Taking Over the Dark (High Stakes Syndicate #2)

Chapter 33

THIRTY-THREE

ZAMIR

Marcello has his reservations about Alex, and especially Arben, but my only goal is to show him that they’re the two people in my family that he can trust. Well, technically, Arben isn’t family, but he’s been around longer than some of my own blood family has lived to tell any tales.

Me

We need you in Vegas when we get back tonight.

I don’t give him any other context.

Alex

We’ll be there.

That is all he replies with… maybe I am blinded by being so close to them. Never believing that they would cross me. It’s always the ones you least expect, but I don’t know how I’ll take it if they stab me in the back after all this.

I really will have nothing left back home.

? * We’re pulling into the parking garage at our apartment building, and my body relaxes for the first time in forty-eight hours. It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re supposed to have practice tonight.

Nash must be thinking about the same thing I am because he asks, “Are you planning on going to practice tonight?”

“If you need me here with you, I’ll tell Coach I can’t be there,” I assure him. I don’t want him rushing back into anything.

“Actually, I think I want to go. I need to get back into my routine, and I’ve missed playing so fucking much.”

He didn’t want to stay for his dad’s funeral. Instead we came back to come down from the adrenaline and stress of what the past couple of days have been for all of us, especially him.

He killed his father.

I believe wholeheartedly that was closure for him, though. There was a lot of closure with finding out about his dad’s interference with his mother’s death and then discovering the true reasoning behind him and his sister being targeted as well.

And who am I to say how he needs to grieve this whole situation? If that’s by diving back into the sport he loves, then so be it.

When we returned to Dario’s that night, I called Noah into the room to figure out who I needed to pay off at the casinos his father owed money to—never wanting Nash to worry about it. And also not needing more people trying to come after us.

We’ve got too many people on us as it is.

Marcello is in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, whipping up something that smells way too good to be coming from that hot of a man. “I really might start calling you Daddy if you keep cooking like this.” The smirk that earns me over his shoulder has my stomach warming.

Fuck, he’s too pretty.

“If we go to practice, Alex and Arben will land around that time,” I tell Nash, hoping Marcello doesn’t torture them until we get out of practice and over to the warehouse.

Nash sheepishly asks, “Can we leave early to go blow off some steam, lifting?” I wrap my hand around his muscular thigh in an attempt to comfort him.

“Yes. I need to lift, it’s been too many days, and that’s the only way I keep this head of mine clear…” And that’s not a lie. I think the only reason I don’t want to rip my hair out as we speak is due to the little killing spree we’ve been on.

Marcello puts our plates in front of us. “Seafood carbonara. Eat up.”

He doesn’t leave any room for questions, and who am I to ask any?

The creamy noodles hit my tongue, and the feral moan I let out has Ellie coming in from the bedroom. The second moan I let out is from the view of her perfect body. She has one of our oversized T-shirts on—whose, I don’t know—and that thought alone has my dick paying attention.

“Who’s making the slutty noises in here without me?”

Marcello places Ellie’s plate down in front of her from over her shoulder as she sits down in the open chair beside me. Marcello joins us with his food down at the end of the table that’s fit for nothing less than the king he is.

“Cello, fuck, I forgot how good you can cook.” Ellie moans while shoveling more food into her mouth.

Why is her eating so hot, too?

Because you’re obsessed, dick head.

We chit-chat for a little bit after finishing eating, and it’s not lost to me that this should feel very foreign—or even taboo—but it doesn’t.

The thought that one person can and will only love one other person is dumb.

Barbaric.

Simple-minded.

I want more than what the average person does in every aspect of my life. Why does that have to stop in relationships?

Nash and I are up, ready to hit the facilities early so we can put all this restless energy to work. We grab our bags, and by the time we’re back out in the living space, Rhett and Dino are at the door waiting to escort us to practice again.

“Beefy and beefier are here to escort us again, Nash,” I joke and throw a smirk at him, knowing he thinks they’re both hot as shit.

Then I hear Marcello growling like a caged animal, so I also throw one of the jokes at him. “Down, boy. We only have eyes for two others, and it’s not these beefcakes.”

He’s marching over to us, grabbing my face in his hands and squeezing, making my lips open from being puckered. He grunts, “It’s us four, and only us four. Got it?”

I nod in response, and then his lips are on mine, I wrap my hands around his neck and hum into the kiss. Kissing Marcello is like riding a bull. You don’t know what he’s going to do. How hard he’ll buck. But it’ll be a fun ride. It could kill you being this close to him, but it’s worth all the thrill.

Even if he shows his love and affection in the most fucked up ways you can imagine, I would never want him any other way.

? * He’s our little organ-donating, nice mafia don.

I pull away breathless. “We’ve gotta get out of here or we won’t leave at all.” I look him up and down, but my eyes always fall back to his tenting pants.

Ellie’s behind Cello, shoving him out of the way and pushing up to her toes to reach my lips. Even at her height, she still can’t reach me if I’m not bending over to help her.

We switch, everyone says their goodbyes, and we’re out the door.

Pulling into the stadium parking lot, I lean onto the center console to talk to Rhett and Dino. “You two going to come in with us?” Rhett looks like a kid in a candy store, but Dino maintains his serious face that I’ve never seen slip.

“I’ll be right outside the facility, but Rhett wants to go in.” Dino pauses a beat, looking over at him, before saying, “For security purposes.”

Rhett agrees, “Yeah, security purposes… Not because I’ve been a Devils fan my whole life or anything…” I love how sheepish he looks, and I want to ask all the questions about Dino being undercover sweet just now, knowing Rhett would want to be inside meeting everyone, but I control myself for now.

I let Rhett know his behavior is accepted. “Oh, we can get you in there, just don’t fan girl in the locker rooms, that’s our safe space. Anywhere else is free rein.” He nods his agreement and we all walk into the facility with our heads in swivels.

Right as we’re approaching the door I get a text.

Alex

We just landed.

Where should we meet?

Me

Marcello sent a car. They know where to take you.

Alex

Should I be concerned?

Me

I don’t know. Should you?

I don’t like how he’s acting.

But if anyone can scare the truth out of someone and simultaneously read them like a book, it’s Marcello.

Alex

In the car now. See you there?

Me

I’m at practice. The driver will take you to Marcello. I’ll be there once we’re finished here.

Don’t fuck around with Marcello, or you will find out how he’s earned his name.

He doesn’t really have a name…

Well, one that everyone calls him, but the rumors that float around about him are all true. And people are always stupid enough not to believe them or try to see if they’re just that.

Rumors .

They’re cold hard facts.

He’ll brand your whole body with his signature brand, and if the dumbasses survive that then decide to go back into the real world and fuck up again, then he comes after your organs. The craziest part to me is him not selling said organs on the black market. He fucking donates them. He uses his fucking jet to cart around his damn organ nurse, and she hand delivers them to hospitals.

Of course, people would think that’s made up. Why wouldn’t they? Even when being part of “the rich” I still scream, “eat the rich” anytime I can. But when it comes to Marcello Barone, that’s one rich man I don’t mind walking this planet.

He’s a good man underneath it all.

A traumatized man, yes. But he didn’t let that trauma turn him into what his father was. The greed that I’ve seen envelop men when they get a single taste of success is a scary thing to watch.

Even teammates. They sign these multi-million dollar contracts, gamble, and pay for anything and everything you can imagine, and are broke by the time they’re injured and unable to play anymore. Or they can technically play, but what team will fork out money on someone who’s been injured when they have fresh new prospects coming out of college yearly?

None of them.

I follow Nash into Coach’s office, knowing that he’ll be in there doing whatever the hell coaches do before practice. He knocks, and we hear the okay to come in from the other side of the door. Rhett stays outside the door, keeping watch.

I don’t think anyone would come into the Devil’s facilities and do anything to us, but then again, I really didn’t think anyone would have the balls to go into Club Onyx and take my two favorite people from us, but they did.

Never say never.

We both sit down in the chairs in front of his desk, and my mind is instantly brought back to the afternoon being in here getting our asses handed to us by Coach because we were fighting like teenagers.

That feels like years ago.

But it’s only been a couple of months.

“Nash, bud, I’m very surprised to see you here, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Coach gets up and moves across his desk to wrap Nash in a hug. People may talk shit on Maverick Whitlock, but he’s a good fucking man. One that I’m proud to call my coach.

Nash responds once Coach lets him go, “Thank you, Coach. We weren’t close and didn’t see eye to eye much, but it still hurts knowing he won’t be able to see me succeed.”

It hits me that you can mourn your parents even when they’re still breathing. What could have been a great relationship with someone who’s meant to love you unconditionally. But a lot of parents don’t need kids and feed into the generational trauma of treating their kids like they were treated.

If I ever do decide to have a kid of my own, I swear I’ll try my hardest not to pass the trauma that has been placed on me.

My eyes snap up at Nash’s following statement.

* ? If We Being R?al - Yeat

* ? Popular Monster - Falling In Reverse