Chapter 5
Carmine
Christmas and New Year’s have gone by faster than I anticipated.
At the same time, every day feels like ten.
Everything is a blur and a bore all at once.
All I can do to keep myself sane is to take another shot of whiskey, bourbon, scotch—hell, even vodka—whatever will ease the sharp pain in my chest that I wake up with every single day.
I need to stay alert enough to run the family, the business, so drugs like the ones I took at the club are out of the equation entirely.
Though, I have to admit that there’s a large part of me that wants to feel that way again.
So completely out of it that I don’t care what’s happening, or who it’s happening with.
The high isn’t quite worth the hangover.
Not with whatever the fuck that was that night at the club.
When it finally started to wear off, I felt like I was being dragging through the world at a snails pace, and every bone in my body hurt.
Every scar I had ever received stung like it was freshly cut. Especially the one on my hand.
I rub that one idly as I sit in a large leather swivel chair in the office of the very same club. The club I’m now in charge of.
If anyone had seen me that night, fucking in the back corner of the club with an ex-fling and a stranger, they haven’t said anything. Anyone who works for me or wants to remain a member of the club should know better.
It’s a miracle I don’t still feel sore from that night… Still, the hazy memories of pleasure make it difficult not to wonder if it really would be so bad to repeat the evening. Maybe not here, somewhere else.
I pour myself another drink and flip another page in the documents I’m reading about the club. I need to refamiliarize myself with the ownership and regulations for the club. Not that I plan on following them, but not knowing would just be fucking stupid.
Every drug that’s sold here is a risk to me and mine. Every deal made and every booth-side impromptu sex show. Even if they include me in the mix. Especially if they include me.
I chuckle and shake my head as I take a swig. “You’re fucked,” I mumble to myself. “But what else can you do?” I set the glass down and rake my fingers through my hair, messing it up and attempt to brush it back into place with no luck.
I have no choice but to keep going. Do my job.
I know that means I’m going to have to get my shit together soon, but right now this is the only way I can cope.
One drink after another.
One pain killer after another.
One mindless orgasm after another.
An hour ago, I let some twenty-year-old tourist blow me under my desk before tossing him a parting gift and watching him leave to tell his friends the story.
He’ll probably make it out to be some sexy tale that expresses how amazing Italy is and how generous we all are here because “I sucked a strange, depressed Italian guy off and he threw five hundred dollars at me and told me to get out” isn’t glamorous enough.
The bliss from that quick come has long since worn off, and I feel the exact same as I did before. Maybe worse.
I take another drink, read another page.
And another.
Until there’s a knock at my door.
I know that no one is here, or should be. The club closed an hour ago. It’s four in the morning. Myself, two guards out front, and two guards manning the inside are the only ones here.
As I glance up at the partially open door, the dim lighting in the hallway reveals a familiar but inconvenient face.
Jackson Carvel. A nothing in comparison to the Dresvanni family, but a rival nevertheless.
“Jack. I’m surprised that you would really show your face here,” I say simply. I look back down at my paperwork, not particularly concerned.
Jackson’s boots thud on the floor with each careless step of his. He makes no effort to be quiet or discreet. Normally, I’d think that means someone has no intention of starting something, but with a Carvel? I’m not so sure.
“Really? Cause you shoulda been expecting this,” Jackson tells me. He slams a fist down on my desk. “Or are you stupider than you look?”
I blink at him. “I think you need a mirror, dick.” I close the case on the binder that the paperwork is in and open one of my desk drawers to slide it in. Then lock it and pull the key out, slipping it into my slacks.
“I didn’t come here to trade insults,” Jackson huffs. He folds his arms and squares his shoulders up to make himself look even bigger.
“What did you come here for, Jackson?” I ask. I tilt my head to the side, staring at him with narrow eyes.
He huffs again, his shoulders bouncing. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Carmine.”
“That is my name. Now, if you could stop imitating a fucking locomotive, and tell me what it is I’m supposed to know, I might let you leave with all of your fingers.
” I place my hands on my desk, folded, and lean forward.
My gun is across the room tucked into my holster which is hung up with my suit jacket.
I know better, and yet when that American twink had begged to get on his knees for me…I decided taking off my gun was the better option.
Jackson doesn’t know that though; not yet.
“I’m not playin’ a game here!” Jackson growls and launches himself across the desk. “I know you saw my wife here. What the hell were you doing with Vic?”
“Vic?” I gasp as he grabs me by the front of my shirt, several buttons popping open. I grab his wrist and twist. His fingers pull off my shirt, but just as I’m moving back, he grabs the back of my shirt and my hair.
Jackson pulls me over the desk, and I slide over the top, causing several other papers, and my phone, to go clattering to the floor.
“You stupid fucking—” I hiss, but my words are cut off when I land on the floor and my breath goes flying out of my lungs.
“What the fuck were you doing with Victoria? I know she was here. I know you were here, you disgusting fag,” he growls at me.
“Oh, you motherfucker, get the fuck off me,” I kick upwards and hit his knee. He does down onto the floor, and I slide back away from him. My goal is to get as much distance between us as possible, not fight him hand to hand.
The alcohol I’d ingested over the last hour is starting to really hit me. My vision is slightly fuzzy, making him look out of focus, and I struggle to stand up from the floor.
“What did you do with her?!” he asks. “She’s my wife. Mine.”
Before I can get up fully, Jackson grabs my ankles and I go slamming back down to the floor, head cracking against the tile.
“Ah! Shit!” I huff this time, and kick him in the face. “If I’m such a fucking fag, why do you think I did anything with that bitch?”
My insulting his wife only seems to anger him further.
“Tony! Greg! Where the fuck are you?!” I shout. Beyond frustrated. What is the point of guards if they don’t show up when you actually need them?
“You keep her out of this!” Jackson slams his body on top of mine, straddling me, and punches me in the face. My head goes static for a second, and I grab him by the shirt. My hands aren’t working quite right.
I didn’t think I drank that much.
“You’re the one who—” before I can get those words out, Jackson has his gun pulled out and pointed at my face. Barrel straight between the eyes.
I suck in a breath and put my hands to the side, glaring at him between pants.
“Are you serious?” I ask him. “You’re going to get my entire family to put a hit on your head, all because of Vic?”
His sweat is dripping down his forehead. His hand is slightly shaky. I could try to get his gun.
Maybe.
Except my hands are even more shaky.
“I know what you did the other night, fucking raw with some sluts in the back,” he spits at me. Specks of his spit flying onto my face, smelling like old cheap tobacco and shitty liquor. “Vic’s got pics too,” he tells me.
“If she’s got pictures then you know she wasn’t involved, you fuckhead!” I squirm underneath him and grab him by the wrist. He slams the gun against my forehead and his other hand grabs me by the throat.
My heart is racing.
“How do I know you ain’t get on with her anyway? Before all that?” he asks, his voice louder. “How do I know you didn’t try? Maybe you tried, huh?”
Jackson’s other hand reaches downward, sliding away from my neck.
“I wouldn’t fuck her with a condom made of steel,” I spit back at him. My hand still grasps his wrist tightly. But the gun is still against my forehead. One click, and I’m done.
Just like my father.
Just like my mother.
Where the fuck are my guards? I’m going to kill them. If I make it out of this, they’re dead.
“Fuck you!” Jackson grabs me by the dick. “Like you wouldn’t fuck anything that moves.”
“Don’t fucking touch me.” If my eyes could burn, his entire body would be on fire.
“Don’t like it? Don’t like being manhandled? Getting what you give?” Jackson laughs and starts to undo my pants.
Despite how much I do not want him to touch me, and would rather stick my dick in a light socket, my length starts to harden.
“You sick motherfucker,” Jackson practically croons at me, like it’s funny.
Suddenly, I can’t move. My entire body is frozen. My heart is pounding in my chest against my ribcage so hard that it hurts, and I want to tell him to stop. I want to kick his fucking chest in. I want to kill him.
I can’t.
Jackson tugs my pants and boxers down as best he can with the gun still pressed to my head.
All my words and my breath is stuck in my throat.
I can’t do anything.
As Jackson reaches for my dick, my fingers twitch, and I try to squeeze his wrist harder, but my strength feels like it’s being zapped out of me.
His fingers touch my length.
The room around us disappears.
I disappear.
Somewhere inside of my head. It’s dark there, silent, and there’s no one else. I’ve been here before. Mostly as a kid. I remember it. Soon, the darkness will start to take form of something else. Something, no somewhere, warm and soft. Somewhere far away from everything.