Chapter 8
CAELIAN
M y head pounds like a thousand dumbass demons are holding some kind of thrash-slash-EDM music festival in my brain, and someone forgot to hand me happy pills.
And my tongue…I don’t want to talk about my tongue.
I’m building up strength to pick up my coffee and drink it.
I’m thinking of adding hair of the dog to the coffee, or just skipping the coffee and heading to the bottle.
Considering I woke half dressed, trousers not really done up, one shoe on, and my shirt ruined, hair of anything might be a bad idea.
I rub a hand over my face.
Parts of the evening slide in and out of my head, but I’m currently too hungover to figure out if last night was just be a fuckup or a mighty fuckup of epic proportions.
I went to see Giana because, well, I missed her. The feel of her. The banter. The sex. I missed everything about her. Still do. And then I got mad, stole the scotch, and went to fucking town on the bottle. After that, things get lost in a haze.
The slide of her mouth. The nip of her teeth. The crack of her snark. Like a whip.
There are moments of clarity. Kissing her, the taste, the sweet and slow slide of her tongue. All that hot softness wet and waiting. Mouth and cunt.
But then it morphs into abstract art as a blur of emotions and words and acts of passion and stupidity collide head on.
Jesus, what did I say to her? Oh, I know. I said shit I shouldn’t have—which is nothing new for me, yet this time it feels different. Like when you punch someone in the face, and you end up with a broken fist.
I stare at the coffee before me. The cup is embossed, gold on black ceramic.
Italians do it better and longer.
Where the fuck did that come from?
But the cheesy sexual meaning to it resounds in me.
Oh, fuck, I got really mad because I wanted her, and it made me furious because I couldn’t control it.
Even now, with the horrible hangover and parts of last night slipping in and out of view, it burns in my veins. The fact I couldn’t keep away. The fact I went to her not once, but twice.
So I got angry at her, even though I know that’s unfair. Me losing my shit because she undoes something in me isn’t her fault. It’s mine.
My cigarettes sit in front of me, and I really fucking want one. But there’s something a little too cliché about me mooning out over my goddamn wife while drinking coffee and smoking. It feels way too French for my tastes.
I close my eyes and rub them.
“You know, coffee isn’t magic, asswipe. It’s not going to levitate into your mouth. You have to pick it up.”
I glare at Isaia, who’s appeared in the dining room. He helps himself to a freshly baked chocolate croissant. “Shut it, small dick,” I say.
He laughs. “Do I detect a little cock envy this morning?”
“Shut it. You drive a fucking Tweety Bird yellow car as a sign on wheels about your dick problems.”
He scoffs. “My car, douche, is a work of fucking art. And you’re the one walking around snarling because his wife won’t bone him.”
If I had my gun, I’d shoot him. Probably somewhere not fatal, but you never know. Because, Jesus , what the fuck?
I look at him. “If I didn’t have such a debilitating illness this morning, I’d kill you. Flail you alive and feed you your own liver.”
“Very Hannibal Lector of you,” he deadpans, taking another bite of his croissant.
“You took the last one, selfish prick.”
He glances at the French pastry in his hand, then back to me. “What? Your smoking hot wife by arrangement doesn’t want your pathetic ass, and you revert to a child.” His eyes glint as he offers me a shit eating grin. “Drink your coffee and maybe ease up on the sauce.”
Okay. That last part’s fair. I forgot about just how drunk scotch can get a man, and I was about ten sheets blowing about in the wind. So maybe?—
“Then,” he continues, “you might be able to get it up and please her. She’s a real woman who needs a real man. I can teach you if you want. You know, how to fuck.”
I don’t think. I lunge over the table, and, in an excellent and athletic move, I grab the back of his neck and introduce his forehead to the table.
“Fuck! Ow!”
I let go, grab my mug, and down my coffee. I made it so strong it’s borderline Turkish.
Leaning back, listening to Isaia’s smug face sputter and swear and rant on about my imminent torture-and-murder plan to be initiated by him—some people are so childish—I light up and lean back, breathing out a plume of smoke in his direction.
“I do feel better,” I say.
“Fuck you.”
“It’s okay, but I think I’ll pass. Better offers and all. Besides, I’m way out of your league. You’re more of a bottom dweller. I’m top of the food chain.”
He stands. “Yeah? But I got to fuck your smoking hot wife. And who knows,” Isaia says, his death wish showing, “maybe I’ll get to do it again.”
Isaia stalks off, and behind me I hear the hiss and rumble of the expensive espresso maker, fresh ground coffee perfuming the air.
“Screaming my name,” he continues. “You know, I think she said something like ‘Ooh, you’re so much better than that guy I had to marry. What was his name?’”
“Keep talking. No, really. Because with every word, you’re getting closer to your last.”
“That’s true of everyone, you moron,” he says.
I laugh—softly because my head still hurts. “But you most of all. Especially if you touch her again. Fuck, or even think about it.”
“You’re not the thought police.”
“Just wait until Alexius heals, and I’ll tell him how you lusted after his wife. We’ll see how long you last.”
He comes back, puts a cup in front of me, smacks me on the back of the head, then takes his seat. “Watch your tongue. And fuck, man, work it out with Giana.”
“She’s none of your business.”
“I know this might come as a shock to you, but you’re a dick.”
“Thank you.”
“She’s hurting, too, you know.”
I know that. And I’m going to sort it out. Soon. I did leave her phone outside her door today. She knows enough not to say anything to her father.
But the plan is, we’re going to spread the word that Alexius is coming home while Nicoli and Mira are off to Italy for a last hoorah before the baby comes. But Giana doesn’t know these details. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I do. But I don’t know if her father can read her, and she’s going to have to see him at some point.
She’s also his princess. A Belucci princess.
I hate myself for my next words; I do. “She’s not truly one of us.”
Isaia stares at me. “Did the alcohol kill your last remaining brain cell? Because, as I remember it, you went insane at the thought of that prick Aurelio taking your wife who isn’t truly one of us .” He air-quotes the last part and adds a heavy dose of sarcasm to his voice, which is all a little overkill.
I take the espresso in front of me, swallow it all, and I’m about to argue, or explain, or something when Nicoli comes into the kitchen.
The sun’s streaming in, and it glints off his hair, which is usually more unruly, yet it’s styled to perfection this morning. The grim set to his mouth, the intense determination etched on his face, it’s all Alexius.
Sure, they’re identical, but I know their differences and can tell them apart. But this, he’s exuding his twin. And I think our plan just might work.
I lift a brow. “I see you have that whole Alexius version two-point-O thing going today. Practicing?”
“It’s gonna take me a minute to suppress my natural charm. I figured some practicing might be a good idea.” He buttons up his suit jacket, eyeing me. “Feeling better?”
Isaia barely withholds a snicker.
“Jesus. Did I miss a group text? So, I had a little too much to drink.”
“A little?” Isaia cocks a brow.
I’m about to mouth off, but something about Nicoli’s demeanor stops me. Maybe it’s the trademark Alexius stick-up-his-ass look he’s nailing today.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Nicoli straightens his tie. “We have a guest, but?—”
“Who?”
“—I need you to stay calm.”
“Ah, shit,” mutters Isaia.
“Belucci?” I ask, brows raised. “Is that fucker here?”
“Caelian,” Nicoli starts, “I need you to behave.”
“The man auctions his daughter to the highest bidder, then asks for our help to get him out of it.” I rise out of my chair. “My life and his daughter’s derailed because of him. His daughter then gets threatened, almost kidnapped, and our brother gets shot, followed by the death of our mother, and he can’t even show his ugly motherfucking face around here? Not even as much as a phone call?”
Nicoli holds up his hand. “Caelian, calm the fuck down.”
“Oh, I’ll be calm,” I bite out, then turn to walk out. “So calm I’ll be able to slit his throat with the hands of a surgeon.” I stop and glance at Nicoli. “Who are you today? You, or the Abercrombie model?”
He drags a hand through his hair and loosens his tie, ruining Alexius two-point-O within seconds.
“Awesome. Original asshole version it is.” I stomp out into the foyer just as the son of a bitch walks through the front door, shrugging off his coat. I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall.
“Give me one good reason,” I snarl, leaning in as mottled red creeps up along the lines and creases of his face, “why I shouldn’t rip your fucking spleen out and shove it up your ass.”
“My son…Cristiano,” he croaks.
“What about him? Did you auction him, too? You want Isaia to take his hand in marriage to keep him safe, too?”
“Hey,” Isaia objects. “That’s not funny.”
“But highly plausible since this fuck likes to sell his own flesh and blood for popularity points.”
Belucci swallows. “That’s not?—”
“Shut your mouth, you utter piece of shit. You try to marry off your daughter to that sick fuck Aurelio, then you push her on to us, because you made a mistake? Then that fuck tries to gun us down. Threatening our wives, one of whom is pregnant. Who takes their small dick problems out on a group of women?”
“I didn’t?—”
“Let him go, Caelian,” Nicoli says. “Now.”
“Listen to Nicoli.”
I ignore Isaia. “Don’t you have packing to do?” I say over my shoulder to Nicoli. “You and Mira? Italy?”
I squeeze Belucci’s pathetic throat until he comes off the floor and his face turns puce.
It takes Isaia’s hand on my shoulder to ground me, to not kill him. But that doesn’t mean I’m shutting my mouth.
“How the fuck do you sleep at night? You come to us to keep your daughter safe because you fucked up, using your friendship with our dead father to get us to help you. Your daughter almost got kidnapped, shot, our brother did get shot. You don’t call. You don’t write.” I move in closer, right into the cloud of whatever aftershave he’s wearing and breathe in the fear that’s beneath it, the slime he lives in. “I gotta tell you, your concern is fucking touching. Now, give me one reason I shouldn’t leave you a bleeding mess on this floor.”
“The cleaners?” Isaia asks.
“Caelian, let’s take this conversation to the drawing room,” Nicoli urges.
“The drawing room is for guests,” I say then let go of Belucci, my glare still pinning him to the wall. “He is no fucking guest of ours.”
The piece of vermin doesn’t say a word. He just stands there with fear in his eyes, but beneath it is a greedy light, a gleam of cowardice, and it’s all stuck together by pure resentment.
“You want to know the kicker, cocksucker?” I say, wiping my palm down my mouth, barely holding on to my last thread of control. “If this were just you, I’d let you drown in a pool of your own piss. I’d ignore Alexius and his values of running Chicago with a fair hand and always keeping by the rules. I’d fuck decorum up the ass and take your last breath from you with a goddamn smile on my face.” I give him a stern look and slam him back into the wall when he steps forward. “But it’s not just you. And it pisses me off that she’s stuck in the middle of a shitstorm you created.”
“Take your hands off me. We’re family now,” he says in a way that’s just a little too cocky for my tastes.
I get up in his face, pressing my finger into her chest. “You don’t know the meaning of family. The only reason you’re still breathing is Giana. She didn’t and doesn’t deserve this. You do. And you couldn’t be bothered to haul ass out of whatever whore’s bed you were in to check on her.”
“You married my daughter, which makes us family whether you like it or not.”
I grab him and pull him away from the wall, only to slam him back against it again.
“Make no mistake,” I hiss. “The only reason I married your daughter was because my brother gave me no choice, thinking our father would have wanted us to help you. If it were up to me, I would have sent you away with your tail between your legs, left your daughter in New York for Aurelio to grab while I’m sitting on my goddamn porch drinking a single malt while not giving an ounce of a fuck.”
With a jerk, I let go of him and yell, “Now, get out!”
He staggers then rights his coat but makes no attempt to leave. “I know I can’t speak to Alexius, but?—”
“You can,” I snarl. “He’s fine. But he doesn’t want to talk to you. My brother’s allergic to asshole.”
“Please,” he bites out, trying to sound desperate, but there’s a note of mockery in his voice that makes my blood boil. “We have a problem.”
“We? Mine is yours and yours is mine goes as far as your daughter. And she’s currently upstairs, safe and sound.”
“You have to help me. O-our families are aligned now,” he starts.
Nicoli steps up. “And how’s that, old man? You had an arrangement with Giana, and that’s as far as it goes.”
“I need more. You don’t understand.” His eyes move between the three of us, and he almost settles on Nicoli. Instead, he chooses me.
I guess he wasn’t listening to all the nasty things that came from my mouth and wouldn’t wash off. Either that, or like me, he’s well aware I’m tied to him because of his daughter, and he’d like to rub it in my face some more.
“Cristiano…” the old snake swallows, “he’s in trouble. He’s been threatened by Aurelio again.”
“And?” I ask, pitching my voice low, wanting to put my fist through a wall.
“He’s pushing for an alliance now more than ever. The man knows he’s got the rage of the Dark Sovereign coming down on him after almost killing Alexius.”
“The rumors are exaggerated,” Isaia says. “Alexius is fine, back at work in a few days.”
“Still, he thinks your family is weaker now more than ever, and he’s hellbent on making the most of the opportunity.”
The resentment flashes dark, turning the wild heat of anger up to a pressure-cooker-explosion level in me. “Is that a threat?”
“I’m between a rock and a hard place, Caelian,” the man says. “Of course it isn’t a threat. I’m letting you know where I am. You’re protecting my daughter, but I must protect my son, unless we strengthen our ties.”
“Well, that confirms it. You’re ugly and stupid. Threatening to suck Aurelio’s dick if we don’t play ball with you.”
He holds his hands out like he’s trying to plead. “You misunderstand. This threat isn’t just for me, it’s for you, too. We need to stand together, and you need all the allies you can get. All the power is on your side. Aurelio knows how vulnerable you are. It’s the perfect time to strike at the Del Rossas. We both can gain from a stronger alliance.”
I almost laugh. “So, together we bring down the family you chose to align yourself with years ago, but then pussied out of?”
“He’s going to kill my son!” His voice reverberates against the walls with an echo of desperation. But there is nothing, and I mean nothing , this man can say or do that would make me feel an inkling of sympathy toward him.
I don’t say a fucking thing. Not one word. But his? They’re loud in my head. They’re about him, his son, his safety. Then there’s the implied threat. If we don’t play ball and give him what he wants, he might have no option but to team up with Aurelio.
And through this, through all the vile words that left my mouth, for all the things he said to me, not one word from him was for Giana. Not even a hint of concern for her well-being or her in general. And that’s the reason I hate this man beyond any comprehension.
It’s not his arrogance or cowardice. It’s his lack of caring for his only daughter—the woman I’ve fallen completely and wholly in love with.
I hate him. It’s thick and dense, like acid that sticks while it burns, and the hotter, nastier, deeper the burn, the more my hate grows.
I step back and let the disdain show. “Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit. You’re nothing more than an incompetent man and a sorry excuse for a father.”
“I need your help, please!”
“No!” I snap then lean closer, gritting my teeth. “It’s enough that you managed to make your daughter our problem— my fucking problem. And I don’t care if Aurelio butchers your precious Cristiano into tiny little fucking pieces and feeds him to his dogs.”
“Caelian.” I hear Isaia behind me, but ignore him.
“I bet Aurelio will start with his tongue, then carve into him, like the finest sashimi. And when he’s all sliced, diced, flayed, and fileted?—”
“Caelian, you nee?—”
“—the Le Fonti fucker would probably rip out your boy’s still beating heart.” I scoff. “I bet if given the choice between your life, his, and your daughters, you’d eat his heart, then hers.”
“Brother, stop.”
“All of this, everything that’s happened to this family is because of you and your daughter. So, fuck you. We won’t be adopting another one of your goddamn messes!”
Silence swallows up all the air. A sudden shift in the atmosphere, and then I feel it. Feel her.
I turn to face her, the look of pain her expression slicing deeper than any blade could. She's heard every word, every venomous sentence.
“Giana,” I say, not sure which words will follow. But she merely stares at me, blue eyes iced with a cold glare. It’s like she can see straight through me at that moment, and it’s clear she hates everything she sees.
A tear forms in the corner of her eye, and she simply dabs it away with her finger and straightens her shoulders as she looks at her father.
“Give me twenty minutes to pack my things.” She turns around then pauses, glancing over her shoulder at me, her gaze a prism of broken pieces. “I beg you with everything that I am to not stop me from leaving.”
“Giana.” I try to reach for her, but she pulls away, and this time she looks at Nicoli.
“Please,” she murmurs.
There’s a moment of hesitation before he gives her the permission she seeks with a simple nod.