The Game Changer

By Scott Hildreth

Terra I'm going to marry this man, and nothing will stop me. I didn't expect it to be Michael Tripp who left when we made our announcement. He knows this life, he knows what it means to be a part of mia familia. He didn't know he was marrying the boss's daughter. I kept it from him—I lied to him. He came back, thank God. My love forgave me and the wedding is on. I'll die before I allow any more secrets to come between us. Tripp I'm a man of my word. I love hard and tell it like it is. But the Mafia has me in their crosshairs and I'm in deep. Partnering with a crime boss is one thing. Working for a crime boss who is also your father-in-law…that's just f***ed. I stepped up to the challenge. Shaking things up and making changes that needed to happen to secure our power. And the profits speak for themselves. No one could have seen the end coming. No one could have stopped it, not even me. The playing field has changed. And nothing will ever be the same. This book is approximately 53,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781460396872

Scott Hildreth

Scott Hildreth was born into this world early and plans on leaving late. Between his arrival and departure, he has written twenty-four novels and has every intention of writing many more. Despite falling in love with his wife, Jessica, late in life, Scott professes to be an authority on the subject of love, and his writing is a reflection of this belief. Biker, military hero, Mafia boss, billionaire, boxer, vigilante and tattoo artist will always be his preferred careers, but as writing has become a full-time gig, he must live vicariously through the characters in his books who share his admiration for these professions.

Book preview

Chapter One

Michael

I wasn’t obsessed with money, but at times it sure seemed I was preoccupied with succeeding. It just so happened that my means of measuring success was wealth.

Based on the military experience behind me and my employees, the mob boss offered me fifty thousand dollars to provide a security detail for his business dealings. The first two transactions went without incident. The third, however, was a disaster. I quickly realized being in business with the mafia brought certain risks along with it.

Life-threatening risks.

I was caught in the middle of an attempted midday cigarette purchase that had gone to hell in the proverbial handbasket. The offer of one million dollars’ worth of tobacco for two hundred thousand should have warned me of what was to come, but I was partially blinded by greed.

After Mad Sal’s inspection of the cargo, I asked him to walk away from the deal. The driver of the truck, a man named Wesley, seemed to have all his answers prepared, and right at the tip of his tongue. This, combined with his calm demeanor and odd grace, could only mean one thing.

The operation was a setup.

A disagreement between Wesley and me regarding our refusal of the shipment turned into an argument. The argument escalated, and he tried to grab me. An instinctive judo move on my part ended with him being humiliated—and landing flat on his back beside the cigarette-filled truck. Upon returning to his feet, he pulled out a gun in retaliation.

A gun that was now trained on my temple.

In response, an employee of mine—Cap—had his weapon drawn and pointed at the man I was convinced was a federal agent.

All life-or-death situations bring with them uncertainty. A sinking feeling of losing control. Most of the similar instances I had been involved in, however, allowed me to react—and maintain control of my life.

Be it because I had no time to respond, or that I was fully aware that I was no longer in control of anything, a potato-sized lump had risen in my throat. I fought to swallow and waited for the asshole to give his demands.

He stood to my immediate right. Cap was ten feet behind him with his pistol pointed at the back of the gun-wielding prick’s head. Mad Sal, the orchestrator of the botched tobacco buy, was farther to my right, between Cap and the tractor-trailer rig’s cargo.

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so I’m going to give you a little background on me. Cap remained rock-steady with his pistol held at arm’s length. Me and that fella you’re pointing your gun at go way back. We’ve lived through far too much shit for it to all end here. I’m gonna give you a chance to collect your thoughts and lower that weapon. If you don’t, I’m gonna put a bullet in your skull.

Say something, you son of a bitch.

Anything.

I could count how many times my instincts had been wrong on one finger, but the silence that followed sank into the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone.

I’m a former Force RECON marine, Cap said flatly. I’ve killed more men than I can count. Lower the weapon by my three count, or I’ll add you to the list.

Get down on the ground and place your hands behind your head, Wesley demanded.

Shoot this cop son of a bitch, Cap.

An immediate reaction on Cap’s part would have been nice, but it didn’t come. In hope of some reassurance that he and I were on the same page, I shifted my eyes in his direction.

Cap’s jaw was clenched tight, and his focus was undeniable. I glanced at Mad Sal. He looked indifferent. It seemed he could care less.

Cap cleared his throat. One.

Sal’s eyes went thin. There was no doubt in my mind that he was armed, but his clear lack of experience in such situations left him uncertain of how to continue. He, no differently than the rest of the mafia, was far more versed in acting offensively than acting defensively.

I counted silently as I waited for Cap to reach two.

Two, Cap barked.

Three seconds.

Although no one else knew for certain what was sure to follow if Wesley didn’t lower his weapon, I did.

One, one thousand. Two, one thousand...

I leaped backward.

Three.

My eardrums were pummeled by the sound of the gunshot. Wesley fell with a thud at my feet.

You alright? Cap asked.

I could tell that he shouted, but it sounded like a whisper. I nodded. I’m good.

He kicked Wesley’s gun to the side, then picked up his shell casing and put it in his pocket. You think he’s a cop?

Acted like one. I nervously glanced over each shoulder, fully expecting a team of federal agents to come rushing toward us. Tingling from head-to-toe from the overdose of adrenaline that was running through my veins, I knelt and took Wesley’s non-existent pulse. He’s dead.

Toss him in the trunk of the Cadillac, Mad Sal said without an ounce of emotion. I’ll take care of the body. Who’s driving the truck?

We’re leaving it, I said.

Sal returned a confused look. "Why would we leave it? We’ve got the money and the cigarettes."

I searched Wesley for any form of identification, and upon finding nothing, stood. I think he’s a cop. If he is, I’m sure there’ll be a tracking device in the truck somewhere. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?

Sal tilted his head toward Wesley’s body. Did he have an ID?

No.

We’re taking the truck.

I cleared my throat. I’m in charge of the safety of this operation. The truck stays.

Sal chuckled a light laugh as if I’d told a joke. Cap stepped around him and climbed into the cab of the truck. After a moment, he returned.

Truck’s clean, he said. "Clean, as in spotless. There ain’t anything in that fucker, not even a registration or driving log."

I don’t like it one bit. I looked at Sal and cocked an eyebrow.

We’re leaving the fuckin’ truck. He turned toward the Cadillac and pulled his key fob from his pocket.

Beep.

The trunk opened.

Load him up.

I glanced at the lifeless body. A pool of blood had formed on the surface of the parking lot beside his head—a reminder that although my tenure with the mafia was short, it wasn’t without incident.

And I had no reason to believe it was going to get any easier.

We carried the body to the car and, with some help from Sal, eventually got Wesley stuffed into the trunk.

So. Sal turned toward me and brushed the wrinkles from his suit. When are you going to introduce us to your bride?

His lack of overall concern for what we were doing was proof of how commonplace the disposal of a dead body had become with him—and, in turn, the mafia.

Soon. I had only been back from Belize for two weeks and, with Agrioli’s demanding delivery schedule, was left with little, if any, free time. I’ve been too damned busy to think of anything but work. I’ll get something put together here pretty quick.

First things first. Cap shut the trunk of the car repeatedly until it finally stayed closed. We need to wipe down that rig and get the fuck out of here.

I realized we had all ridden in the Cadillac, and that in a matter of minutes, I would more than likely be involved in the dismemberment and disposal of a body.

Come on. I tossed my head toward the truck. Let’s clean this mess up.

No matter how much detail we put into removing any clue of our presence, I had my doubts that it would be the last we heard about the abandoned truck, the cigarettes we had forfeited, or of Wesley’s disappearance.

Chapter Two

Terra

Strong-willed. Honest. Outspoken. Stubborn. These were all words that had been used to describe me in the past. Although they were correct in most respects, when it came down to resolving my issue with Michael regarding who I was, somehow I became weak and incapable of speaking.

No differently than anyone else who started out telling a lie, I was forced to continue to tell it for fear of what the repercussion might be when the truth was revealed. Yet, I knew that it eventually had to be revealed.

The time had come for me to do just that.

I had to be truthful with my father first. I stood on one side of the island, and he on the other. I wagged my finger toward the bar stool. Sit. Please. I want to talk.

In the past, most of my family’s problems had been resolved in the kitchen. One thing that an upset Italian man would always find comforting was food, and my father was no exception.

I pushed the bowl across the island. Carbonara. Your favorite.

He glanced at the bowl, then at me, and grinned. Your mother. He shook his head and reached for the fork. She never makes the carbonara anymore.

It was midafternoon, and my mother was in Chicago on a week-long shopping trip with one of her friends. It was a perfect opportunity for me to talk to my father without her interrupting the conversation. It didn’t, by any means, make telling him easy—but it made it possible.

While he slurped the spaghetti from the bowl like a man who hadn’t eaten in a week, I paced the length of the floor.

Sit, he said over his mouthful of pasta. You make me nervous with all the walking.

Reluctantly, I sat. With my knee bouncing up and down like an overanxious teen, I inhaled a deep breath. Along with it came enough courage to begin.

I’m in a relationship.

He stopped chewing.

Completely.

With noodles hanging from his open mouth, he stared back at me. After what seemed like an eternity, he swallowed the pasta and cleared his throat.

Who is he?

I stood.

He pointed at the bar stool. Sit.

When my father was upset, his voice changed. It never elevated to a scream—or even a shout—but his tone gave all the indication a person needed to understand his state of mind.

And I knew him well enough to know that I needed to sit.

So I did.

Who is he?

I clasped my hands together, drew a shallow breath, and looked right at him. His normally tired eyes looked well rested. I wondered what in his life might have changed, and hoped whatever it was brought along with it some peace of mind.

It’s a long story. Can I tell you without you interrupting me?

He lowered his chin slightly. His signature nod.

I’ve been seeing him for a while—

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then leaned on the edge of the bar. Who is he?

I stood, folded my arms in front of my chest, and let out a sigh. I asked you to—

Sit. He pointed to the stool. I’ll listen.

I sat, regretting I had started the conversation, but knew there was no way I could escape the truth. Not now.

I met him in a coffee shop. You asked me about him a month or so ago, and I didn’t tell you the truth—

I’m your father. You should always tell me the truth. Since you were small, I have told you and your brother. Always tell the truth.

He was one to talk. The man who evaded the truth more than any politician in the history of the world. The godfather of the mob who swore there was no mob.

It’s not easy with you.

His eyes went wide. Why?

I shot him a surprised look. Really? I feel like I’m being interrogated. All I want to do is tell you about my life, and you’re...you’re...

He lips pursed and he nodded once. I’ll listen.

I was in the coffee shop. Remember, you agreed to listen. Right?

He lowered his chin.

Okay. Vincent wasn’t the man you thought he was. He was mean. Hateful. And he was violent.

His nose wrinkled, and his eyes thinned until only slits remained.

I had remained reluctant to tell my father much about my past with Vincent, but to have him fully understand the value in Michael’s protective nature, I felt the need to be open and honest.

So, I was at the coffee shop, I was on my computer, and Vincent came in. It was after we broke up. A few months after. So, he came in, and he grabbed me.

His eyes widened slightly.

I knew Vincent simply grabbing me wouldn’t call for too much concern, but what I was about to tell him would undoubtedly get his full attention.

When I told him to leave me alone, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me outside. I was kicking and screaming, afraid for my life, and no one did—

He didn’t give me a chance to finish, but again, I didn’t expect him to.

He jumped from his seat. He pulled you by your hair?

I gave a slight nod.

"Figlio di puttana, he growled. I’ll cut off his hands."

Papa. Let me finish.

He crossed his arms and huffed out a breath.

I pointed to his chair. Sit.

I’m standing.

I chose to remain seated. It was less confrontational. So, he was dragging me across the parking lot, and my shoes came off, and he kept dragging me. The people in the coffee shop were all looking through the window, just watching what was happening. No one did anything. I was screaming and kicking, knowing he was going take me to his car and beat me.

Simply saying those words brought back a range of emotion I thought I’d never feel again. I swallowed the bitter taste of being an abuse victim. My gaze fell to the floor.

Beat you? he interrupted. His voice became elevated. He hit you?

I inhaled a choppy breath, and hoped he didn’t notice.

I should have told him when it happened long before now, and wondered if at least part of what I felt was a result of keeping the truth from him for so long. He was my father, and he deserved to know. I nodded a shameful nod, and then met his gaze.

He hit me all the time. I hid it from you with makeup and scarves. It wasn’t an overnight matter. At first, he told me he was sorry. But it continued. And then it got worse. I was desperately afraid, and not sure what everyone would do or say, so I never told anyone. Papa, I felt alone.

He stood. Although it seemed he intended to speak, the words never came.

My heart slowly sank into the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to continue. Speaking to my father of how Vincent treated me—even though I knew it would never happen again—was difficult.

He walked around the island and held out a shaking hand. After giving me a long hug and a comforting kiss, he raised his hands to my cheeks and looked me in the eyes.

He’ll never touch you again. This is my promise to you.

Thank you. His recognition of the seriousness of what happened had me on the verge of tears. Let me finish. Please?

He nodded, kissed my cheek and turned away. After I sat, he returned to his stool.

While Vincent was dragging me across the parking lot, a man started walking toward us. His eyes, Papa. His eyes told me everything was going to be okay. He told Vincent to let me go, and Vincent argued with him. The man took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and gave Vincent one more chance to let me go. Vincent told him no, so he beat Vincent until he let me go. He beat him down to the ground.

My quick recollection of that day brought everything to the forefront of my thoughts. My heart swelled at the thought of the man who quickly became—and still remained—a hero to me.

With his lips pursed tight, and his eyes filled with sorrow, my father sat and shook his head.

He saved me from Vincent.

Did he give his name?

He did. But there’s more.

Finish.

He wanted nothing from me. He didn’t ask my name, or for my phone number. He was a true gentleman. Then, a week or so later, I saw him again. He came in for a cup of coffee, and I was there. We talked and decided to go to dinner and a movie.

He’s a Catholic boy?

No, he’s not. But he’s charming, and polite, and he’s got this undeniable swagger.

And a really, really nice cock.

I sighed. Let me finish.

Italian?

Papa...

He grinned. Finish.

"We went to a movie together. After the movie, on our way to the car, a man with a knife tried to rob us. He said he was going