Chapter 20
Dalton
I don’t fucking belong here. I’m the kind of guy who gets his clothes on sale, not at a fancy tailor shop in the Garment District.
This damn place has a greeter, who led me into a spacious room upstairs, which looks like Don Draper’s dream home office, with mid-century modern furniture, models of planes hung on the walls for decoration, and mannequins displaying two types of jackets in the corner.
Worst of all, Daphne hasn’t yet arrived, which means I’m stuck with Corvus’s three cousins, who eye me from the comfort of a leather sofa as if I’m a specimen of taxidermy they can put on the wall next to the deer head above them.
And as if my day hasn't been going badly enough already, I had to run into the fucker from the casino to further ruin my mood. How on earth am I supposed to be trying on shirts and assessing fabric colors when what’s-his-name is out there, potentially hitting on Corvus?
I shouldn’t care. Today, I learned how much of an asshole my fiancé is, but here I am, seething with rage and without a punching bag in sight. Were the past weeks nothing to him? I’ve never been happier, floating on cloud nine every day since we really established this thing between us.
I learned how to make his favorite coffee, I can’t get enough of fucking every day, he arranged time off work for me, just so we can spend more time together, I’m getting along with his mother, and we spent New Year’s together in a way that’s impossible to describe in any other way but romantic.
Corvus took me to a fancy restaurant, then we strolled through snowy streets, I bought us fresh donuts, and I licked sugar off his fingers when he complained how sticky they got.
He was so precious when he let me do it despite complaining for the entire time.
I expected him to then take me someplace where we could watch the fireworks in relative peace, but when he stood in front of the gate of an old cemetery located between tenement houses, I knew this would not be a traditional kind of date.
Then again, what would be typical with a man like Corvus Van der Horn at my side?
Once he locked the gate behind us and we followed the path as fresh snow started falling all around us, I got the strange feeling that this was the closest I could ever be to solitude in Manhattan.
Of course, Corvus held my hand, and the city around us provided enough light that there was no need for a flashlight.
At night, in a green space surrounded by a fence, we had all the privacy we needed.
On a bench under a rather impressive tree that now sheltered us from the snowfall, we found a bag containing blankets, a thermos full of warm chocolate, and another one with tea.
I half-expected him to play the violin for me, but I’m still waiting for that wish to come true.
I didn’t ask why he picked that particular spot, but as I played with his fingers, cuddled up close, he told me all about the fascination with death he had since childhood.
About the hunting trophies in his father’s study.
The time he tried to challenge himself and took too much poison during the process of creating an immunity, and almost died.
He told me how back then he’d hallucinated about his family burying him alive, and waking up in the dark, with only a bit of air left.
Apparently, he got so paranoid about this possibility that he made his father use a device that monitored Corvus’s heart in real time.
In case a doctor pronounced him dead when he wasn’t.
He didn’t want to speak much about his father’s death, so I didn’t pry, but the evening made me feel so close to him.
We’re different, I might not understand his morbid side fully, yet he entrusted me with it.
But no, apparently there is nothing between us.
I’m here because he liked my dick that first time.
Maybe a different guy would be flattered, but I imagined that after so many failed attempts at relationships, maybe this time I found someone who appreciated my sense of humor or…
whatever. Doesn’t matter, I guess. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Why else would a guy like Corvus pick me out of the gutter, when far lesser men didn’t bother to?
For now, I’m trying to focus on the catalogue of fabrics Salvatore, one of the tailors, is presenting to me, because while I don’t fucking care about the color of a suit made for a wedding with a man who doesn’t really want me, at least it allows me to ignore Corvus’s cousins.
For now, they’re whispering, voices too low for me to catch what they’re saying, but Corvus’s name seems to come up several times.
The blond shit who outed Corvus has the gall to be here too, and he keeps eyeing me with a wide grin.
The other is Damen, the prince, second in line to inherit the whole Van der Horn empire, and the third is Remo, who I know a little better, since he owns the club I work at.
He’s probably the one who approved my time off, and while I wouldn’t dare approach him directly myself, I bet Corvus had Remo do him a favor.
If they were all a family of birds, Corvus would obviously be the crow, Damen an elegant falcon, Remo—with his short crop—a deadly vulture, and Aspen an unhinged parrot, the kind that in nature documentaries always ends up humping the presenter’s head.
Even now, Aspen’s dressed in a green sweater with a red tiger embroidered at the front, which he decided to pair with leopard print sweatpants, and golden sneakers.
A parrot.
Remo is the opposite, clad in black with the exception of the dark brown combat boots.
I’ve barely exchanged a few words with him during my time at the club, but whenever I see him pass through the venue, there’s a different scrape or bruise on his roguishly handsome face.
Today, he’s sporting a nasty black eye, which complements the old scar going from his forehead to his cheek.
For a man of his status, Remo Van der Horn is shockingly hands-on when it comes to handling business.
I’m surprised when he speaks to me directly while sipping fragrant coffee.
“How’s almost-married life treating you, Cross?”
Guess I’m gonna be family at some point in the future, unless Corvus decides to dispose of me like I’m a used condom.
“A lot to do, you know? Corvus’s mother has grand plans for the wedding.”
Remo nods, watching me as if his dark eyes can drill right through me. “You think you’re coming back to work, or—”
“Or are you gonna be Corvus’s sugar baby?” Aspen butts in with a stupid grin. He looks like he’s having the time of his life.
Damen groans. “How can he be a sugar baby if they get married?”
Aspen frowns, thoughtful for a while as he plays with the zipper of his sweater. “A house husband then?”
Remo smirks. “I don’t know about that. He almost burned down the house trying to make toast.”
Oh, so I see the story not only made the rounds but got embellished in the process. How typical. I chuckle, because what’s left for me to do? “I’ll want to go back to work one way or another.”
“You could do charity work, like all the Mafia spouses who ‘want to give back’.” Damen adds, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Like your husband?” Remo asks.
Damen shrugs. “His choice.”
“My wife will have to be a real badass to keep up with me,” Aspen declares, as if he wasn’t a spoiled nineteen-year-old who only wears expensive clothes because of his daddy.
Damen shakes his head. “Will she need to wear animal prints top to bottom as well?”
He grins. “Why? You wanna know what panties my wife wears, pervert?”
Remo groans. “Aspen, you don’t have a wife, okay?”
At least when they’re bickering it’s not me in the hot seat.
I’m stuck waiting to be measured because the assistant helping me had to go fetch a pair of shoes for me from a store two blocks down.
Remo’s voice passes through my head without informing me what he wants, and he throws a ball of paper my way to make me acknowledge that I’m not alone. Just great.
“I’m just surprised. Weren’t you dating that guy with purple dreadlocks just last month? Are you and Corvus open?” Remo repeats.
Oh fuck. Of course. We told Daphne we met over a year ago. Fuck fuck fuck. I laugh it off and scratch my neck, feeling my cheeks flush more by the second. “I… um… Not anymore,” because I can’t deny Aiden existed in my life. Remo saw him. “We agreed to be exclusive before Christmas.”
Aspen pipes up and sits on the back of the large leather sofa, which seems to agitate Damen. “Oh oh! Was it a sex thing? Like, one of you didn’t want to do anal or something? And so you outsourced it but now worked it out? Is that why you’re getting married?”
Damen scowls at him. “That’s a lot of very strange and specific assumptions. Where did you even get that?”
Aspen shrugs. “I’m an ally.”
I really fucking hope I don’t have to answer this bullshit, because there are limits to my patience even among a pack of bloodthirsty mafiosos.
“One more question though,” Aspen says. “Top or bottom?” The other cousins groan as I stare at him in disbelief. “If I were gay, I’d be a top.”
“We did not need to know that,” Damen says and pours himself some liquor from a side table.
Aspen’s eyes grow, as if he thinks he can make me talk by pretending to be cute, but I no longer have to worry about that when the true reason behind my low mood enters the room with hair in perfect order, and cheeks pink from the cold air outside.
He meets my gaze, and for a moment my heart leaps with hope that maybe he saw how ridiculous he was being.
But then he spots the men on the couch, and bristles.
“Why are you here?” he demands, gesturing at Aspen.
“Your mom invited me.”
Sadly, that does sound like Daphne.