, it took a spine of steel to raise five kids, three of whom were not his.

  Too bad his younger brother hasn’t emerged from his cocoon as a hot, successful, butterfly with a heart of gold.

  The moment we walked inside, people swarmed the bride-to-be. I took the opportunity to slink away and find the bar. No way could I get through the night without alcohol.

  “Shanna.” The man’s voice made my toes curl and my hands ball into fists.

  I turned ready to give Enzo Marchionni the brush off of his lifetime but stopped short. Enzo hadn’t said my name, Gabe had. Great, not only did the brothers all look alike—evidently they sounded alike, too.

  The groom-to-be took a step back and raised his hands. “Easy tiger.”

  “Sorry, thought you were someone else. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I’ve been dealing with a situation.”

  I turned my attention to the bartender. “I’ll have a Sazerac.”

  “Make it two.”

  “Should you be drinking Absinthe?” I noted the tension in his jaw and his rigid posture. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

  “About the wedding no.” Gabe dragged his hand over his mouth and chin. “I need a favor. A big one, but you can’t say anything to Maggie until after the party.”

  “Unless it has something to do wit
h a gift or the super-secret honeymoon plans—”

  “It’s far more serious than that.” He lowered his voice. “Possibly life and death.”

  I gave him a yeah-right look. Did he really expect me to keep secrets from my best friend since high school? “Go on.”

  He glanced over the crowd as if he’d changed his mind, sucked in a breath, and whispered, “Someone poisoned the minestrone.”

  Before I could make sense of what he’d said, I spotted the Amazonian I’d photographed with Mayor Carter.

  The woman met my gaze. “You!”

  I grabbed Gabe’s arm and pulled him toward the kitchen. “Let’s go investigate your poisoned soup.”

  2

  Enzo

  This is madness. I stood in the center of the kitchen surrounded by absolute chaos, and I loved every second of it. While I could do without the contaminated soup, there was no place I’d rather be than in my restaurant in complete control. I was the Sorcerer’s Apprentice waving a baton to command flood waters of his own making.

  Head bowed, I listened to my assistant manager run through the revised menu for the evening. Not only had someone sabotaged the soup, the incident had sent the kitchen staff into panic mode.

  I stopped her before she launched into alternative soup options. “Substitutions will take too long. We go with what we have.”

  Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. “But sir…”

  “What am I missing?” I’d hired Hazel before the restaurant opened its doors. I trusted her implicitly. If she was worried, I had a problem.