Fight For Her (More Than A Cowboy 1)

“Who’s going to Casale’s?” Paul asked as he came in from the kitchen. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to release a crick. “I hate conference calls,” he muttered.

“We are. With Emory,” Christy told him.

Paul’s brow went up. I told him about Marco's scraped knees and the thank you meal.

“Gray will come to dinner, too, hopefully. I should have asked you if you had plans. I hope it was okay to accept,” I said. “Mr. Casale wants to talk with me about something.”

Paul shrugged. “Sure. We've wanted to eat there for a while now. You know who Angelo Casale is, don’t you?” he asked, dropping down into an overstuffed chair that sat perpendicular to the sofa. He grabbed Christy's ankles and propped them up on his knees.

“Watch the toes!” she said, wiggling her feet.

“Sure,” I replied.

“I don’t mean restaurant owner,” Paul said.

I frowned and Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms over Christy's lower legs.

“He’s a made man.”

“You mean the mafia?” Christy asked, her voice full of awe.

Paul looked to Christy, then me. “He’s connected, that’s for sure. He keeps his nose clean, so the cops aren’t interested in him.”

“You know this because…?” I prodded. The idea seemed preposterous. The older man who'd come visit me with his grandson, a made man?

“Because I work for the District Attorney’s office.”

That made sense. Paul would know more about Mr. Casale’s underworld affairs more than most.

“Is he dangerous?” I asked, worried I was going from one dangerous situation to another. Had I just accepted an invitation to something… bad? God, it was easy to kill someone if they showed up exactly when and where you wanted them.

“To you?” Paul shook his head. “You helped his grandson, right?”

I nodded. “As I said, Marco was hurt and I gave him Band-Aids. Plus Chris’ old bike helmet.”

“Frank Casale personally fixed your front lights and brought you food,” Paul added. “It was a nice thing to do, but I’d say you’re under his protection.”

“His protection?” When his expression didn’t change, I went on. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Paul nodded.

“I had no idea there was the mafia in Baltimore. Gangs I’m very familiar with, but mafia?”

The ER was filled with gang bangers who’d been shot or beat up and I was becoming well versed in the tattoos and colors to know there was a war on the streets of the city, but I’d never once heard of any kind of organized crime.

“It’s not exactly what you’re thinking, it’s not like The Godfather or anything. Casale’s connected to Chicago and New York, but is on a lower, much smaller branch of that family tree. Still, no one messes with him around town.”

The man did have a sense of authority about him, and his son Frank did whatever the man said, but I related that more to Old World custom than do-as-I-say-or-you’ll-be-wearing-concrete-shoes type power.

“Hang on.” I remembered the card Frank gave me and went back to my purse and dug through it. “Here. I was given this.”

Paul took it, flipped it over. “Jesus, you have Angelo Casale’s cell phone number. You’re definitely under his protection.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I sat back down and finished tugging off the cotton balls from between my toes, added them to the pile of Christy's to throw out.

“It means Gray’s not the only one watching out for you. What time tonight?”

I told him.