Chapter 8
Of course Tomaso would come in and ruin the mood. He walked toward us with a big grin on his face. “I see you haven’t been able to resist him, then,” he said, but I was unsure which one of us he was supposed to be talking to.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, glancing into Isaiah’s big wide submissive eyes. He was leaning over the desk slightly, facing the monitor. “We’re working.”
He wiggled his brows. “‘I’m sure you are,” he said. “I heard you were going to Mom’s later.”
“Yeah, she’s made lasagna. The gravy she’s been making has been going for days,” I said. “Or something like that. I’d never refuse it. Plus, I wanna introduce her to Isaiah.”
Isaiah now stood slightly as if he’d been addressed.
“That’s good,” he said. “Tell her I won’t be there.”
“Oh no, I’m not being your fucking messenger,” I said.
“You know the saying,” he said, holding his hands up as he took a step backward. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“No, what’s so important?” I asked. “And why can’t you call her yourself?”
It was typical for Tomaso to do something stupid like miss one of Mom’s meals, especially when she’d called around asking for us all to be there.
Part of me wondered if now was the right time to introduce Isaiah.
He’d been my assistant for over a week. Now, he knew how most of the sausage was made—plus, I’d given him the stuffing of a lifetime. I was serious about him.
Chasing Tomaso was futile, I’d get the gossip from Camille, assuming he’d told her. She was pretty good at getting intel out of folks. I closed the door after him, and walked back to Isaiah, his eyes fixed on me.
“I know you’re nervous,” I said, reading him like the cartoon book we’d enjoyed in bed together.
“You don’t have to be nervous.” Coming around the desk, I grabbed the small cushion from the floor and placed it on my chair.
“Sit here, and look through things, but don’t take any notes or pictures.
” I wasn’t going to tell him the consequences for that—it would only make him more nervous.
I’d decided on the seconds of walking. I wanted to know why Tomaso was being sketchy, so I went looking for him, but as I reached the elevator, it dinged with the arrival of Camille. She had a big smile on her face, the type that told me she had intel and she was going to spill it.
“He’s got a date,” she said.
“Fuck.” The one thing I’d told him not to do. “He’s sadistic.”
“Well, he hasn’t killed anyone he’s fucked, so that’s a win.”
“When we were kids, he was the kid who caught rabbits and dissected them.”
She shuddered. “And then my dad skinned them, and your mom made the stew.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “Will you be at my mom’s place tonight?”
“No, no, I’ve got dinner plans with some financier from New York,” she said. “He’s the one thinking about investing in the new build—you know, the one for the dockyard.”
“This is what I love. Initiative. Not going out, fucking twinks, and leaving them with years of therapy,” I said, almost biting my tongue.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was the same as him—except the pain I gave my twinks came through their tight asses.
His pleasure came through piercing them, often bruising and spanking them, and a lot of ropes.
“He’ll mature, eventually,” she snorted. “You seem to be . . . a little calmer.”
I looked her up and down. “Yeah, well, my mom’s worried about my levels since I took over.”
Camille patted me on the shoulder. “Is it true, then?” she asked in a whisper. “Is this assistant the one? He doesn’t look like you’ve made him want to quit, and you two were . . . close.”
I tutted. “That’s how rumors start.”
“I would never,” she said with a laugh. “But I do love gossip, you know that. I guess I’ll be off back to my post.”
“Thanks, cousin,” I said. “And since it’ll probably come out soon enough, I have—slept with him, and he’s still here, so hopefully that says something.”
Camille’s giddy smile told me everything I needed to know about how I’d approached men in the past. I knew Isaiah was the one—at least, he was acting like the one. And right now I wasn’t even looking for red flags or faults, and I hoped he wasn’t looking for them in me.
I got back to Isaiah, ready to answer any of the questions he had about the business.
I had a huge smile on my face, the lines of boss and lover Daddy blurred at that moment.
I’d set those lines, and yet, I was the one blurring them.
It wasn’t intentional, I just wanted him, and I wanted the world to know that he was mine—in all aspects and areas of his life.
“So, when are you breaking that lease on your place?” I blurted.
“Huh?”
I tapped my fingers on the desk. “I just want you out of enemy territory,” I told him. “The last thing I need is you being used as a pawn against me.”
His smile faded a lot, and I knew I’d come on too strong.
“We should wait, right?” he asked. “In case you actually don’t like me after the novelty has worn off.
” The words came right from a place of experience it seemed.
They were soft but difficult as he spoke them, definitely hard won.
“The last thing I need is to be dumped, homeless, and without a job.” He snorted a laugh and turned his head a little, wiping a tear from his cheek.
“That would be the ultimate form of dominance, right, Daddy?”
I stroked the side of his face, ran my thumb up across his cheek.
“You don’t have to worry about that. And if you decide to leave, you get a pay out.
I’m surprised you haven’t noticed all those twinks out there getting nose jobs and buying expensive designer bags.
Yeah, those were settlements.” I shrugged, almost anecdotally to myself.
“Mostly from Tomaso, but I’ve paid out my fair share. ”
“Ass retightening surgery,” he snorted.
“I’m sure that cream and my kisses helped you,” I said, kissing his cheek. “So I won’t rush you on that, but you’re the first person I’ve ever asked, and—”
He smirked. “You’re not used to hearing people say no, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
And on that same note, I could tell he’d been told no and denied a lot in life.
Maybe it was knowing that that had pushed me closer to him—that desire to give and give until the void of all those no’s were filled.
Maybe it was filling my own void, the one where I’d been denied a boyfriend.
Not officially, but if my father had ever found out they would’ve been—no, I wasn’t going to imagine the fucked-up shit my father would’ve done.
That fucker was dead, and I was alive. I was alive and happy, and he wasn’t going get his toxic bony hands on my life again now.
Isaiah’s touch brought me out of my thought spiral. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I know there’s a whole ‘gays move too fast into relationships’ thing, and I don’t want to play into that stereotype.”
“Okay, baby.” I smothered his cheek in kisses. “Saying all that, I will be introducing you as my boyfriend to my mom.”
“What?” he mustered.
* * *
We spoke about it in the car on the way to my mom’s house.
It was the place I’d grown up in alongside my brothers.
A large house with a deep brownstone perimeter wall and two large black iron gates that opened automatically for certain cars.
Isaiah was nervous, but I’d tried helping him through that with a hand on his lap and another behind his back, stroking him.
I kissed up his neck, and if we’d been alone in the car, I might’ve even let him climb on top of me to give him some real deep reassurance that would drip right out.
“What if she hates me?” he asked as the gates opened.
Ronnie, in the driver’s seat, briefly looked back, and as I locked eyes with him, he knew to speak. “Mrs. Bianchi is the sweetest woman alive,” he said. “Just make sure to clear your plate when you’re done eating, or she might think you hate her food.”
“How many people are gonna be there?” his panicked voice asked.
“Are you coming in, Ronnie?” I asked.
“Oh no, I’ve got to go watch a high roller game,” he said. “Your brother requested extra muscle. There’s about to be a couple million dollars plus on the tables tonight.”
I laughed. “Good, make sure to collect fees. We’re not running a charity.”
“On it, sir,” he said, parking in the drive.
My mom was right there at the door, with her big bouffant of dark hair and wiry greys, dressed in one of her Mother’s Day aprons from years ago.
It caught me off guard for a moment—but it wasn’t Mother’s Day yet.
Camille would’ve told me about that—Isaiah, perhaps not so much, it was a triggering topic for him.
I got out of the car first and my mom practically ran to me. I pulled her up into a hug, and standing a foot taller than her, I had her off her feet. Isaiah came out of the car what felt like forever after me, since I’d undergone a short investigation from my mom.
“Who’ve you been kissing?” she asked. “I can just tell these things. A momma can tell. So?”
“Mom,” I said, gesturing to the opposite side of the car, and at first she thought I was gesturing to Ronnie in the driver’s seat. “Let me introduce you to Isaiah.”
Ronnie backed out of the drive, revealing Isaiah almost like a partition wall had been removed.
“Nice to meet you, Isaiah,” she said, and within seconds she’d pulled him into a hug. “You’ve got lovely skin.”
“Hi,” he said back. “Thank you.”
My mom practically dug her nose into his neck. “You’re the lucky guy,” she said with a throaty chuckle. “I’ve never met any of Santo’s boys before.”
“Boys.” Isaiah quickly butted his lips.
“I mean, he’s a menace, or a former menace,” she said. “He’s still the same boy who’d sneak out in the middle of the night and go to those gay bars in the city.”
The last thing I’d expected of her was to spill my life’s secrets, especially moments that happened twenty years ago. “Okay, Ma,” I said. “I think you’ve said enough. I’m just introducing you to one boy, and his name is Isaiah.”
“You’re serious, huh?” she asked, pinching Isaiah’s cheeks. “So, is that a nice tan? Do you have any Italian in ya?”
He immediately looked at me with a smirk—I knew where that was going. I think the only Italian in him was me, and currently, I wasn’t. “No,” he said. “My dad is Mexican, and my mom is mostly white American, I think.” He offered it up with a shrug. “I get a little darker when the sun’s out, though.”
“You have a great complexion,” she said. “What SPF do you use?”
“Ma, I think we should go inside.”
She scoffed. “Right, right, well, I have something I need to talk with you about anyway.”
I gestured with a hand at Isaiah and he joined me at my side.
I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, keeping him close and making sure he was comforted through this process.
I came here every week—sometimes twice a week because nothing beat Mom’s home cooking.
It was also where a lot of the cash was, hiding under the floorboards and in the cellar.
Rocco was in the kitchen, talking to Nonna. She was spritely, almost ninety. She whacked the back of Rocco’s hand with a wooden spatula as he tried to get a taste of Ma’s gravy. I only passed them briefly, having to leave Isaiah with them because Mom needed to talk with me directly.
She took me to the worst place possible. My dad’s old study. It was filled with bottles of scotch he never worked through. They were great for taking as trophies to celebrate the man’s death—no mourning here, I celebrated like it was Mardi Gras.
“Firstly,” she said to me with a big smile. “I’m so happy you’ve found someone. I know it was hard growing up with your father. That man—he was set in his ways, and I hated seeing you boys go through all that.”
I rolled my eyes, biting my tongue in the hope she would get to the point. “Telling us all he’d wished one of us was straight, like there was something special about his bloodline.”
She whacked my arm. “That’s my bloodline too you’re talking about,” she said.
“You’re my blood as much as you are his.
The only difference is, his name is on you.
Now.” She sucked in a breath. “The Cordello’s are circling,” she said.
“Something about one of us, meaning you murdered one of their men, and they’re looking for someone to pay. ”
I bit down, biding my thoughts. “I need a drink,” I said, scanning the shelves.
I found one of the expensive bottles, it was in a case, and the label contained a signature from some famous guy from my father’s era.
That was perfect for me. “You want a glass?” I took it to the table, cracking the edge of the plastic against his desk, leaving an indentation in the wood but the plastic lip of the case slipped free.
“Sure,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of responsibility now, Santo. It’s been months, and the rumors about the Cordello and Morrell family joining up are coming back to me almost daily.”
“Firstly, that guy killed a kid, so they knew we’d have to kill him.
Besides, I’d promised his family,” I said, pouring myself a small shot.
“And second, the Cordello’s are bottom of the barrel dealers.
The last I heard they were deep in debt to the Russians in New York.
If they get into bed with the Morrell’s, they’re doing it for the money,” I said.
My mom took a glass of scotch and sipped it, her lips pursed thin at the taste. “So, you took out one of their dealers,” she said. “Good. Get those godawful rats off the streets. If it was in our area, they’re not going to find sympathy from me.”
“It doesn’t matter where it was,” I said, taking the shot and pouring another. “They killed a kid with a stray bullet, but they’re dead now.” A smirk touched my lips. I took another shot and felt it ease over me like a sweet amber honey.
“That’s really all I had,” she said. “And where’s Tomaso?”
“He’s not coming.”
She slammed her glass to the table. “Another.”
I was going to play it funny, but the stern look told me she wanted more scotch and less of anything I had to say.