Chapter 25 Valentino
Naomi didn’t give me an answer when I told her we needed to get married. Frankly, it was the only way any of us had to protect her. As her uncle, Reeves is too far removed to be her next of kin. Unless we barricaded her for the rest of her life, with people guarding her at all times, which isn’t exactly a proper way to live, we couldn’t protect her legally. Her father could still turn the courts in his favor, and she’d have to comply. No, only her having a husband would do while Joel Smith was alive.
I didn’t expect her to jump on my suggestion and be effusive in her joy, so I didn’t take her silence any other way than her being stunned. To be honest, I’d stunned myself when I agreed to this scheme, ever since Reeves suggested it in the Tribeca apartment, Anya Brennan and Carson Felix both nodding along. I’d never seen myself as a married man, though I always knew I’d have to get married if only in order to beget an heir.
But at this point in my life? While chasing skirt is no longer a priority, settling down wasn’t on the cards, either. And certainly not with Naomi Smith. While I’d entertained the idea what we had between us could lead to more, the concept had never taken the shape of marriage.
I grew up watching my parents so in love with each other. Unlike other bosses, my father never took a mistress. He stuck by his vows, because he made them in good conscience and pledged himself. To have what they had? I’d beg for it. My father always told me a strong man never begs, but he had it all—an adoring wife, a big family, the respect of his soldiers. It all came from the certainty he loved my mother and she’d stand by his side come what may. And he, he stuck by her. That’s what I’ve always wanted for myself, the one thing I’d be willing to go down on my knees for in front of our good Lord and beg for without shame, without qualm. What he had is all I yearn for. A wife I’m a goner for, whose life I’d protect with my own.
The idea this woman can be Naomi? I have no other choice, though. Marrying her, it’s the right thing to do. Reeves did suggest he could find someone loyal to him who could bind himself to her…but the thought of another man claiming her as his? His hands on her? His cock inside her? Over my dead body.
So here we are with a non-starter, even. I’m going to marry Naomi Smith, and for her, I’ll forsake all others, for as long as we both shall live.
Provided she accepts my suit. She’s still in shock, reeling from what that bastard of Joel Smith did to her, and frankly, she’s feeling just the tip of the iceberg right now. With time will come more memories from her time at Pineridge. Everything will get clearer in her mind, starker, and that’s when the real pain will grab hold of her, when it will do its best to crush her and her resilient spirit in its viselike grip. Her uncle and I have already lined up a few therapists we can trust and who can help her wade through the trauma.
She remained silent back in the bedroom, and I didn’t press. Instead, I dropped a kiss onto her temple, cradled her to me, and held her tight. Soon after, she was asleep, slumped into my side, warm and soft and there in my arms. It’s the safest place for her to be, though who am I kidding? No one close to me is ever safe. I can protect Naomi from her father, but who will protect her from me? I am, after all, embarking on a dangerous path—
“Stop overthinking.”
I blink out of my thoughts and stare at Marco, catching his eyes in the front rear-view mirror. Any other day, I’d never let anyone get behind the wheel of my beloved Maserati Levante, but I’m on a mission, and it won’t do to see the boss stepping out of the driver’s seat of his own vehicle. Hence me being in the back seat while my best friend and left hand takes on chauffeur duty.
“Naomi’s not stupid, Val.”
“No, she isn’t.”
Which means she can clearly say no to me, then where will that leave her? There’s no way she can go up against her father all on her own. And then, where will that leave us —
“Val.”
I glance at Marco again. His eyes are narrowed as he throws me a glare in the mirror.
Yes, he’s right. I am overthinking this. I huff in a deep breath and settle straighter in the seat. We’re almost at our destination. Naomi is in one of my houses in Short Hills, where I took her after we got her out. Renata is there with her, and Roberto—her husband and Marco’s dad—is protecting them. No one except these three, as well as Carlito and Luciano who were on the exfil mission with me, know where she is, and I know I can trust them with my life, so I can entrust her to them, too.
“Focus,” he says softly.
Anyone else telling me this in such a low but obviously chiding tone would face the consequences of going against me. But Marco’s got my back, though. It’s the one thing I’ve known my entire life. I’d trust Francesca with him, which is saying a lot considering how protective I am of my baby sister.
The scenery around us starts to change, the SUV entering an area clearly filled with warehouses, some abandoned. I received a call earlier telling me to head here asap. A matter which has been a long time in the making is finally coming to a head, and I have to be on top of my game to deal with it. Prove my mettle, so to speak, even if, ultimately, I am going there to end a man’s life.
Marco stops the Levante near a structure which appears derelict at first glance. Wind is rushing inside from both ends, the whistling in the metal beams reaching my ears as soon as he opens the backseat door for me and I step out. It’s deathly quiet otherwise, a creepy air over the whole desolate landscape. I can easily imagine tumbleweeds rolling in the dust, reminiscent of those post-apocalyptic worlds in the video games Franco is so fond of.
Marco draws close and hands me a semi-automatic pistol. I check the magazine and make sure there’s a bullet loaded inside the barrel, the safety is on, then I tuck it into the side of my waistband under my suit jacket. My best friend wraps both his hands around his gun and starts ahead. I follow a couple leisurely steps behind. As much as I want to rush inside, I need to make an entrance right now.
We stroll into the warehouse, both of us on high alert, though my muscles are not tensed and primed like Marco’s as he opens the way for me.
Four men are waiting inside, standing near their Jeep. Decked in tactical gear and with rifles either hanging down their backs or clutched in front of them, shoulder locked and tense, they look exactly like the special ops team they are. In contrast, a hundred feet across from them, my crew are lounging against or even sitting on top of the hood of the cars that brought them here. Their guns are tucked or held in their hands, casually resting against a thigh or knee.
The leader of the tac team gives me a chin nod, which I reply in kind. He opens the satellite laptop sitting on the hood of the Jeep, and seconds later, a video feed pops up.
Declan Reeves’ face is staring at me as he turns the screen my way.
“Valentino,” he says. “As promised, there he is.”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
At this point, one of Reeves’ men kicks a rolling chair from behind the Jeep, sending it careening across the floor toward my crew. One of my capos, Pesci, halts its roll with the sole of his boot. It lands on the naked thigh of the man tied in the chair who yelps against the binding in his mouth. None of us pay him any heed.
Reeves’ eyes narrow. “You handle this. Please.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply.
“Good. That’s it for us, boys.”
The screen goes blank, and the team leader closes the laptop. Marco’s still got his gun cocked, and some of my men have their hands on their pistols, too. I don’t expect Reeves’ men to do me any harm, but again, image and all that to project. The team leader goes to Pesci, who is obviously in charge, and they shake hands. I then get another chin nod from the man before they all pile into their Jeep and leave.
A measure of tension leaves my posture when they’ve departed and it’s just me and my crew in the warehouse.
And Thad Billings trussed up in that chair.
I stare at the man who’s been so elusive to find and catch, raking my gaze over him from head to toe. This lowlife dared put his hands on Naomi. Any man who thinks he can rape any woman, or any person for that matter, deserves to die a slow, painful, and torturous death in my opinion. My father was also of the same mind, hence the reason why our Borgata never got involved in prostitution rings and human trafficking.
He deserves to die, but first, I need information.
I catch Pesci’s eyes and nod toward the outside. He whistles at the men to file out, and they comply. Marco and I are left all alone with Billings. Marco tucks the gun into the front of his jeans then steps to the bound man, lowering the rag muffling his mouth.
Billings spits at us, though he doesn’t have much saliva left as he’s been kept here for hours without access to food or water.
I smile at him, amused by his little display of defiance.
“You’ve been a hard man to find,” I tell him. “We didn’t think to look with the rats, though.”
Reeves’ men found him hidden away in a basement in Hell’s Kitchen a couple of days ago. The place used to be a safe house for undercover cops working Vice. Some of the pigs are still using it, it seems.
“Fuck you!”
A laugh escapes me. “How the mighty have fallen.”
“You…you’ll pay for this,” he throws out.
“Daddy can’t help you.”
“That spineless idiot never could do anything right.”
“Yes. Look at you, his son.”
His face turns thunderous, then it’s like a switch is flipped, and suddenly, he’s grinning and laughing aloud. “He’s coming for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who? The Bogeyman?”
He tries to spit again. “Joel.”
I smile some more. “Is he?”
Silence stretches for a long moment, and little by little, his expression starts to decompose.
“Just give me the money,” he begs. “I’ll be out of your hair, I promise.”
I stare at him for a few seconds. Interesting. He’s not begging for his life but asking for something else entirely. Has he got balls, or did someone tell him he needn’t fear me? I’ll play his game for now.
“The money Joel Smith promised your father?”
He gulps. “My family. We need it.”
I can hear the need in his tone, the utter desperation regarding what will befall his own should this amount not materialize. Reeves looked into it—they’ll be destitute if Dominic Billings doesn’t uphold his debts. However, no one would be able to touch the fortune from his wife’s side. They’d still have a chalet in Chamouny, a vacation home on Grand Cayman Island, a pied à terre in the Hamptons, and a penthouse in Manhattan’s Upper East Side as well as her trust fund money which would still leave them multi-millionaires.
Every note of despair in his voice and in his begging, eyes hardens something in my chest. He was ready to rape and browbeat an innocent woman to achieve his aim. All for what? Not losing face in front of their high society so-called friends.
My mouth curls with disgust as I look at his sniveling form. He’s now crying unashamedly, snot falling from his nose. If he’d been unbound, he would’ve fallen onto his knees to beg. How pathetic.
If all he’d done was align himself with a dirty bastard like Joel Smith, I could’ve let this pass. But he dared approach Naomi, and for this, I can’t let him live.
“You shouldn’t have touched her,” I tell him quietly.
The crying stops, as abruptly as it started, and he’s peering at me with a snarl.
“Bitch was all but asking for it. All ice-queen and like she’s too perfect for the rest of us.”
My blood starts to boil, a dull throbbing picking up at my temples. In my mind, I’ve already seen myself reaching for my gun and blasting off a full magazine into this waste of space’s body. Yet, this hasn’t happened. I exchange a glance with Marco. He shakes his head softly, and suddenly, it dawns on me.
This is a moment that will make or break me. Not just as a man, but as a boss. No one will blink an eye upon hearing I blew the brains of the man who dared touch my woman. It’s expected. Accepted, and respected, even. I could do it and still come out on top.
Except, I also have another choice. Not to let that figlio di puttana live, no. He is going to die, but not like this. Not by my hand.
Since my father died, everyone has been waiting with bated breath to see what I’d do, how I’d pick up the reins. I knew I had to step up, but a part of me had still been wary. What if I don’t live up to his reputation? What if I botch his legacy?
I have to protect Naomi—there’s no question about this. I also have to disable Joel Smith while I’m at it, because none of us want another RICO landing on our asses in a few years’ time. But most importantly, I need to be Marcello Andretti’s son and worthy heir right now.
Any situation can be used to extract an advantage, my father used to say. One just had to know how to look at it, find the specific angle that will tilt everything into a positive light, and then act on it.
Looking at Thad Billings across from me, I sneak in a deep breath and, in my mind, step into the shoes my padre left vacant for me. The time has come to make my move, to show the rest of the checkerboard how I’ll arrange my piece…and how they’ll all have to align their pieces to me or get off the board entirely.
Plus, it’ll show this piece of scum he really should have feared me.
“You shouldn’t have touched her,” I say softly, peering into his face.
I step away, and give Marco a chin nod toward the crew. He whistles, and they all troop in.
“Make sure he doesn’t die,” I tell my capo.
“Yes, boss.”
I turn on my heel then, and Marco takes this as the cue to sidestep me and head to the car.
“Wait!” Billings starts.
The crunch of a fist hitting his jaw silences him.
I step away, already pulling my phone out. Once inside the Levante and with the door closed, I look for a number I never thought I’d be calling and tap it.
“Da?”
“Valentino Andretti here,” I say in reply. “I need to speak to Yevgeni Sokolov.”
There’s silence at the other end, then a small chortle.
I get it. No one in their right mind would reach out to the Bratva in Brooklyn, much less the d’yavol of Little Odessa himself.
I am perfectly in my right mind, though, and soon, the rest of the world will reckon with this, too.