Maccoy, p.1
Maccoy, page 1
MACCOY
By Esther E. Schmidt
Copyright © 2022 by Esther E. Schmidt All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, places, characters and other stuff mentioned in this book is the results of the author’s imagination. Maccoy is a work of fiction. If there is any resemblance, it is entirely coincidental.
This content is for mature audiences only. Please do not read if sexual situations, violence and explicit language offends you.
Cover design by:
Esther E. Schmidt
Editor #1:
Christi Durbin
Editor #2:
Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Model:
Hunter Harden
Photographer:
Golden Czermak - FuriousFotog
DEDICATION
Golden & Hunter,
Thank you for giving me the inspiration to write this story.
BLURB:
Maccoy - Coming face-to-face with the newfound princess of Crimson Furor MC makes me want to rip out my heart and hand it to her for safekeeping. Though, she’s the one who needs to be kept safe when she’s standing smack in the middle of a decades old turf war that’s evolving at rapid speed.
Delphine - A chain of loss and grief rips open the past and reveals secrets that are dragging me down an emotional path I can’t seem to find my way out of. Until a shady looking biker steps up and doesn’t leave my side. His retro look and style may seem like he’s stuck in the good old days but his actions are anything but.
The flashy lights of Vegas plunge into darkness as a deadly fight for a casino empire enfolds. Will lives crumble as well as the casino empire? Or will bonds be forged strong enough to overcome anything?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
BONUS EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
– DELPHINE –
I rub my dry eyes and blink a few times while the elevator moves one down from the top floor where my father’s office is. My burning eyes are the result of moving from Canada to Las Vegas, flipping the cold with heat and from crying.
Maybe my eyes have dried up from all the crying. My mother died suddenly due to an unfortunate accident last week. Her birthday was yesterday, adding to the grief. To say I’ve been overemotional is an understatement.
All the more reason to switch into work mode instead of staying in my penthouse and feeling miserable. Though this casino has been a huge part of my life and I practically grew up here as a kid until I was sent off to boarding school. After getting an education I worked at this casino until my father thought I needed to run our other casino in Canada.
My mother and I had a different relationship than I have with my father. For instance, my mother always came to visit when I was away at boarding school and also every other weekend when I was located in Canada.
Maybe it’s because my father is a workaholic, yet my mother worked in the casino full-time as well and she managed to be there. You can say it’s a family business and it’s also why I’ve been groomed to take over my father’s job when the time is right.
Like I said, stepping up as my father’s replacement has been in the works for years and yet neither of us expected for the moment to come this fast. Three weeks ago, the doctors gave him six months left to live due to an aggressive form of cancer. When my mother called me that day, we made arrangements for me to come live with them for the time being and put things in motion.
I ended up flying back and forth between Canada and Las Vegas for the last couple of weeks. The casino in Canada still needs to be monitored with Jacobsen, the new man I’ve put in charge. Ivano Zalverni might not be my father by blood–my mother was eight weeks pregnant with me when they got together–but he did raise me as his own.
I carry his last name and he has been a father in every way. It’s also why I practically crawled through the casino as a baby because he owned this place before my mother and he hooked up and started running it together. Right now, though? I’m back to being a pit boss here in Las Vegas.
It’s the best way to get to know everyone and experience everything up close. But it won’t be long until I’m sitting in my father’s chair now that he’s getting weaker by the day. I think the shock my mother’s sudden death also has something to do with his rapid deterioration.
The elevator doors slide open and I know I can’t avoid a confrontation when I see Paolo Abiel strolling down the hallway. It’s the only downside to being back in Vegas. A few years ago, Paolo and I had a fling that lasted exactly two weeks. It ended badly and I was all too happy when my father sent me to go to Canada and run the casino there.
I was the one who broke things off with Paolo, who in fact tried everything to sweeten me up in getting back together. But in all seriousness…I might have been a late bloomer when it comes to cashing in my V-card but Paolo was the worst choice I’ve ever made.
The man never gave me an orgasm and made me feel more like a trophy than a woman standing strong beside him. The fact he was four years younger than me didn’t matter at the time, or maybe in the end it did matter because he was selfish when it came to sex.
I could tell my father never approved of him but weirdly enough, over the years, he did urge me to try and reconnect with him. Maybe it’s why he gave me the Canada escape to put some distance between us to give me time in the hopes we’d eventually end up together.
Like I said, I was a late bloomer and my rebel phase kicked in around that time as well. A few years in Canada away from it all and appointed to run a casino single-handedly sure did woman me the hell up. I know what I want in life now and it sure isn’t Paolo or any other man who thinks I look good on their arm while they run the empire I’m the heir of.
“Delphine,” Paolo croons.
I don’t get the curving of a man’s voice. I know many women swoon over the rumble of a man’s voice or an endearment, wink, or whatever skill they have in store to wrap you around their finger. None of it has any effect on me. If anything, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Seeing Paolo now also makes me think about what I ever saw in him. His hair is slicked back and he doesn’t have any mass or muscles. He looks like the kind of guy who works behind a desk all day every day and never saw the inside of a gym, or a bar for that matter. He’s a cold fish who only cares about work and money.
Maybe it’s due to my observations in my line of work, and let’s face it…the men I encounter here aren’t the perfect ones love stories are written about. Here in this casino men gamble, indulge in women, cheat, drink, and let loose to either live the dream or chase the dream and come out on the nightmare side of it where they stand on the sidewalk dead broke.
I’ve seen more ugliness than a woman my age should experience, and it’s caused me never to back away from anything. It’s also how I was raised because my father never let me shy away from the dirty side of the casino.
The part where debts are made and collected the old-fashioned way. Grabbing a hammer and breaking a few fingers the first time around or eventually calling in a partner we have who takes care of the debt collecting once a person is late with his payment and there’s not a dime in sight.
Also, something I will keep up once all of this is mine very, very soon. And I might just start with firing Paolo’s ass.
“Paolo,” I snap dismissively but the man doesn’t get the “fuck off” hint I put in his name.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” Paolo rumbles and steps into my personal space.
Normally I would use my skills to create some distance. Either reach for someone’s hand and keep an arm’s length between us or simultaneously take a step back. In this moment I don’t use either option. The reason why is simple; I don’t want to touch him and I’m not in the mood to back away.
“Excuse me, Paolo,” I impatiently snap and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I do not have the time for this right now.”
Dropping my hand, I look him dead in the eyes and take a step forward to move past him but his jaw practically hits the ground.
“Your eyes,” he whispers in awe.
Fuck. It slipped my mind to put my blue colored lens in my right eye. All because my eyes are burning and I was only coming down here to check on my father because he had one late meeting that should have been over an hour ago and he hasn’t been feeling well today. It’s been happening frequently lately as if he’s deteriorating rapidly.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to bite Paolo’s head off by saying, “When people’s irises are different it’s called heterochromia.” But I don’t give him an explanation why my left eye is blue and the other is brown. A weird experience when you look straight at me and the reason why I always wear one colored lens is to make them the same color to prevent this…staring…awkwardness, whatever.
I inherited my eyes from my biological father. That’s all I know about him along with the fact my mother left him after something tragic ripped them apart. My mother hardly shared anything else and whenever I asked, she would choke up and be sad for days. It’s also the reason I stopped asking.
Yes, I was curious about my biological father more than a few times in my life but not at the expense of my mother. Besides, I had everything my heart desired. Yikes. Paolo’s face inches closer and the man manages to step on my last nerve.
“I must have forgotten to take out my colored lenses after my date,” I snap and sidestep around the man.
“You only took out one and forgot the other,” he mutters and clears his throat. “Who was your date?”
I whirl around to face him. “Last and final warning. You and me? We happened once on a blue Monday and it will never, ever happen again. I came back here for my father, for the business, not to reconnect with you. You are an employee here and that’s as far as our connection goes. And when you run into me again or when I’m out on the floor as pit boss, you will be and act like any other employee. Am I making myself clear?”
His face clouds over with anger and I don’t wait for his answer but start walking away.
“Pit bitch,” he sneers.
I lift my middle finger into the air without looking back. “It’s pit boss, Paolo. Call me pit bitch again and you will have the tip of my shiny black heels rimming your ass.”
There’s a low rumble of laughter and now my hair stands on end for a whole different reason. I stop midstride to glance over my shoulder where the rumble came from, knowing it wasn’t Paolo.
The man standing behind Paolo is bigger and not just his height, but the broad shoulders wrapped with cognac leather. The guy has a massive mustache and sideburns, along with an overload of chest hair; he’s quite the appearance. And when I say overload of chest hair, I mean I could comb through the dark patch with my fingers and tug every place on his chest.
And why am I thinking about running my fingers over this man’s chest? Not to mention, why is this man only wearing a cognac-colored leather jacket without a shirt underneath? It’s a shady appearance for sure with the black jeans and worn-out biker boots, along with the sunglasses in the same shade as his jacket.
Sunglasses inside? Okay, they’re not as dark but still. If I had to describe his style, I’d say the retro man came walking right out of the seventies instead of the stairwell.
I’m still frozen in place, mostly due to the spark of weird attraction my body surprises me with, and can’t help but blurt, “Who are you?”
The man has some serious swagger. And where Paolo tips to the slimeball section–because he thinks he’s the shit–this man knows he's the shit and wears it with pride and a load of confidence that’s sexy as hell.
His gaze is steady on my face when he stops in front of me. “Maccoy. What’s your name, sweet cheeks?”
I narrow my eyes. “Definitely not sweet cheeks.”
He releases another rumble of laughter and slowly slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to stare over them. “Come on, pit boss, I gave you my name now tell me yours.”
His stare is intriguing as is his persistence. Even more when I realize he doesn’t ask about my eyes, something other people always bring up; it’s the reason why I always wear one colored lens to make them the same.
It’s why I blurt, “Intrigued by wanting to know my name and not about my eyes?”
Maccoy shrugs. “There are three types of heterochromia. The complete heterochromia, like your two mismatched irises, is the least common form. So, I know about your eyes but your name remains a mystery, hence my reason for asking.”
A smile slides across my face–pleased with his answer–I hold out my hand. “Delphine Zalverni.”
“Zalverni. You don’t say,” he murmurs and it’s as if he’s suddenly seeing me differently than a mere few seconds ago.
How is that even possible? And why?
I’m back to narrowing my eyes at the man. “I just did, didn’t I?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Sorry, doll. I’m just surprised to meet Zalverni’s daughter for the first time.”
Before I can say something, I hear my father’s voice behind me. “Fina, please go upstairs. Maccoy, get in here.”
I whirl around to gape at my father, the only one who uses Fina instead of Delphine. He’s never demanded me to go upstairs like a damn five-year old. Not to mention, I’ve been sitting in on meetings for days now since I’ll be taking over soon.
Maccoy reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a small cream-colored card, and places it in my hands. “Call or swing by, foxy mama.”
Foxy mama? This man’s head is still stuck in the seventies along with his wardrobe. I’m still processing his words and fingering the card when he strolls away from me. My father steps back into his office but Maccoy starts to talk when he’s still in the hallway.
“Does she know who’s behind door number one in the biological father department?” he rumbles.
My father steps back into the hallway and his eyes land on me. There’s no need for him to ask if I heard because I’m sure my jaw hitting the floor says it all.
He pulls an envelope from his suit pocket and hands it to Maccoy. “Handle these and I’ll talk to you on Monday.”
Maccoy takes the envelope and points it at my father. He murmurs something I can’t catch and turns to stalk right past me. His sunglasses are still in place, but I can see his eyes, and the wink he shoots at me before he strolls along and disappears through a door leading to the stairs.
“Fina, a word, please,” my father says, dragging my attention back to him.
I close the distance and enter his office. He moves slowly around his desk while I close the door behind me. It breaks my heart to see the strong man I’ve known all my life rapidly deteriorate before my very eyes.
“Who was that?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me as I sink down into one of the chairs across from his desk.
My father releases a deep sigh. “Maccoy ‘Sunny’ Ruthers. He’s the vice president of the Crimson Furor motorcycle club.”
“Sunny.” I snort. “It’s the sunglasses that gave him the nickname, right? Wearing them inside.” I shake my head and I remember something else. “What was in the envelope you handed to him?”
“It sure isn’t his ray of sunshine attitude,” my father drily replies. “But no, his nickname wasn’t earned by wearing the sunglasses he never takes off around outsiders.”
Never takes off? I remember how he pulled them down to stare at me.
“As I mentioned, he’s the VP of a motorcycle club I have been doing business with since before you were born. As a matter of fact, their president used to be an old friend, one who knew your mother all too well.”
One who knew my mother all too well? My heart starts to slam hard against my rib cage. Maccoy clearly mentioned my biological father, which means he knows who he is as well. Does this mean?
Pain washes over my father’s face and I lean forward. “Are you okay? Do you need another dose of pain meds?”
My father waves me off. “This has nothing to do with my physical state. Let me finish because it’s inevitable now. Though, you need to know, your mother wanted you safe from harm. She never could get herself to tell you anything but I’m clearly running out of time. Especially now that Maccoy has seen you.”
I keep silent because I have no clue how the man I just met fits into all of this. Unless he’s my father. Wait. No, he’s probably a few years older than me so it can’t be, but how is he connected? Am I in some way related to him?
“Like I mentioned, Maccoy is the vice president of the Las Vegas chapter of Crimson Furor MC, and Alcide, his president, is your biological father. Your mother left Alcide when–” My father swallows hard and adds, “When she saw your three-year old brother die from a bomb he innocently picked up when it was delivered to the clubhouse.”
My ears ring and it’s a vivid reminder of my mother’s hearing loss, something she always mentioned was from a blast but never expanded on the why and how. It’s the reason she taught me how to read lips.
“Witnessing your son blow up before your eyes after just having taken a pregnancy test to find out you’re eight weeks pregnant…all while being in the middle of rival clubs fighting for their territory…it made her run straight into my arms. Alcide, your mother, and I…the three of us were always close but when your mother left him he stepped back because he knew anything they had he ruined by being the president of the MC, indirectly the one to blame for the loss of their son. Being the president was something he couldn’t…wouldn’t give up.”
