He’s hunched at an unusual angle, head hanging over his chest, the dripping of blood falling to my clean hardwood floors with a steady pitter-patter.
Cleaning my hands, I grab my my gleaming silver pistol from my desk. The two soldiers at my back don’t flinch, silent statues, witnesses to what I have to do.
After years in the De Luca organization, taking a life barely registers past a moment of irritation due to the cleanup.
I release the manual safety, lifting the barrel to the informant’s head. I dig it there, enjoying his small wince. If I didn’t need his information, he would have been dead before the doors opened.
“Anything else to add?” I ask, Italian thick and rich on my tongue. It’s not often I get to speak it, having learned a long time ago Americans don’t respond well to those of different backgrounds. Over the years, I’ve learned to dull my accent.
Another way to assimilate into this world. Another thing I needed to get rid of in order to fit in.
The man spits on the ground in defiance.
“Fine.” I nod once.
Two bullets release, right into his temple.
The kickback from the gun barely moves in my strong grip and the body careens further. Splatter of red sprays from his head, coating the wall behind him as the puddle grows under his chair.
I don’t pause to give the body another look, taking out the rag from my pocket and wiping my gun from the debris. The soldiers come closer, one holding a plastic body bag, the other stoic man holding cleaning products. I don’t even know their names. Not like I care.
Zio Nico hired them. Their loyalty might be to my family by way of debt—blood or monetary—but they are of little consequence to me.
“Don’t let anything drip between the boards,” I direct, watching them nod quietly.
I can’t have congealed blood in the grooves of my office. It reminds me too much of my accident.
The scents of old blood and charred flesh momentarily assault my nose, and I have to force it away, wincing as if I can physically ignore it. Not now. The memories do no good to dwell on them now.
I tug up the leather gloves as they hide mangled flesh of my hands. The stiff gloves aren’t practical to shoot a gun, but I’ve learned to adapt. They provide support to my aching hands, and they hide the scars from those who might think they’re a weakness.
I pull the collar of my suit jacket higher and tug the cuffs down just as a cane thumps against the floor behind me. Standing tall, I look every bit the picture of a perfect soon-to-be Capo as Zio Nico steps up beside me.
“Get anything?”
“Enough,” I say, bracing my weight evenly between legs as I wait for Nico’s aged body to move closer.
Always the perfect heir, just like Zio instructed me years ago. The men give my mentor a brief nod, one of respect, before returning to their task.
The body rolls soundly into the bag and the cleaning products are dumped all around without finesse. The harsh smell of disinfectant hits me and I clench my jaw, the bad memories resurfacing momentarily as I battle them away.
I hate that fucking smell. It’s the smell of a hospital, of excruciating pain and terrible sorrow. It’s the smell I woke up to, a young boy who discovered his entire family was killed while he lived, and I would be leaving my home to go to a new country with distant relatives.
That smell reminds me of how alone I felt.
None of that shows on my face, though. Not in front of these men and certainly not in front of my uncle. Appearances are everything in this life. One slip of weakness and I’m likely to die.
Nico sighs, tutting over the mess. A man is into his late sixties, his black hair is streaked with grey but there’s a quiet strength to his small statue. His warm tanned skin crinkles with age and he leans heavily on his cane, his knees crippled from arthritis.
A man battling lung cancer, he looks like a gentleman from a bygone era but that’s where the similarities stop. Nico is as ruthless as they come, even now as his body withers, he’s calculating and cruel.
This is the man who ran the family in Boston against all kinds of enemies for decades. Other rivals, family disputes, investigating cops, he somehow kept it going, kept the family alive, kept his seat of power when others crumbled.
I’m grateful for his rescue, his tutelage, for his guidance. Without him, I’d be on the street, an orphan. With him, I have a family, a home, a purpose.
When he handed me this family, I took it willingly. Because that’s what you do for family.
He puffs on the cigarette in his pincer grasp as I tsk lightly. “Zio, Zia Maria is going to be pissed if she sees you doing that.” Not to mention the cancer eroding his lungs into nothing more than mesh.
It’s why now, after years of leadership, Zio is moving up the timetable on his replacement. Most men in the family don’t get a retirement; they die in this life or see prison.
Not Nico, though. He’s going out on his schedule, training me to take over and leave the family with a line of succession.
Including interrogating suspected rats who talked to the Feds about our last shipment. We’ve been missing cases for weeks, which was quietly being investigated, but when our warehouse was raided last week, we knew we had a huge problem. Someone was selling our secrets.
It was up to me to figure out who. It was my chance to show Nico I could handle the family, that I would be a competent replacement.
Unfortunately, a week later, we still don’t know who the leak is.
On top of the signing that fucking marriage contract, which has more clauses than the Bible, we’re responsible for O’Brien’s goods when they come in. If we can’t handle our own stockpile, how can we be expected to handle Ace’s?
Given the rumors about her psychotic brand of retribution, I don’t need to give her any excuse to come after me.
I still don’t understand why Nico agreed to the contract. We don’t need Ace and her family’s ragtag clan. We’re just as rich, just as well connected and frankly, better.
He’s tight-lipped about why.
“Dump him behind the landfill,” Nico instructs, throwing the cigarette on to the floor. His heel crushes the smoking butt, and I frown. “And don’t tell Maria. She’s already on me enough.”
The cane makes a thwacking noise every time he moves, crossing the expansive room to the wide windows that face the floor below. They’re blacked out to see out but not in, and therefore, no one can see a dead body being carried out.
Red lights stream over his face, highlighting the aged lines in his cheeks.
“I won’t tell her anything, if you’d actually quit.”
“Eh, you’re too good to her.” He waves me off, a slight smirk on his face.
“She’s my aunt. Obviously.” I come up next to him, holding my hands behind my back.
There’s a pause as the bass changes tempo, turning slower, seductive. Couples start to pair off beneath us, looking for secluded spots to hook up, driven to find a reprieve with the music. It’s the same every night.
“Pushing the pills?”
“Of course.” The nightclub is only one aspect of the business. This is how we get the drugs out. Just one avenue in a machine that Nico started years ago.
“Good.” He turns, tapping my cheek. He gestures to the empty chair. “What he’d give you?”
“I’ll need to confirm,” I reply, easing back. “But it seems like there’s a third player in this. Someone who knows about our schedule. Our shipment dates. Our codes. They’re tipping off the rivals, letting them or the cops get to our stuff during transit.”
“But not who?”
I shake my head. “No, Zio.”
“Someone on the inside.” He huffs, twin spot of red highlighting his cheeks.
Before he says anything, I hold up a hand. “Easy, Zio. I’m on it.”
He sputters, coughing as he tries to contain his anger. Anger at his empire being taken down by someone he trusted on the inside; someone we both trusted. I grab my handkerchief from my pocket and press it to his face, letting him cough blood into it.
The coughs are getting harder, wetter. He doesn’t have long. But I can’t think like that.
If I do, I’ll never recover.
“Find the bastard, Lex.” He wheezes, easing into the couch. His small frame seems so much frailer than moments ago. I lean down, adjusting the pillows behind him, doing anything to comfort him. “We can’t let anything derail this union. It’s important.”
“Important, how?”
Zio clears his throat, avoiding my eyes. “It just is. Promise me, Lex.”
“I’ll find him, I promise.”
It takes another twenty minutes for Nico’s breathing to calm down enough before he’s able to get back to his car. He allows me to assist him into the backseat, and I know it’s only a matter of time before he can’t make the stairs anymore. Maybe sooner than I think.
It’s an odd reversal, me helping him walk.
I remember those early days in a hazy fog of too much pain and uncertainty, Nico helping me into his home after a long plane ride to Boston. My legs were badly damaged, still sore, my body freshly healed and aching.
I needed help to walk and Nico allowed me to lean against him. When we got to the door, he held me back.
“From this moment going forward, piccolo, you’re a De Luca.” He looked down at me, eyes unreadable. “We do not show weakness. Not to others. Stand up straight, and walk into this home like the strong young man I know you are.”
And I did just that.
It wasn’t long after that, when Nico began teaching me the ways of his family—our family.
I was to be strong, detached. Never show a weakness and to always follow his commands. He gave me everything, so I would make him proud.
I finish my rounds, making sure all my men are exchanging products. Most of the men are owned—with a debt—but some are family. In this world, loyalty is bought or owned; it’s the only way we survive.
Rounding the corner, I stop dead, taken back by the sight of two women, fumbling against the back stairwell.
Usually, this hall is locked to keep the drunks away. It’s my only escape if the club is ever under attack. I’ll have to put a bullet into whoever is slacking on their job.
Regardless, I can’t be too mad at the turn of events. After the shit day I’ve had with the informant, this is a welcomed reprieve. I watch their mouths clash together, feminine purrs echoing around in the relative silence.
The one against the wall is a pretty enough blonde, thin as a board in a pink eyesore dress. Her skirt is crumpled at her hips, bare pussy gleaming under the emergency lights. I lean against the wall, casually enjoying as the other woman plays along her seam, fingers curving and plunging in earnest.
Fuck, I shouldn’t watch. But they’re right here, out in the open, waiting for someone to walk in on them.
And it’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing this kind of action. I’ve always liked to be an active participant but watching after the night I’ve had? I’ll take a win when I can get one.
It doesn’t take long before the blonde is gasping with her orgasm, knees shaking and clenching as wave after wave assault her. Not bad. The other woman makes quick work of it, though lacking the passion I like to see.
Before I can say anything, or adjust myself—fuck am I hard—Barbie spins the other woman into the wall, hiking her skirt skyward.
The blonde nips the redhead’s neck, tongue flicking over her pale skin, over the three freckles that sit on her right breast. My eyes narrow, something familiar about their placement. Like I’ve seen them before, on another redhead.
She moans lowly, a sultry mewl and my body jolts, recognition hitting my chest like a fucking bullet. Even under the terrible lightening, unable to make out more than a few details, I know that voice.
I hear it in my goddamn nightmares, taunting me, lashing me with lustful spite. I still remember the gleam of fight in her eyes when I questioned her attempts to pick me up at the Wharf.
That fight—that fire—made the gold in her emerald eyes glow like the sun.
I step closer, transfixed.
Red hair. Ruby painted lips. Those dangerous curves. The blonde isn’t my type, but the redhead – Sloane fucking O’Brien – is a scenic highway along the coast. Enough for a man to hold on to while he loses himself into her essence, begging for a sharp word.
I barely had a few moments with her, and I’ve been dying for more.
And she’s my fiancée.
The blonde’s fingers are getting dangerously close to the apex of Sloane’s creamy thighs. And they part, just enough, with want that turns my vision red.
Every inch of her is mine.
I don’t get jealous, but the idea that this woman might have what is mine, before me… well. That won’t do.
Reaching forward, I yank the blonde away. “That’s enough, Barbie.”
Both women startle in alarm and Sloane grasps her skirt, lowering it with shaking hands. But I see the pause, the delay. Her reactions are slow.
“Who the fuck are you?” The blonde gasps, holding on to Sloane’s hand.
Rationally, I shouldn’t care nor should this vice grip of jealousy surround my heart at seeing how easily Barbie touches Sloane. They obviously know each other—and well for the simple fact they were two seconds away from fucking in my club.
This isn’t a real marriage, just a deal between two families, but I see how blown Sloane’s eyes are, the silly grin on her face like this is a giant joke.
She might never want me to touch her, never allow it. But I’m not going to let someone take advantage of her in this state. Not when she’s going to be part of my family—and I protect my family.
“The owner.” I yank her away, her twig legs buckling under my strength. I position Sloane at my back, one hand holding to her hip to keep her from pitching forward. “How much did you give her?”
“What?” Barbie frowns, confused. “That’s not any of your business.”
“It’s my business when you’re doing drugs in my club,” I bare my teeth, taking one menacing step toward her. “Now let’s try this again. How much?”
She shrugs, lips pouting. “Just one pill, it’s not a big deal. This is normal for her.”
Glancing back to my fiancée, I see how she slumps, heels sliding out from under her. Mio Dio, it was only one pill. And she’s reacting like this? The stuff we push isn’t for the faint of heart.
“Out. Now.” I need to get Sloane upstairs, away from this parasite. At least somewhere safe.
I honor my obligations. Including caring for Ace’s little menace of a sister.
Barbie swallows, holding out her hand to Sloane. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Sloane just giggles, unmoving.
“No, just you.”
She looks as if she’ll protest, then thinks better of it, cursing under her breath.
Glaring at her retreating form, I make it a point to remember her. If she can leave Sloane with a viable stranger, she’s not someone I want around my wife.
“Sloane,” I say, turning just as she falls forward. Her head slams into my chin, clipping her and rattling my teeth. Blood blooms on my tongue.
Palming my hand on her head, I hold her still, rubbing my jaw. Her eyes have closed, the drugs finally taking over her body. Soon, she’ll pass out.
Right on cue, she begins to fall and I grab, swinging her up into my arms. Her weight is a distant thought as her head falls into the crook of my shoulder and neck, like she belongs there.
The soft scent of roses drifts over me and I instinctively inhale.
Glaring down at the prone woman, I shake my head. “You’re a goddamn menace, woman.”
