Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
PRIEST
I sat in the principal’s office with my orange pop, my feet swinging beneath me on the too-big chair, when he came in. He was wearing a floor-length, ruby-red robe that reminded me of a Halloween costume. I wanted to tell him he looked like an idiot, but I opted to keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t get into more trouble or my mother would beat me black and blue until not even Dante could save me.
He approached and sat in the empty chair next to me rather than taking a seat behind the desk as usual—I was no stranger to getting called into his office.
When he spoke, he slurred his words. “In trouble again, Christian?”
I puffed out my chest. “I didn’t start the fight. He broke the keyboard and I taught him a lesson.”
“Tough boy.”
He smiled at me, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Even at that age, I knew there was something wrong with that smile.
He extended his hand and I took it hesitantly. His cold, wet skin made my face scrunch up. He patted his lap and I froze, but that didn’t keep him from insisting.
“Don’t you want to make your mamma and papà proud?”
I puffed up my chest. “Only Papà.”
He shook his head, the wiry white strands swaying with the movement. “This would make him extremely proud.”
I swallowed and took one more step. He pulled me the final inch, closing the distance, and soon enough, he was hugging me, setting me on his lap. I didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly my pants were half-open and the principal was trying to get inside my underwear.
“What are you doing?”
Papà said nobody should ever touch or see my privates but me.
“Your mamma gave me permission,” he whispered, his breath in my ear sour and hot. It was wrong. I wanted to push him away, but I felt like my arms and legs were stuck in quicksand. “It will make her happy, but it has to be our secret. If you tell anyone, your big brother and papà will die.”
I sat stiff while he fumbled around, holding my breath the entire time and wishing he would stop.
“Please… just let me go. I won’t get into any more fights. Please.”
“The Holy Spirit frees us to do what we need to keep our sins from swallowing us whole. With the grace of the Holy Spirit, this will be for us. Amen.”
When I finally found my voice and shouted for help, his free hand wrapped around my mouth. “Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I snapped and bit down hard on his hand. His hold on me loosened enough that I jumped off his lap, bolting out of his office. I ran fast and hard down the hallway, then I tripped and fell, realizing that my pants were at my ankles. I let out a sob and pulled them up, then took off running again.
Tears streamed down my face, making it hard to see. I ran through the empty hallways until I slammed into Dante. My brother didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me protectively.
“What happened?” he hissed, pulling us into a corner. “I’ll fucking kill those kids. Tell me what they did.”
I shook my head. “I want to go home.”
I couldn’t tell him what happened, and the longer he studied me, the more I was filled with shame. I hated myself. I hated my mother. I didn’t want my papà and brother to know; it’d destroy them. They’d blame themselves.
The next time Father Gabriel cornered me, I wasn’t so lucky. My mother ensured that.
And so, the cycle repeated, over and over again, trapping me in a vicious, inescapable nightmare.
I awoke with a start, that old, familiar feeling of self-disgust flaring. It was always present, never buried too deep.
Fuck . I scrubbed a hand down my face as I attempted to gain control of my breathing. I needed control.
I hadn’t dreamed of those days in months, but it never got any easier. I swung my legs off the bed and dropped my head into my hands. Deep breath in, deeper breath out .
When the helplessness finally subsided, I headed to the bathroom where my reflection stared back at me. I looked like shit.
That’s what months of tracking a certain redheaded Irish mafia princess as she traipsed all over Ireland did to a man apparently. This fascination with her had reduced me to some kind of creep who lurked in the shadows.
I’d been back from Ireland for five days, managing all aspects of the new club opening in Philadelphia and already itching to see what the woman I rejected was doing.
It was pointless. Ivy Murphy stirred in me everything I wanted to forget; it was for the best that she was a whole continent away.
Running the Kingpins of the Syndicate and Philly should—keyword should — be my only concern.
I stepped into the shower and turned it to the coldest setting. Once I’d scrubbed my body hard enough, I stepped out and quickly dried off, then dressed in suit pants and a white shirt.
I rolled up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircled my arms. My Patek Philippe read eight fifty in the evening—I slept the whole day away. I took the private lift from my penthouse, catching up on emails on my phone until the doors slid open to the main foyer.
“Good evening, Mr. DiLustro,” the concierge greeted me. “Your vehicle is waiting for you, as requested.”
My black Range Rover Sport was parked in front of the building, looking as unassuming as a quarter of a million dollars of protective detailing could afford. Performance tires, explosive protection, full armored exterior with bomb and bullet-proof glass, complete with high-powered weapons stashed in various compartments. She was a thing of beauty.
“Thank you,” I told the valet, accepting my keys and slipping him a generous tip.
I ducked into the driver seat and buckled in, relishing the quiet. My father hated that Dante and I never employed drivers or armed guards. Driving myself was one of the few things I enjoyed, so there was no fucking way I’d give up the luxury. And as for bodyguards, they were worthless. They certainly hadn’t protected us when we were children at our most vulnerable.
I was halfway to my club when I made a last-minute decision and stopped at the tattoo parlor. They knew me there and wordlessly led me to the back where the artist waited for me.
Three hours later, with a sore groin and a grimace on my face, I was pulling up to the back entrance of my new club, The Angel. My head doorman greeted me the moment my handmade Italian oxfords touched the pavement.
“Good evening, your guests are here.”
I stilled. “Guests?”
“Yes, your brother and cousins.”
I ran my tongue across my teeth, a sardonic breath escaping me. “You let them in already?”
He hesitated. “Yes, sir. You said to always allow your family in.”
He was right; I did say that, but I wasn’t in the goddamn mood for them today.
“Where did you send them?” I asked, my gaze coasting down the hallway that led to my office. I fucking hated how every fucking hallway reminded me of Ivy. I was almost tempted to tear them down and enforce open-concept clubs, but I suspected that would be damn difficult to explain.
“The conference room.”
I nodded and headed inside, weaving through the packed club, lights flashing across the ceiling and illuminating the sea of bodies grinding on the dance floor, the thunder of music vibrating the walls. I took a detour down a dark hall and up to an imposing iron door. A breath of cool air hit my skin as I traveled down the hallway, doing a decent enough job of shaking my thoughts of Ivy free.
I took in a steadying breath before entering the conference room and finding the whole entourage here—Dante, Basilio, and Emory. Fuck .
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected visit?” I asked as I took a seat at the head of the table.
They knew I fucking hated surprises.
“We need to talk,” Emory said, chewing on her bottom lip. This nervous tic was further warning—she’d learned to don a hell of a mask while running Las Vegas. This couldn’t be good.
“What about?”
“We want to know what’s going on between you and Ivy Murphy,” Dante said, casually rocking on his chair’s fragile legs. It was something he’d done since we were kids, unable to sit still. He’d been a lot less tense since he got married, and despite initial challenges, my brother and Juliette found whatever it was that kept people happy and in love.
“What makes you think there’s anything going on?’ I challenged, my face impassive.
“It could be the way you’ve pulled men from their posts and assigned them to her tail?” my cousin Basilio chimed in wryly, standing and pacing the room.
“Maybe I don’t trust her. Maybe I want to make sure the Murphys are keeping their baby sister in line. Ever consider that?”
They weren’t buying it, and I was only making myself look more unhinged.
“Cousin, don’t bury your head in the sand,” Emory stated. “It will land you and the woman you love in a dangerous situation.”
I snorted. “Love drowns people.” Then, because I knew they had me, I said, “I wouldn’t call whatever I’m feeling toward her love.”
“But you’re admitting to feeling something,” Dante pointed out as Emory stood up and slowly made her way past Basilio over to the window, her slim body pressed against the wall and her attention clearly elsewhere. She and I were the most damaged in our little group, her wounds courtesy of her father, and mine… well, I never went there.
The four of us had been raised as siblings, and we’d stayed close all our lives. It was only natural that we became kingpins, surpassing our fathers’ power and wealth, as well as taking over their seats at the table. Basilio ran the New York Syndicate, Dante ran Chicago, and I ruled Philadelphia, but it was Emory who was unique among us. She was the only female at the Syndicate table, ruling over Las Vegas and pulling the strings, and nobody even knew it aside from us and our fathers.
“Well, you’ll have to work on your covert techniques,” Basilio drawled. “Especially now that she’s about to marry.” Alert shot through me, but I remained still. Impassive.
“We all know Aiden Callahan is a possessive asshole,” Dante muttered. “If he notices you even glancing her way, he’ll start a war.”
For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. Furious, even, as something green burned through my veins like a lit wick.
“If war is what Aiden wants,” I finally said, running my hand across my jaw, “then war is what he’ll get.”