His to Possess (Mafia Kingpins #4)

2. Angelo

2

ANGELO

W iping the sweat off my brow, I keep my eyes on the ball bouncing all over the damn place and then slam it with my racquetball. Carlotta and I have been meeting up once a week at a nearby sports club and she talked me into trying racquetball. At first I had my doubts, but I can’t resist a good challenge. Besides, I’m a quick learner, athletically-inclined and, after our first game, I was hooked.

I think I wasn’t convinced right away because I thought it was something just the old-timers played, but I quickly found out that I was wrong. My little sister informed me that playing racquetball burns six-hundred to eight-hundred calories per hour, making it an excellent workout for losing weight and building muscle. It also improves cardiovascular health and is similar to running two miles in terms of fitness benefits. Needless to say, the fitness junkie in me was intrigued. Now, I can’t get enough of it. Plus, it’s dangerous as hell, dodging that ball. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten walloped by it—on the head, on my side, on my leg. It stings like a bitch, too.

Carlotta hits the ball and it flies into the wall, bounces back and I slam it hard with a grunt. I can be super competitive and I’m always up for a challenge. While my older brothers channel their energy into work, making money and dealing with our winery and the Five Families drama, I much prefer physical activity. Although, ever since Miceli, my oldest brother, took over a power position at the table, I have been attending meetings of the local mafia families.

But, personally? I’d rather be here, sweating my ass off in some kind of workout or flying my helicopter or charming a beautiful woman. I excel at those three things. So much so that lately I’ve started questioning if I should expand my horizons a little. I mean, I love my life, but despite traveling all over the world and embracing my playboy persona, I’ve been feeling a little…I don’t know, lost lately. I guess that’s the best way to describe it. My three older brothers have fallen in love, gotten married and all have babies. Trust me, I’m in no hurry to get married and have kids, but at the same time…there’s no denying how happy they all are and it makes me wonder if I’m missing out. Or, maybe I’m just feeling a little left out and on the fringes because now we have less in common than we used to.

That has to be it. I’ve always liked feeling a part of things. It’s great being an uncle—being the cool uncle—but what about myself? Lately, I’ve started wondering if a wife and fatherhood is in the cards for me at all. Up until recently, I would’ve laughed and said no way. Now, however, after seeing how deliriously happy Miceli, Vincentius and Enzo are, how can I not be curious?

There’s no rush, I tell myself. I’m only twenty-eight and wouldn’t know what the hell to do with a baby, anyway. Although, my brothers had all been the exact same way before fatherhood. They didn’t know how to change a diaper to save their lives. And now? Hell, they could all win Dad of the Year.

We’re at the end of our third set and I can’t keep my mind on the game. Carlotta serves and I take off, but the damn ball bounces twice before I can reach it. She lets out a triumphant cry and I smirk.

“Good job, Lottie.” I may like to win, but I’m not a sore loser. And my little sister is a force to be reckoned with. Compared to me, she’s hyper competitive.

“Thanks, Ang,” she says and swipes up a towel, wiping her face. “I feel like you kind of half-assed that last set, though. Losing your touch?”

“Hardly,” I respond and roll my eyes. I swipe a hand towel over my face, too.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” she asks, nudging me with her elbow. “What’s distracting you?”

Out of us all, I am the pretty one and don’t deny it. Maybe it’s the dimples. Or, I guess it could be my symmetrical features, chiseled jaw and perfect hair. Perhaps it’s just my charming personality. Whatever it is, it gets me all the girls. Always has. Maybe Miceli has more muscles while Vin has more heart and Enzo has more smarts. But I exude charisma. Our baby sister has a little dash of everything and I can’t lie—I’m glad she got rid of that douchebag she was briefly seeing. With four overprotective brothers who watch her like a hawk, it’s going to take a really good man to gain our approval. And that idiot Rendall was a simpering fool whose ass we all wanted to kick to the curb.

“What? Just because I’m the best looking Rossi means I can’t have deep thoughts?” I pretend to be offended, but I’m not.

“Ha! Arrogant and most cocky, sure. But, most attractive? You wish.”

“Hey, as long as I’m still your favorite brother.”

“You know you are,” she assures me and I snort in response because we all know she tells each of us that same line. Especially when she wants something.

We exit the court, grab our bags and head down to the locker rooms.

“Do you realize out of the five of us, three have fallen? Isn’t it a little strange to be the only single ones left?” she asks, suddenly turning thoughtful.

I shrug a shoulder, but realize Carlotta and I must be sharing similar thoughts lately. But, I refuse to let it bother me or admit it. “Better them than me,” I say, trying to sound like I could care less. Although it’s more for show than how I actually feel.

“Oh, c’mon.” She sends me a curious look. “You really have no interest in settling down one day?”

“I’m in no hurry, Lottie. And you shouldn’t be either considering you’re only twenty-five.”

“Yeah, I guess. But if true love comes knocking, I’m ready to open the door, let him in and have some fun.”

I plug my ears. “Lalalalala,” I sing. “I don’t want to hear about my baby sister getting it on with some guy.”

Carlotta and I stop walking right outside the locker rooms and a little frown purses her mouth. “Do you ever get lonely, Ang?” she asks softly, suddenly looking so vulnerable.

“Everyone gets lonely,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She puts on a too-bright smile. “Maybe one day we’ll get our happy ending.”

“You know it,” I tell her, but my voice almost sounds tinny, full of forced bravado. Like I don’t even believe what I’m saying. Probably because I don’t. “Now give your big brother a hug.”

She screeches when I grab her and drop a kiss on her cheek.

“Yuck! You’re all sweaty, lemme go!”

I chuckle and release her. “Same time next week?”

“You know it! I thoroughly enjoyed kicking your ass.” She sends me a victorious smile.

“Don’t get used to it. I had an off day, that’s all.”

“If you say so.” She tosses me a mischievous grin and spins around, heading for the women’s locker room. “See ‘ya, Ang!”

“Bye, Lottie.” Once she disappears through the door, I turn toward the men’s side. My little sister is sassy and beautiful and quite the handful. Good luck to whatever man crosses her path and catches her eye. I hope he’s prepared for Hurricane Carlotta.

The locker room is big and luxurious, but with the exorbitant dues that members pay each month, it should be excellent and I’d expect nothing less than the best. There’s a lounge area with fresh fruit water in large coolers and places to sit, private showers filled with high end shower gel, lotion and shaving kits, individual lockers that remind me more of walk-in closets, and an area lined with sinks complete with fresh towels and disposable goodies such as toothbrushes, toothpaste and combs.

Then, once a member is all freshened up, they can head over to the juice bar and grab a smoothie or a protein shake, which I like to do. Or, there’s an attached restaurant that you can dine in or grab takeout if you’re short on time. All the food is farm to table, organic and always so fresh. Since I don’t have any dinner plans, I’ll probably grab something next door.

Maybe I focus too much on my health and maintaining my physique, but I don’t have a lot of other things to worry about in my life. Sometimes, I do feel like the Golden Boy. Except there’s nothing golden about me. My Italian roots run deep, and my hair and eyes are dark as sin and my skin is always a deep bronze. I speak Italian fluently, thanks to my parents who live in Sicily, and my mom made sure all her kids could make a mean cannoli.

The showers are roomy and made up of two sections: the first has a bench and hooks on the wall to hang a towel and clothes; the second is the actual shower stall itself. I drop my bag on the bench, kick off my tennis shoes and strip off my sweat-soaked t-shirt. My shorts and boxer briefs quickly follow and then I step into the large, tiled shower. After adjusting the water, I move beneath the warm spray and soap up.

As I wash off, I can’t help but think over my conversation with Carlotta. I heard the wistful tone in her voice even though she tried to play it off as though she didn’t mind being single overly much. But it’s clear that she wants to find someone special. I acted like I didn’t care about finding anyone myself, too, but maybe I should’ve told her I’ve been questioning things lately, more than ever before. It’s not that I’m ready to jump into marriage and babies, but I have been thinking—and questioning —my eternally single lifestyle and some of the questionable choices I’ve made.

I’m guessing all of this self-reflection is because I’m approaching thirty.

Whatever the reason, a really big part of me is scared I will never meet my perfect match. People talk about soulmates and finding their other half, but I normally get bored during a first date. I can’t pinpoint what my problem is exactly, but my attention wanders and I find myself wanting to skip right to dessert AKA sex.

I’ve jetsetted all over the world and I’ve met the most beautiful women. None of them have managed to hold my attention for longer than a night or two. I can’t help but wonder—why is that? Maybe I’m the problem. Which leads me to my earlier conclusion that I’m going to die alone. Probably old, grumpy and still trying to figure out why everyone else fell in love, got married and had a family.

The image of myself all alone in a nursing home, wrinkled and sad, stirs up a sliver of fear. I guess this is when most people consider settling, but that’s not something I can easily do. There has to be a woman out there who is my perfect match, right? Hell, she doesn’t even have to be perfect. I just want someone who will challenge me and call me out on my shit. Every woman I’ve known or dated has bent over backwards, literally, to please me. The truth is I want someone who’s going to give me a run for my money.

Does she exist though?

As the thought swirls through my head, I consider what I can do about my solitary situation. I go out a lot, so I’m always meeting available women. They just aren’t what I’m looking for. Instead of giggling and flirting and yes’ing me to death, where is the girl who’ll tell me to shut up and fuck off.

My groin tightens. Yeah, that’s what I want. A lady who isn’t afraid to speak her mind and boss me around a little. Especially in the bedroom.

Okay, Rossi, what can you do? I ask myself, rinsing the soap off and reaching for the 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner bottle.

Maybe I could try online dating or even a matchmaking service. The thought immediately makes my balls shrivel. Not because it makes me look desperate, but because I know the kind of women I’ll get hooked up with, especially with a professional matchmaker. She’ll think I want a perfect society wife. A fucking Stepford Wife. And then what do I say?

“No, I’m actually looking for a feisty, little pistol who can singe me with her sass and keep me on my toes. Pretty is nice, but compatibility is key. Amazing sex is a non-negotiable, but I also need a woman who can slap me upside the head when I say something stupid and who isn’t afraid to call me out if I’m being an arrogant ass.”

Truly enjoying each other’s company isn’t something I’ve ever experienced with someone I’ve dated. Granted, my dating record includes an endless string of women and I’m the furthest thing from celibate. But it’s all been so meaningless. Every sexual encounter, while pleasant at the time, blends into the next. For once, I want to linger in bed after sex with someone I care about and just talk and laugh. Hold her, kiss her and realize how lucky I am. I want to have that night where we get to know each other on every level. I want to be comfortable enough where we can fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Holy hell, I’m talking about falling in love. Something I never thought possible for a guy like me. I know what people say—that I’m a player and a charmer. A bachelor in his prime. And, while that may be true, it doesn’t mean I don’t want more. Because, yeah, I see what my brothers have found and how it’s changed each of their lives in the best possible way.

Even though I didn’t admit it to Carlotta, I’m definitely interested in a woman who not only has the power to make me stop in my tracks and take notice, but also one who isn’t afraid to love a bum like me. Because I know out of all my siblings, I’m the one with the least potential. I’ve just always accepted it. While Miceli rules the mafia kingdom, Vin runs Rossi Vineyard, Enzo makes millions of dollars through his investments before he even gets up in the morning and Carlotta has so much creative talent in her pinkie finger, she could do or become whatever she focuses her mind on.

Me, though? I’ve always felt a little lost. Someone meant to wander the globe, meet a ton of people and have fun in his life. I’ve never wanted to work in the family wine business or get too deeply involved with the Five Families. I could care less about stock picks and sitting in an office all day. While my brothers have all found their path and significant others, I’m feeling more lost now than ever before.

Maybe I should focus my attention on finding someone I could potentially have a serious relationship with. At least it will give me something to do, a goal to work towards. But, again, I have serious doubts that the perfect woman for me even exists.

The moment that thought moves through my head, the shower curtain is yanked back and a cool draft of air makes my skin prickle. With a frown, I turn to see who the idiot is who walked in during the middle of my shower. Because, clearly, the facility was in use.

“Get the fuck out” is on the tip of my tongue when my gaze collides with the most striking pair of aqua eyes I have ever seen. A tall woman, maybe around five feet eight inches or so, stands there looking like some kind of badass biker chick. Her long dark hair frames her perfect face complete with high cheekbones and a set of full, pouty lips. She’s dressed in all black from head to toe—t-shirt, jeans, boots and even a leather coat despite the warm weather outside.

My attention moves down to admire her long, slim legs. I’ve always been a legs man and hers are killer. When I glance back up, I see those amazing aqua eyes snap up from where they’d been looking—very pointedly at my crotch—and I feel my lips pulling back in a smile.

“Can I help you?” I ask with a flirty smile, not caring in the least that I’m wet and naked and on full display.

Biker babe whips out a pair of handcuffs. “Put these on,” she orders, pretending that she wasn’t just ogling my nether region.

Huh. Well, things just got interesting.