Dangerous Love

It all came together for him when his newborn son was placed in his huge hands. The baby was small, not much bigger than a puppy, and it fit nicely into his palms. Dom held him as he squirmed for a few seconds, then, apparently feeling quite safe, as well he should in his father’s care, he wobbled a fist to his lips and began to suck greedily.

No one who knew the fierce gangster would have recognized the look on his face – it was one reserved only for those who touched that staunchly protected heart of his – his wife, Bridget, his mother, and now this little scrap of humanity, born of the incredible magic of their love.

Bridget lay sleeping not two feet away from where her two men were getting more acquainted. Dom leaned forwards a bit to adjust her covers, noting the splotches of broken blood vessels that marred her otherwise flawlessly creamy complexion. They were badges of honor hard won while bringing little Domenic Junior into the world. The nurses had been scandalized at the idea that he refused to be a nice little expectant father and wait in the waiting room for news of the birth, but there wasn’t a person on staff who wanted to tell him no – his reputation preceded him, even here. Dom had insisted on being with his wife through the entire thing, holding her hand and encouraging her when she grew exhausted from her efforts. His son competently held in one arm, he stroked his love’s brow gently, then, alert to any change in the sound of her breathing, he turned his attention back to his wondrous offspring.

Dom thought his heart was going to explode inside him as he stared down at the little cuss that had been trying to kick or elbow his way out of his Mother’s belly for the past three or so months. He and Bridget almost always slept spoon fashion, and Dom could feel the baby’s escape attempts every night against his arm. Never having been this close to a pregnant woman before, Dom was amazed at the sheer strength of the blows she endured from within, taking it upon himself to chastise his child for his or her bad manners in beating up his or her mother and speaking directly to the huge mound of her stomach on more than one occasion.

“Listen here, young one –”

“Young?” Bridget had interrupted with a chuckle. “He hasn’t even had a birthday yet!”

Dom glared up at her ferociously, which just produced an ego-deflating series of giggles. One of the few people in this world that he had no hope of intimidating was his diminutive but fearless wife. He cleared his throat in a loud, masterful manner – which only garnered more giggles – and addressed the occupant of her impressively swollen tummy in a low, soft tone. “Now hear this, little son or daughter: this is your Father speaking. I want you to stop –”

The side of Bridget’s stomach bulged out violently, sending her into another fit of laughter.

Dom continued valiantly as more bumps and ripples appeared. “Stop doing that to your mother –” He had sighed heavily, pulling himself up to deliver a smacking kiss to her lips, commenting wryly, “The baby already takes after you – it doesn’t listen to me, either.”

Dom smiled as he remembered his sometimes whimsical conversations with the baby he now held in his arms. One big foot set the rocker to rocking, and, after a long, comfortable silence, he began to speak to the baby quietly that deep, rumbly voice, telling him a bedtime story of how his parents met and fell in love.

* * *

It had begun with an unexpected phone call from a good friend – Kit Jackson, a disreputable former gentleman who had recently married a mail-order-bride despite a load of good advice against the maneuver. But he had looked out recently on several accounts: apparently he had finally struck oil on his desolate run-down property, and he had definitely believed he had found a keeper in his little wife Mary. They were taking a belated honeymoon. Kit was calling to see if Dom would like to get together and have dinner with them.

“Of course, of course, paisan,” Dom leaned back in the big leather chair. “You sound as if marriage is agreeing with you – you always were a great gambler.”

There was absolutely no hesitation in Kit’s response. “Damn straight. I got very lucky when Mary came into my life – she’s a wonderful woman, great cook, smart as a whip, beautiful –”

Dom chuckled, truly glad for his friend. “I shall be honored to meet such perfection. When are you coming?”

They arranged a time to meet several weeks later – and although they certainly didn’t need the charity, Dom made sure that they were staying in one of the hotels he owned in the Chicago area, so he could personally make sure that they were taken care of. Kit’s Mary did live up to his friend’s flowery praise and the two were almost embarrassingly in love. Every time Dom looked at either of them he wanted to smile – and that was an entirely unnatural urge for him.

Domenic Adriano Martinelli, Junior – although only someone with a death wish would ever call him “Junior” – was a dark, serious, somber little boy who turned into a dark, somber, powerful, merciless man. He’d made his bones by the time he was fifteen with the deadly and accurate use of a no-fuss, no muss Colt 45 his father had handed down to him, adding a silencer as a stealthy advantage. By the time he was twenty-three, he’d certainly earned his lethal reputation – and the nickname “the Hammer” - carrying out hits on various of his father’s – and thus his own – enemies. He’d assumed his pre-destined position as his father’s right-hand man, even after taking time out to earn a business degree from the University of Chicago. When his father died, Dom slid naturally into the role he’d been born to fill, applying bits and pieces of his business knowledge where it worked best, but always willing to fall back on brute force to further expand or consolidate his power. At thirty-six, even the man on the street in faraway London knew of and feared the ruthless head of one of the biggest, most efficiently run crime families in the United States.

For all of his influence and command of life and death situations, Domenic still lived with his mother, Angelina – although not in the house he’d grown up in. Although Dom Senior had done well for his family, his son had expanded the family’s holdings triple-fold. About five years ago, after his father’s death, Dom had had a huge mansion built, well away from the bustle of the city, moving his feisty but flighty mother into a wing of her own, complete with servants – which she drove at least as mercilessly as he browbeat his capos. The house itself was almost Victorian in design, but he’d had every security measure he could think of and some he hadn’t known about until the builder – who owed Dom a favor for getting a shark from another family off his back – had made some suggestions about the house itself as well as creating a large compound with a huge wall and gate as well as several hidden traps about the grounds. The compound had at least as much security as Fort Knox.

It was to that most secure fortress that Dom insisted Kit and Mary come for dinner so that Mama could see Kit – whom she considered another son – and get a chance to meet Mary. He even picked them up in his limo for the drive out of town. As vicious as he could be – and that was plenty vicious - family was family. Dom treated his mother like a queen. He had no brothers or sisters, so he was closer to his friends and extended family than he might be, most of who were in the “business,” although there was never any conflict about who was in charge. Dom loved children, and had stood godfather to a record number of his adopted nieces and nephews, and he always kept pieces of taffy and hard candy in his pockets for when the little ones visited. Many a nervous parent had nearly had an apoplectic fit when his toddler was put down in the foyer only to make a bee-line for the big man himself, running full speed ahead and launching themselves into huge, open arms, utterly certain of his or her welcome.

The dark, brooding man would heft the child against him, a hard arm securely supporting a chubby butt while fishing in his pocket for a sweet, which he would only surrender for the price of an inevitably wet, slobbery kiss as the parent stared in rapt wonder at his transformation from hardnosed Mafia boss to doting pseudo-uncle. At family gatherings and holidays, when he appeared, babies were pressed into his arms as readily as their mother’s; Dom had a way with kids and could generally quiet the unhappiest baby. It was as if they sensed his supreme self-confidence, that, as the master of all he surveyed, he was the man who could save them single-handedly from the perils of diaper rash and colic.

Yet he had no woman of his own, much to his Mother’s unhesitatingly voiced distress. She wanted grandbabies, and Dom was not cooperating in the least. Angelina was always shaking her head full of rapidly whitening hair; he was just like his father – stubborn and opinionated and strong as an ox – in constitution as well as musculature. Oh, he had women all right, but none of them the type that he would ever present to his mother.

Looking across the expanse of the limo, seeing his friends so happily married – not only Kit and Mary but Will and Frances Rose Genrette in Tennessee – made Dom somewhat wistful – for about five seconds. With his life the way it was, he didn’t know that he wanted to drag some poor innocent woman into it – to say nothing of the fact that anyone he associated with was in tremendous danger. For that reason, he stuck to fairly short, sweet liaisons with women who knew exactly what the score was. No wide-eyed innocents for him – women like that stirred far too many protective instincts within him. They were much more dangerous than staring down the muzzle of a machine gun by far.

But, actually, any woman created those feelings in him – his strong, dominant father raised him to be naturally protective of the fairer sex. Dom Senior had drilled into him his responsibility – especially as he grew up and up and up, fairly towering over his smaller father at almost six-foot-four and nearly two hundred fifty pounds by the time he was in his early twenties. Dom’s great size and strength was a definite asset to the business, but his father would never, ever tolerate him using his physical abilities against any woman, even the prostitutes on the family rosters.

Now, this did not mean, his father had counseled him, that a man let a woman rule him under any circumstances. That should never be allowed to happen. Women were to be coddled and cherished and treasured, but never spoiled. Just as a man would never tolerate disrespect from his child, Domenic learned at his father’s knee that he should never accept it from a woman, either – girlfriend, wife, daughter – they all need the loving, firm guidance of a man, some times to the point of physical correction, but never, ever to the point of violence or beatings.

No, his father had lectured while teaching his son the facts of life, that women – not unlike children - needed to know where the line was drawn, and that there were consequences to their actions, for any disrespect or disobedience - physical consequences, applied to their plump, white derrieres until they were sobbing and incoherent and truly repentant. Only then could the comforting begin, which, he’d said with a wink, was the best part of the whole thing.

As a result, Dom treated every woman he chose with such respect and caring it was as if she was a duchess, always speaking softly, never raising that low, rumbly tone, paying particular attention to her needs and wants for whatever time they were together. When Domenic’s sights settled on a woman - which happened with distinct irregularity considering the rampant sex drive he kept as ruthlessly in check as he did his legendary temper – he made her the center of his attention – family was the only thing that could drag him away from her, and Dom did his best to minimize those pesky interruptions. He never hesitated to spend money on his mistresses as long as it was not expected or demanded in any way – that type of spoiled brat behavior he would not tolerate. His last lover, who was the well known film actress Lorna Leigh, adored jewelry and even as a parting gift he presented her with a three inch, thirty-five thousand dollar diamond cuff bracelet, as well as matching earrings and necklace. They parted quite amicably, and that was what Dom wanted. Although he liked his women feisty, both in bed and out, he detested the highly public, overwrought, emotional scenes some women favored.

It happened, though, that the right rear tire on the limousine blew out just outside of the small town of Berkleysville, Illinois. There was no jack with which to crank the jack to change it, and, considering the armored plating and bulletproofing Dom had ordered when the car was specially built for him, they would never be able to lift it on their own. As Mary sat patiently in the back, the three men were just beginning to discuss – somewhat raucously - who was going to hoof it back into town when a ramshackle old Ford clanked and banged its way loudly by, only to pull over to the side of the road a few yards ahead.

Looking back, Dom realized that he was lost the moment he saw her, but he hadn’t known it then. He just knew that he liked the looks of the small, delicate woman who unhesitatingly offered her assistance to four complete strangers.

“Is there something I can do to help?” the perky strawberry-blonde asked.

“Do you got a crowbar?” Mario, the chauffer-bodyguard asked, giving the girl a long, slow once-over.

Annoyed for no apparent reason at the younger man’s crass attitude, Dom stepped in front of him, blocking everything from her sight but himself and consciously using his softest, gentlest voice. This little girl looked like a stiff wind would blow her over, and her very ethereal fragility aroused every protective instinct he owned. “Ma’am, if you are in possession of a jack, we would be extremely grateful if we could borrow it.”

Bridget had looked up at him, and their eyes met for only a second before she lowered hers and looked somewhere past his shoulder for the rest of the conversation. “No, Sir, I don’t have a jack in my truck, but I do know were you can get one. I’d be glad to drive one of you into Scarborough, which is the next town –”

“I know,” Dom interrupted gently with a small, friendly smile. “I live fairly near here.”

Fidgeting nervously with the fingers she’d clasped tightly in front of her, she did not return his smile – in fact, he didn’t think she even saw it, because she didn’t look at his face again. “I – I –” he saw her swallow hard, then straighten herself staunchly to finish her sentence. “I know the owner of a repair shop that would be glad to lend you a jack and whatever other assistance you need.”

Kit tipped his hat to her, then wrapped his arm around his wife, distracting the girl from Dom for a moment. He’d leaned forward and held out his hand. “My name is Kit Jackson, and this is my wife, Mary. We’re sure obliged to you for the help, Ma’am.” The young woman shook hands rather hesitantly with the couple, and Dom frowned at this, wondering why – granted, Kit was almost as big as he was, but he looked affable enough in his suit, and Mary looked entirely innocuous and was very elegantly dressed.

“I’m Bridget Sullivan,” she responded quietly, pumping each offered hand.

A quick glance at a slim, empty ring finger calmed an uneasiness inside him he’d never felt before. “Miss Sullivan,” Dom began as he gestured to Mario, who was leaning negligently against the car. “This is Mario Cioffi, my chauffer. And I’m Domenic Martinelli.” Dom extended his hand to her, and she took it with equal reluctance. Instead of a usual handshake, though, he turned his wrist just slightly to bring the back of her hand to his lips, releasing his captive slowly and only after her eyes darted up to his for a second as he smiled warmly. “Allow me to add my own thanks to Kit and Mary’s. We appreciate that you took the time to stop.”

Looking anywhere but at him, it seemed, she’d answered in her musical, lilting tone, “Y-you’re welcome, Sir.” Bridget took a step back from the small circle they’d formed. “Why don’t we get going and then you can be on your way?” She turned to walk back to her truck, leaving the decision of who would join her to them.

“I’ll go boss –” Mario volunteered, eagerly abandoning his post holding up the car for a chance to charm his way under that tasty-looking little priss’s skirts. He’d bet she was a hot one!

Dom ground his teeth, almost reading Mario’s thoughts, and waylaid the eager young stud by placing a heavy hand on his shoulder as he shot past him. “I’ll go.”

With a gentle hand at her slight back, Dom escorted Bridget back to the disreputable truck – which he thought to himself with a grimace must have been an original Model T held together by rust and rubber bands. He opened the passenger’s side door for her, offering a hand up that was quietly ignored, and closed it behind her, then climbed in on the driver’s side. The old clunker rumbled to life, the sheer volume of its asthmatic engine discouraging conversation, but Dom was the persistent sort.

“Do you live near here?” he asked casually, turning to watch her as he drove.

Now that they were alone in the intimate confines of the truck cab, she seemed even more nervous and fidgety than before, and it was obvious that she did not appreciate his high-handedness in driving her truck. “Yes, Sir, I live just outside of Scarborough –”

Dom smiled, hoping to put her at ease; he wasn’t used to women reacting so strangely around him. Despite his dark looks and serious demeanor, he thought that most women found him fairly approachable. Apparently that was not so for Miss Sullivan. “Call me, Dom, please. When you say ‘Sir’ I think you’re talking to my father.”

A small smile played about her lips – and beautiful full, bowed lips they were, too, completely devoid of lipstick. In fact, looking at her flawlessly creamy complexion, Dom realized that she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. Nor was there a cloying cloud of overpowering perfume surrounding her. Instead, all he could smell was sunshine and fresh air. Her rusty hair was long and loose and waved almost down to an enticingly rounded bottom. Dom felt his fingers begin to itch, wanting to bury them in that warm curtain right up against her skull as he bent her head back and brought his lips down –

He had to adjust his position slightly at the thought. Dom turned away from her, noting that she seemed more at ease when he wasn’t concentrating all his attention on her.

“Then you must call me Bridget.”

“Well, Bridget, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an assistant librarian for the county public library.”

“Like books, do you?”

She smiled. Dom was glad to see that she was definitely relaxing. “I would hope so! Do you read, Mr.–” He raised an eyebrow at her, and she blushed and corrected, “ - Dom?”

“I don’t get as much time to read as I would like, but, yes, I do – mostly the classics, and of course the newspaper. My work keeps me pretty busy.”

“I would imagine so,” she murmured, a wealth of understanding in just that phrase.

Dom frowned, concerned that she was aware of his unsavory reputation. “I own and run a trucking company.”

Bridget turned and met his eyes, saying absolutely nothing for the longest moment. Then her gaze returned to the road. “Okay.”

They were silent for a little while longer, and Dom knew that they were nearing the small town. His chances to see her again were dwindling before his eyes. “I come through here fairly often on the way to my house. I’d love to take you out to dinner some time.” Since she was hardly his type, his interest and his offer surprised him a little.

“No, thank you,” she answered quietly, deterring any argument about her response by pointing out the turn into a small gas station with several car bays that advertised itself as Eddie’s Garage.

“It looks closed,” Dom commented, circling the front of the truck to help her out, but she’d already crossed the parking lot and was banging on a well-hidden door.

“Eddie? It’s Bridget – can you come down, please?” She turned to explain, “Eddie is the mechanic. He lives upstairs.”

Sure enough, a light came on in the front window of the top floor of the squat little building, and soon Eddie appeared in all of his grease-stained glory, hugging Bridget like a long lost friend and setting Dom’s teeth on edge as he made free with his hands, holding her entirely too close, grabbing her hands in his dirty, chubby ones and practically jumping for joy.

It was then that Dom realized that something was not quite right with Eddie. He never said a word through the whole conversation, and Dom gathered that it was not a skill he possessed.

“We need to borrow a crow bar – or rather he does,” Bridget said, nodding towards Dom.

When Eddie realized that she was with someone, maybe when he realized that she was with a man, Dom didn’t know, but Eddie immediately pushed Bridget behind him, taking up a protective stance with his fists up that almost made Dom smile at the improbability of the slight, overweight man taking him on. But he appeared to be quite willing to do so, for Bridget.

Interesting. Dom filed this bit of information away for further investigation.

Bridget, meanwhile, had skirted around in front of Eddie, agitating the poor guy to no end. “No, no, no, there’s no need for that. His limousine blew a tire. Do you have a crowbar for a tire jack, Eddie? I’ll bring it right back.”

Eddie seemed to have to consider his answer quite carefully; Dom wasn’t sure if that was because of his impairment or because the man wasn’t certain whether he wanted to lend Dom anything. Finally, after a little cajoling by Bridget and promises of visits by someone named Bobby – which made Dom’s senses perk - as well as dinner at some indeterminate time, they were able to leave with the jack in hand.

Dom watched Eddie bid Bridget an almost tearful farewell. When they were on their way back to the limo, he asked quietly, “Eddie doesn’t speak?”

Bridget sighed, but took up for her long-time friend as she always did. “No, he doesn’t. But he can fix anything with a motor in it – anything,” she defended fiercely. “He’s slow and doesn’t have ‘book smarts,’ but he’s sweet as can be; once he likes you he’ll do anything for you.”

All of that passion in defense of a friend. Dom shook his head. He wasn’t about to cast aspersions at Eddie, and Bridget was fairly bristling at the idea that he might. It was just the opposite, in fact. “Quite a feat for him to own and run a business, then. I admire that.”

She relaxed visibly since he hadn’t attacked Eddie’s shortcomings. “Everybody looks after him a little – he eats with us a lot, and Bobby does his books, Mom sews his uniforms and does – did – his laundry. He grew up next to me in town and got a job at the garage when he was about thirteen. At first all Mr. Pelky would let him do was sweep the floors, but then, when he saw how good Ed was with an engine . . . well, the rest is history.”

Dom seized on the wealth of personal information she’d revealed. “You live with your Mother, then?”

She seemed to hesitate before answering that question, but finally said, “Yes, Mom and Bobby, my brother.”

He heaved a quiet sigh of relief that he didn’t want to explore too closely. “I live with my mom, too.”

Of all the possible reactions, her high-pitched giggle was the least expected, somehow. It made him turn and consider her carefully as the enchanting sound washed over him. Her nose got a little red, and she snorted a bit, but her genuine amusement pleased him. Dom leaned over a little closer to her and teased with a playful growl, “It’s not nice to laugh at people, you know . . .”

Unsuccessfully trying to stifle more giggles, Bridget put her hand over her mouth, mumbling through it, “Yes, but, you live with your mother?”

Dom relaxed back a little away from her, but not much. “What’s so funny about that, Miss Sullivan?” he asked, with mock anger.

She sidled a glance at him with a wry smile and a snort. “You are just about as far from a mama’s boy as I could ever imagine!”

He adopted a pained expression, and she laughed more. “Thank you, I think . . .”

“You’re entirely welcome,” Bridget replied with grave seriousness that was belied by the occasional giggle that escaped through her firmly pressed lips.

They were nearing the place where the others waited when Dom asked offhandedly, “Are you seeing anyone, Bridget?”

After he pulled in just past the limo, she turned to look him straight in the eye, one of the few times she’d done that since they’d met, answering smartly, “That is none of your business, Domenic Martinelli.” Although she was obviously not a native speaker, she gave his name the correct Italian inflections.

Dom reached over and held the point of her chin in his fingers, applying careful pressure. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Bridget Sullivan.” He got out of the truck and Bridget scooted over behind the wheel as he stood next to the driver’s side window. Dom fished in his back pocket for his wallet, saying, “We really appreciate how you’ve gone out of your way for us like this. I’d like to give you a more tangible token of my gratitude –” Dom was just about to give her all of the cash he had on him – almost five hundred dollars.

With the wad money in his hand as he leaned towards the window, Dom was amazed when he heard her say angrily as she laid rubber driving away from him –”Keep it.”

So much for ethereal delicacy.

When they were finally on their way again, Mary echoed his thoughts exactly, murmuring that someone ought to do something nice for Bridget, and Dom made it known in no uncertain terms that he would be doing exactly that.

Bridget surfaced slowly from the deep, exhausted sleep she’d sunk into not long after giving birth. She’d tried to stay awake to see the tiny results of all that effort – and to wallow in the adoring, totally absorbed look on Dom’s face as he held their son. She could hear him talking to someone, and her brow furrowed, wondering who was in the room with him. As she listened, she realized that he was talking to the baby as he was wont to, not in nonsensical, unclear phrases, but as if he was speaking to someone who understood the situation completely.

“ – And do you know what your Mommy did then? She peeled out, and left your Daddy holding the jack in one hand and a fistful of money in the other. Imagine that! Your Mommy does have some strange ideas about how to handle sincere gestures of gratitude – we’ll get to a lot more of that later, I assure you.” Bridget smiled to herself, and tears filled her eyes as she heard his lips smack in a kiss he’d probably pressed somewhere on the baby. “But your Mommy is pretty fantastic, and she’s going to be the best Mommy in the world, just like I’m going to be the best Daddy. You’ll see.” More soft smacking.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was left by the side on the road with not so much as a ‘good bye’ by the woman I loved – well, I didn’t love her quite at that point –”

Bridget would have given almost anything to be awake during the rest of this intriguing story. Even thought she’d lived it herself, Dom’s version must have been a doozey. But as his voice hummed soothingly in the background, she slipped back into blessed oblivion.

* * *

As she drove home that day, supremely proud of herself for leaving him slack-jawed on the side of the road with that totally insulting wad of money in his fist, Bridget couldn’t keep from smiling at his outraged expression. Any inconvenience she’d suffered – which was extremely minor at that – was well worth the effort.

She still wore that self-satisfied smile as she sailed into the house, kissed Bobby noisily on the cheek and headed into the big bedroom to do the same to her mother. Colleen O’Shay Sullivan was dying and everyone around her knew what was happening but tried to ignore it as much as possible in favor of enjoying as much time with her as was possible. Although thin and wan due to her ill health, she still had that mischievous sparkle in her eye that she’d passed on to both of her children.

“Mwwaaaahh, Mama,” Bridget greeted, pressing a loud kiss to her Mom’s withered cheek and taking her usual seat facing her on the side of the bed.

“Hi, honey-girl, how was your day at the liberry?” Colleen deliberately mispronounced the word to needle her daughter. Colleen had not always lived in the genteel poverty that she’d raised her kids in after marrying the disreputable love of her life, and she was still smart as a whip. Having graduated from Radcliffe with a degree in journalism, she could speak and write better than most people. But Timothy Sullivan had other ideas for his wife, keeping her home while he drank away most of his meager teacher’s salary.

Bridge’s father had died when she was a young child, and, from some of the stories she’d heard she wasn’t sure she was too sad at that turn of events. Her Mom had done a great job providing for them, as far as she was concerned, and Bridget was quite content with her life. Yes, the house was old and could stand a lot of repairs, but the mortgage payments were manageable – she’d made sure of that before she’d scraped together enough for the down payment and moved everyone out here three years ago. The change of scenery from the dingy, dusty city to the clean country air had done Mama a world of good – she’d perked up for a couple of months there and everyone’s hopes with her, but then, of course, came the inevitable decline.

“Oh, Mama, do I have stuff to tell you!” she leaned forward and hugged the frail shoulders, then popped back up. “Lemme go get dinner started, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She was almost out the door when her mother mentioned softly, “I had Bobby take in the wash you hung this morning before you left. You might want to check it . . .”

Bridget sighed but made sure she did it well out of earshot of her mother. She’d definitely want to check the laundry – Bobby, like Eddie, was somewhat simple. Loving, generous to a fault, and almost overly affectionate, Bobby was just as likely to have dropped the whole load of laundry onto the ground but folded it quite precisely and brought it in as if the dirt was not there. He couldn’t think through to the consequences of his actions.

Where Eddie had a facility for engines and things mechanical, Bobby could do genius things with numbers, and he did – Eddie paid Bobby a small stipend – enough for spending money – to keep his books. Their unorthodox partnership worked wonderfully for both of them.

Dinner was rarely anything lavish, although Bridget would have adored the ability to indulge her love of cooking, there was barely enough each paycheck to cover the bills, and they were already one month behind at Miller’s Grocery. Luckily, Mr. Miller liked her – liked the whole family, in fact, and he had never said one word about it when Bridget went into town to get what she could for dinner for the three of them. Of course, that could also be because Mr. Miller’s son, Paul, was sweet on Bridget, and had been since he’d seen her the first time she’d come in to stock the house. They’d been dating casually for a while, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to make any sort of formal commitment.

She got down a pot and filled it with water, putting the nearly picked-clean bones from last night’s chicken into it along with a few bruised bay leaves and some salt and pepper. The mixture cooked for a while as she whipped up a batch of fluffy, light biscuits and put those into the oven, returning to sit with her Mom while everything bubbled and boiled and baked, filling the house with a wonderful smell.

Bridget took her mother’s bony hands in her own. “Well, I’ll tell ya’ –” she picked up the conversation as if she’d never left her Mom’s side. “There wasn’t much going on at the liberry today –” Bridget rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and grinned. “But on the way home I saw a limousine pulled over by the side of the road. It had a flat, and there were four people standing around like they’d never seen a flat tire before!”

“Really?” Colleen’s eyes were round. “Well, if they can afford a car like that, they should be able to afford a jack to go with it.”

“They didn’t have a crow bar to use the jack – and that limo was huge – I’ve never seen a car that big in my life!”

“Who were they? Movie stars? Politicians?” she spat the last word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “Did you recognize any of them?”

“Well –, “ Bridget leaned a little forward as if sharing a secret. “They all introduced themselves, and you won’t believe who one of them was!”

“Who?”

It was so good to see her Mom excited about something – Bridget wished something exciting like this happened to her every day, if only so she could relay it to her mother later on. “Well, two of them were a married couple.” She had to think hard to come up with their names. “Kit and Mary . . . Kit and Mary Jackson, I think he said their names were. And then the other man introduced his chauffer –”

“Ooooh, a chauffer!”

Bridged nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. And then he introduced himself. Do you know who it was?”

Colleen frowned at her daughter. “No, dear, I’m not the one telling the story or off having adventures! Spare your old Mom the guessing games and tell me!”

“It was Domenic Martinelli.”

Her mother’s hands flew to her face, her eyes wide with alarm. “The gangster? The one they call The Hammer?”

“In the flesh,” Bridget emphasized each word.

Colleen tried to sit up, but ended up with a round of coughing spasms. Bridget handed her a glass of water. After a few minutes, the older woman asked, “Are you all right? Did he do anything to you? Did he hurt you?”

Bridget frowned. “Why on Earth would he hurt me, Mama, when I stopped as a Good Samaritan?”

“I don’t know, Bridie, but I don’t like the idea of you being around that man at all. You know his reputation as well as I do – you’re the one reading me the newspaper columns about his violent exploits every night.”

“I’m fine, Mom, really. He was a complete gentleman – he even tried to give me money for being helpful,” her mother looked horrified at the thought. “ – Which I refused, of course.” Bridget sat back and thought, talking out loud a little wistfully. “Ah, but Mama, that was a huge fistful of money – probably a couple of hundred dollars or so – it would have paid so many bills!”

Guilt squeezed at Colleen’s already frail heart. She knew that one of the biggest debts the family owed was to Doc Hannigan, who she believed had kept her going well past her time, and for that she was eternally grateful. But the medicines and the visits and the hospitalizations . . . they’d certainly taken a toll on the family finances. “You did the right thing, though, daughter. I’m proud of you. Come give us a kiss, and it smells like you need to go rescue those biscuits.”

Bridget got to them just in the nick of time, calling Bobby to dinner, which, contrary to tradition, was eaten in Mother’s room so that they could all eat together. Mother, as usual, ate very little. Sometimes Bridget wondered how she managed to survive on the little she took in. After dinner and the inevitable battle with Bobby regarding kitchen cleanup chores, they all gathered in Mama’s room again. Bridget gave her Mother a small gift, as she usually did whenever she had some spare money – just something small to help entertain her and brighten her day. This time it was a small music box that played the Minute Waltz. Colleen fawned over it and Bridget; coming to tears about how blessed she was to have such good children taking care of her. The three of them chattered on until it was time to turn on the radio and listen to the Orson Welles on the Mercury Theatre. They always listened to his dramatic radio plays, as well as Amos and Andy and Fibber McGee and Molly, Jack Benny . . . Bridget never regretted the money she’d spent to get them the radio when they really couldn’t afford it; it kept Mama occupied while she was alone, and brought them all together at the end of the day.

While everyone else was listening raptly to the deep booming voice on the radio, Bridget’s thoughts turned to the dangerously charming – dangerously dangerous – man she’d met today. He gave her the shivers, as Mother would say – and not the good kind, either. She’d never met anyone so – so big, not just in physical presence - although he certainly looked like he could have lifted that limo himself without breaking a sweat - but in sheer, raw personality. Bridget had no doubt at all that every word she’d ever read about him was true. Having only known him for all of twenty minutes, she was unable to deny the sheer force of his innate power. He fairly oozed a kind of leashed, lethal self-control that both attracted and repelled her. Bridget shuddered slightly as she remembered how it felt when he’d held her chin in his huge hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. She’d seen sheer determination there, and remembering his words, Bridget began to wonder if she needed to worry that he’d pop up on her doorstep some time.

Then she shook off those concerns. She was a drab, broke, small-town girl. What would a gorgeous, worldly man like that want with her? That night, though, just before she fell asleep, visions of him played before her eyes, tightening her nipples impudently at his brash sex appeal. Why, Paul Miller had never so much as made her heart beat any faster, but that Domenic; he blew right past her heart to her loins and her breasts, making Bridget ache uncomfortably in those same areas as she fell into a fitful sleep.

It was about three weeks later, when she stopped by the Scarborough Bank and Trust to make the mortgage payment – just seven days late, this time, Bridget grimaced – that something very strange happened. Bridget handed her payment to the teller, Kelly, who was a friend she’d gotten to know through church. Kelly had taken the money and gone to record it in the bank’s ledger books, but then she came back with the money in her hand and gave it back to Bridget.

“Your loan is paid in full, silly,” Kelly said, not really giving the situation any more thought.

Bridget was dumbfounded. “Huh what? It can’t be – it’s only a three-year-old loan, and it was for twenty years! There should still be an enormous balance left on that loan – please go check it out!”

“May I be of assistance here, Miss Sullivan?” It was Jud Wright, the assistant manager of the bank. He stood entirely too close to Bridget, leaning over her like a vulture who’d spotted a tasty morsel.

Taking a step back – overwhelmed by the stench of the aftershave the man had apparently bathed in prior to coming to work - Bridget stated clearly, “I came to make my mortgage payment, like I always do. But Kelly tells me I don’t have to pay it; that the balance has been paid in full. There’s got to be a mistake in the books somewhere, Mr. Wright, because I certainly would remember if I’d paid off my own mortgage, and I’m sure you’re aware that I do not have the monetary wherewithal to do that, regardless. I would like to know just exactly what is going on, and I’d also like to make my payment, please.”

Wright smiled down at her in such a smarmy, condescending manner that Bridget wanted to reach up and smack him, but instead she allowed herself to be led into his office and seated in an uncomfortable chair in front of a large, officious-looking desk.

“But Mr. Wright, should I continue to investigate, or are you going to handle it?” she heard Kelly ask worriedly.

“I’ll take care of this, Ms. Granger. You go back to the line and deal with the customers.” He closed the door and scurried behind his desk, as if he felt he needed to some distance between himself and Bridget.

He was a smart man, because Bridget was seething. She’d stopped by on her way home from work – she’d decided to go home a little early because she wasn’t feeling very well - and now, because the Bank had screwed up her loan somehow – probably paying off hers instead of someone else’s – she was going to get home late, and dinner was going to be late, and it was all going to snowball down the line. On top of that, lateness annoyed Mother to no end, and Bridget was sure to hear about it when she finally was able to pay her loan and be on her way.

Putting on her best “imperious-librarian” face, Bridget asked, “Well, Mr. Wright? Do you have any explanation for this situation?” An eyebrow rose pointedly.

Jud cleared his throat, sensing that this situation needed to be handled delicately. Somehow, he didn’t think that Miss Sullivan was going to be at all happy with what should have been considered a fortuitous turn of events for her. But some people were funny about such things, and he just knew Bridget Sullivan was going to be one of those people. “Well, it happens, Mrs. Sullivan –”

“That’s Miss Sullivan, Mr. Wright.” And he damned well knew it, too, Bridget fumed. She hated it when people deliberately called her “missus,” as if to call attention to the fact that she was almost twenty-five years old and unmarried.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized with complete insincerity. “As it happens, Miss Sullivan, I, personally, handled the very transaction where the loan balance was paid off. And it is as it reads in the ledger: paid in full.”

Bridget could not have been more confused. She sat forward in her chair anxiously. “Then who came in here with that kind of money?”

“No one. It was received directly from the originating bank to this bank by wire – Western Union,” he explained pedantically.

She was trying to think fast and furious, biting her bottom lip practically in two. “Can you tell from what bank? From what person’s account? This has got to be an error, Mr. Wright.”

As she was leaning forward desperately, he was leaning back in his squeaky wooden office chair. “There was no mistake, Miss Sullivan. I admit that I was a little concerned about this, too, and when we got the wire I called the bank –” he began shuffling through papers in one of his desk drawers, finally coming up with a bad carbon copy of an official looking bank form. After donning magnifying half-glasses, he peered at the paper. “The wire originated at the Farmers Home Bank of Chicago – their downtown office, apparently – out of the account of one Mario Cioffi, who appears to be a resident of the East Side.”

Bridget sounded the name out over and over, her lips moving with the effort of her concentration. Mario Cioffi. Mario Cioffi. That name sounded so familiar – where had she heard it? It was somewhere fairly recent she was sure –

Domenic Martinelli. Bridget snorted in a crass manner that would have made her mother cringe, and did make Jud Wright’s eyes go startlingly round. That was where she’d heard that name before – Mario Cioffi was the name of the man he’d introduced as his chauffer, but who was probably more like his bodyguard. Lord knows, a man like Martinelli needed all the guarding he could get. And now he was going to need just that much more, because Bridget was going to give him what-for about going around paying off peoples’ mortgages for no good reason.

She stood abruptly, adjusting her dress in a fidgety manner while Wright watched with undisguised interest. “I take it you know this man?”

Having already dismissed him from her thoughts, Bridget only answered absently, “It’s not him that’s going to get it, believe me.” She stormed out after delivering that cryptic comment, leaving Mr. Wright to make of it what he would.

* * *

Two weeks later, the devil himself was sitting in the office he maintained at the headquarters of his trucking company, buried in paperwork as usual. Suddenly, the door burst open, and before he could even reach for the revolver he kept in his top drawer, Bridget Sullivan was thrust none-too-gently into the room, followed closely by Mario, who was keeping an iron grip on the furiously wiggling woman’s elbow. Domenic almost smiled, then thought better of the impulse when he looked at the expression on her face. He’d never seen such an angry bundle of femininity in all his life. Mario looked half afraid of her, pushing her ahead of him towards Dom then stepping back with his hands up, as if washing them of the situation and the little termagant.

“I don’t know what to do wid’ her, Boss. She’s demanding to see you, an’ she ain’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer, she says. Been sitting out there for an hour now, buggin’ me about some kinda mortgage thing – I don’t know what the dame’s talkin’ about. I figgered maybe you did.”

Dom rose and crowded Mario out of the room in a hurry, thanking him for his diligence. “Hey, Boss, ain’t that the dame who you rode wid’ to go an’ get the thing for the jack?”

“Yes, Mario, it is the exact same woman.”

Mario took it upon himself to whisper to Dom, “If you need any held wid’ her – you just give ma a holler, Boss. I’d be glad to take care of her for ya’, if ya’ know what I mean.”

He’d sealed his fate with those words and his over-eager attitude. Mario meant well, but he tried much too hard, and Dom knew exactly what he meant by “taking care of” Bridget. He didn’t want anyone that eager to rape a woman anywhere near him. He made a mental note to talk to his second-in-command about moving the man out of his sight. Quickly.

After hustling Mario out the door, Dom closed and leaned back against it, taking a moment before engaging her in battle to drink her in. And it would be a battle, he had no doubt of that, just as he had no doubt as to who would come out the victor. His body was already having a most embarrassing response to her; it was highly unusual for him to become so . . . interested in a woman so quickly. But he’d been hard as a rock through that whole trip to the garage, and now he was realizing that it was no fluke. Dom had forgotten how tiny she was, although she was so riled up with anger that she actually seemed bigger than she was. The dress she was wearing was the same one she’d had on when they’d met – scrupulously clean, but worn nearly to the point of being threadbare. “How can I help you, Bridget?” he asked, offering her a seat in front of his desk that she declined with a searing glare. Dom took his seat behind the desk, swiveling the chair so that he was facing her.

Bridget was beside herself. He was so calm and smooth and suave, as if he had no idea what her problem could be. It was disgusting! She stood directly in front of him so that she could lean her palms on the desk and state in no uncertain terms, “I know what you did and I want you to take it back immediately.”

“Why, I’m quite sure I don’t know to what you are referring,” he answered quietly, gauging her reaction closely.

It was like seeing a little bird puff up to defend her territory against a marauding fox. Bridget leaned so close he thought she was going to bump noses with him, but Dom did not back away. “Don’t play innocent with me, Mr. Martinelli, I’m not buying it. You paid off my mortgage, and I want you to take the blasted money back. Now. As in yesterday.” Bridget enunciated each word of her final sentence very slowly and carefully, as if she was talking to someone who did not speak the language.

“Watch your tone, please,” he chided gently but firmly. “Sit down.”

“No,” she refused, coming even closer, but backing a tad away when he audaciously pressed his long Roman nose to her smaller, slimmer one.

When he spoke, his voice was as innocuous as a summer breeze, but its velvety tones did nothing to disguise the steel beneath. “And do you doubt that I will come over there and seat you myself, if I need to, Bridget?”

Dom let her consider that for a moment, and, with obvious reluctance, she took the seat he offered.

Once she’d complied, he asked, “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

His courtesy distracted her. “No, no, thank you.” She frowned up at him. “That’s not why I’m here, and you know it. Don’t try to deny it.”

Dom shrugged, almost affably. “I merely wanted to reward you for being such a Good Samaritan. You drove off in such a huff –”

She was standing again, popping up like a lovely, avenging angel, looming over the desk in what she thought was an extremely threatening manner. “Because you were trying to give me money – which I wasn’t about to accept then, and now you’ve gone and done this!” Bridget moved away to pace back and forth nervously.

Her sentence was strangled off at the end, and Dom realized with a start that she was close to tears. He stood, coming around to the front of the desk. His first and foremost instinct was to comfort. She looked positively distraught and this was certainly not the response he had intended, but he tamped his over-protectiveness down, sensing correctly that it would not be welcome at this point. Instead of pulling her into his arms as he wanted to, Dom opted to sit casually on the corner of the desk while Bridget faced away from him in the middle of the room, hugging herself and looking unduly anxious. Hoping to soothe her, he deliberately lowered his tone and spoke as if he was trying to coax a small animal to him – and the analogy wasn’t too far off. “It was never my intention to upset you. I wanted to do something nice for you, and when I found out about your . . . financial situation –”

Bad move. Very, very bad move, Dom realized as he watched that thin back stiffen with outrage.

She rounded on him, teeth practically bared. “And why do you know anything about my financial situation, Mr. Martinelli? It’s hardly public knowledge.” Bridget glared at him, an eyebrow almost hiding in the rusty hair that fell across her forehead.

Dom had the grace to blush. “I confess I did a little . . . investigating.” He didn’t think it was possible for her to look any angrier than she had, but she did at that tidbit. “Really, I was just going go mail you a nice check, but when I found out how much debt –” he stopped because she had gone beet red and he knew he was digging himself deeper and deeper.

This was it. Bridget was going to die, right here, right now, of a volatile combination of complete mortification and explosive anger. Then, on top of it all - of course - her eyes again filled almost to overflowing with tears, making her next words come out all choked and hesitant. “Th – that,” she swallowed hard and captured her trembling lower lip with in her teeth, carefully not meeting his eyes until she’d gotten her emotions under control. She’d be damned if she’d cry in front of this man. No way in hell. She didn’t think it was a good idea at all to show him any sign of weakness what so ever.

Bridget continued more strongly. “That was private information. You had no right to pry into my personal affairs.” She was picking up speed, annoyance rapidly replacing humiliation as she spoke, drying her tears and hardening her spine. “And if I had wanted a reward of any sort I would have grabbed that enormous bundle of cash you waved at me in five seconds flat.” She stood behind her chair, fingers gripping the back nervously. “I stopped because I saw some stranded motorists, not because I saw - “ she stopped there, not wanting to offend him, but then thinking better of it. He knew what he was, as he sat there looking at her, almost challenging her to say what she was thinking. “ – Because I saw a stranded mobster with a big bankroll in his pocket.” Bridget was amazed at the small smile that appeared fleetingly on his face.

Dom was thinking that most men wouldn’t have had the guts to say that to him – even those who knew him. Besides, he thought wryly, she’d entirely misinterpreted the cause of the bulge in his pocket; it had nothing whatever to do with money. “You stopped to help some strangers in the best way that you could, and I decided to help you in the best way that I could in repayment.” He shrugged, crossing his arms across his chest. “It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not simple!” she fairly shouted, then dropped down into the chair she’d been kneading, rubbing her hand over her face. From her somewhat slumped position, Bridget caught his eye. “Take the money back,” she growled.

His lips barely moved. “No,” he answered almost inaudibly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and he knew he was going to get his way.

For a long moment, Bridget just stared at him, then she stated baldly, through gritted teeth, “I will not be beholden to a man such as you.”

As insults went, it was mild, but a man would never have gotten away with saying that to his face. His expression hardened somewhat, his tone a note or two lower in subtle warning. “Nevertheless, as I saw it, I was indebted to you and that was how I chose to pay you back.”

Bridget closed her eyes momentarily, trying to get a hold of her temper before she did something that caused her to end up in the river wearing cement overshoes. Out of nowhere, a verse from a prayer, in the original Italian, popped into her mind. It was something one of her girlfriend’s brothers used to say when he was stressed all the time while she was growing up – a prayer, he’d told her with a rakish smile - and it had a catchy rhythm that she’d never forgotten. She began to mutter it under her breath as she shook her head slowly back and forth, having no idea that she was saying it loud enough for the man in front of her to hear.

Domenic’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the filth that was pouring out of the little sprite’s mouth. Before he had a chance to think about it, he pulled her up out of the chair and over his knee, propping a foot up on the cushion of the spare chair and vigorously applying the flat of his hand to a surprisingly curvaceous bottom that was barely covered by a thin layer of cotton. “What are you thinking of,” he asked rhetorically while he continued to spank, “using language like that?”

At first, Bridget couldn’t speak, she was so startled - to say nothing of in serious pain from the first hard swat. She hadn’t been spanked in years – not since before Daddy died. Her mother just didn’t have the heart, and, besides, she’d been a fairly well behaved little girl. Generally, just strong disapproval from her beloved Mother was enough to make her dissolve into tears. “Stop –” she drew in a huge gulp of air around the sobs his attentions were eliciting. “ – It!”

After another ten or so good, hard swats, he let her up. Bridget immediately scurried across the room like a scalded cat, standing near the door and rubbing both hands over her bottom until she realized that he was watching her do it, an intent look on his face.

“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she hissed at him. “And you do as I say and take back that blasted money, or I’ll –”

He looked like he was about to smile at her again, but it never broke completely out. “Watch your tone, little lady,” he murmured soothingly, “if you don’t want to end up back where you just were again.”

“You have no right to spank me!” She all but stamped her foot.

Dom snorted. “In one sentence you called into question both my parentage and my manhood –”

Bridget looked genuinely surprised. “But – my friend’s brother told me it was a prayer – I thought the words sounded pretty and he said it so often while I was growing up that I learned it.” She blushed scarlet, again.

“Let’s just say that you’ll want to unlearn it,” he advised, still watching her like a hawk spying a particularly plump, juicy rabbit.

Slowly recovering her composure, Bridget said, “Still, that does not affect the reason I came here, Mr. Martinelli.”

Dom shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Bridget. Even if I could reverse it, which I’m not sure I could, I won’t.” He stood in front of her. “I always repay favors done for me. Consider it a windfall.”

She was already shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “No. It’s not right. Take it back.”

His “no” was gentle, but completely implacable. He made her so mad! Bridget sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose to keep herself from smacking him. She really wasn’t up to his weight, unfortunately, although punching him in the nose would feel so good . . . Criminy, what this man drove her to! She had a temper, yes, but she’d never seriously contemplated committing violence against another person – her brother not withstanding – until now.

And then a thought struck her like a candle lit in the darkness, and suddenly, she realized she was making a mountain out of a molehill . . . that there were other ways around this big, Italian pain-in-the-neck. Blood coursed through her sore bottom, renewing the searing sting every time she moved. Well, maybe he was a pain in a region somewhat south of the neck, but he was definitely annoying, regardless.

Dom watched with undisguised interest – and then a certain amount of suspicion - as her expression changed before his eyes from one of abject defeat to serene acceptance, all in the space of mere seconds.

Bridget caught his eye, and it was her turn to wear an almost smile. “Then I guess there’s nothing more for us to discuss.” In a wink, she was out the door.

He had to physically restrain himself from going after her – this was the second time she’d run from him. Dom didn’t want her running away from him, he wanted her running towards him – so that he could comfort her after her spanking, kiss away her tears, run his hands up her sides to – he shook his head and reluctantly turned back to his work, sighing at the loss and shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

That Bridget Sullivan was one feisty lady. Imagine her having the pluck necessary to come here – to his own turf - and take him on – why, he made at least two and a half of her, easy. And she knew who he was - his reputation, he thought with a frown - yet she’d still come to give him what-for. Now that was a woman a man could respect. If she’d been a man, he would have hired her on the spot. But he much preferred her as she was: an annoying, beautiful, gutsy broad.