5. Enzo
I scan the room,then shoot a look over at Dante.
In my head, I’m thanking him profusely for helping with Kennedy’s rescue. Outwardly, I’m shooting a death-glare at him and mentally plotting a dozen ways to kill him in his sleep.
“So, there we were,” he begins, recounting last night’s chaos. “Striker had just emerged from Uncle Andre’s ‘Hiker’s Trail’”—he air quotes—“NVGs and all. We’re all out of the woods, safe and ready to go, and this dipshit decides to head back in.”
“Why?” Dillon asks, perplexed. His confusion mirrors the question on everyone’s mind.
All eyes pivot to me.
I glance at my watch. Ten in the morning. With zero sleep and a near-blinding headache, I’m in desperate need of booze.
I make my way to the Macallan 25 because it’s the only scotch that matters, pour myself two fingers, and sip. I blow out a breath. “I had something to take care of.”
“More like you had a death wish,” Mateo says.
With Smoke, Mateo, and Dante present, it means Dillon drew the short straw. Mateo holds up his phone, letting Dillon chime in via the FaceTime peanut gallery.
“And you shot someone?” Smoke asks, his eyes darting between Dante and me. “Who?”
Dante jumps in before I get a word out. “The one person Uncle Andre will definitely miss,” he says bluntly, then adds, “Rocco.”
Mateo shakes his head, his expression grave. “You realize you might have just single-handedly declared war.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t kill him,” I retort. “Sadly, he’s still breathing.”
“I don’t believe this.” Smoke’s jaw tightens, his fingers forming a steeple. “One minute, you’ve got two half-naked women on your arms, enjoying your birthday party. The next, you’re racing to Uncle Andre’s, armed to the hilt.” He points at my chest. “When’s the last time you slept? Or ate?”
I’m about to answer when Dante interjects, “Pussy doesn’t count.”
“I’m fine” I say, with enough conviction that I almost buy it myself.
“You’re spiraling out of control,” Smoke fires back.
I toss back the rest of my drink. “You know who can’t believe this? Me. Standing here, being lectured like a teenager caught swiping a credit card to buy a room full of hookers.”
Dante smirks. “You got more than a lecture for swiping dad’s credit card.”
Dillon’s face fills the screen, shaking his head in clear disappointment. “You seriously shot Rocco,” he says, disbelief evident in his voice as he pauses for effect before adding, “Without us?”
We all snicker as frustration deepens Smoke’s brows into a tight knot.
Hmm. I probably shouldn’t spill the beans about what I did to Rocco’s brother, Rot. Especially since Rot’s beaten beyond recognition—comatose and barely clinging to life.
Smoke’s already edgy as hell, with the wedding barreling towards him like a freight train. Judging by his wary glances darting in my direction and the fact that he’s always packing heat, it’s best I keep Rot’s condition close to the vest.
Besides, I’ve got him stashed away in a makeshift underground medical facility that’s way too good for his sorry ass. For now, he lives.
But once he wakes up, I’ll wring that fucker dry of every bit of information he has on our sister. No matter how much he begs for the sweet release of death, he doesn’t die until I say he dies.
Especially since he holds the key to finding out who targeted Trinity all those years ago, before her attack.
I glance around the room, briefly debating whether to spill the beans to my brothers.
But what if I’m wrong? It’s entirely possible that Rot’s as clueless as he looks.
Or what if he dies?
Until I have more to go on, I’ll keep it to myself. Let them think I’ve done an epic swan dive off the deep end.
Better they believe that than raise their hopes again, only to have them crushed.
Mateo’s eyes narrow as he reads me like a book. “You”—he jabs a finger at my chest—“have a girlfriend?”
“I do not have a girlfriend.”
“Are you sure?” Dillon asks, just to rile me up. “Because if your girl’s worth going to war over, we have to meet her,” he says with a suggestive smirk.
“She’s not my girl,” I lie, hoping to shut down this conversation from hell.
But who am I kidding? I fingered her, ate her out, and mounted a half-million dollar search mission just to get her back. I also got my hands dirty and rescued her myself rather than waiting twenty minutes for professional reinforcements.
So, yeah, of course, she’s mine.
Plus, nothing says possession like shooting an asshole for touching her.
I just don’t want any of these dickheads sniffing around her and forcing me to kill them.
“So, she’s up for grabs?” Dante adds with a smirk.
“Well, she would be, if you had the inclination to grab anything other than your own dick.”
Smoke rubs his temple, his eyes piercing into mine. “Are we seriously going to war over this girl?”
Are we?
My jaw tightens, and a tight knot forms in my throat. Debating the issue is pointless. I simply say, “No.”
“Then fix it,” Smoke commands, nodding toward the door. “Before I start handing out combat gear at the wedding reception.”
I glance at my brothers. Their loyalty and readiness to fight for me evident in each of their faces.
It doesn’t matter how deeply Bella slips under my skin, my family comes first—now and always. The thought of losing any of them over—what? An infatuation?—is unbearable.
With a firm nod, I steel myself and head purposefully towards the door. “Fine. I’ll fix it.”
* * *
From a weathered benchnestled within the tranquil embrace of the church grounds, I set out to “fix it.” What better way than by killing two birds with one stone?
The first bird: Uncle Andre.
The scent of age-old stone mixes with the faint aroma of incense, accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze. And for one brief moment, I almost forget how much I want to carve out his spleen.
As soon as he speaks, my fists involuntarily clench, a reflex to his words. “I’ll give you the girl,” Andre says.
My gaze falls to his impeccable Armani suit, destroyed by a garish bright red shirt and puke-green suspenders. It’s as if his sense of style came straight out of a bad mafia film.
Either that, or he’s actually color-blind.
I gesture toward his attire. “Just because you dress the part doesn’t make you Santa Claus. What do you really want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” My stare goes blank. He adds, “I want you back.”
“Back?” The word comes out stilted and stunned, though I quickly regain my composure. “I think instead of back, you meant to say dead. You want me dead.”
He shakes his head, chuckling in that way he always does when he thinks he’s in control. “No matter how much you betrayed me, I still see you as a son.”
His words grate on me like jagged glass against bare skin. Betrayed him?
The lowlife is responsible for my father’s disappearance and my sister’s attack. I just have to prove it.
I suck in a breath. “And exactly how do you want me back?”
“The feud between us is senseless.” His laugh borders on condescending. “If we don’t work together, the fate of your family will only get worse.”
Another threat. Shocker. “What do you propose?” I grate out, trying to sound somewhat intrigued.
“Make me CEO of D’Angelo Holdings, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Anything I want...”God, it would almost be worth it because I really want to throat punch the fucker. I let that vision swim around my head for a minute before I reply.
The problem is I know what he wants, and being CEO of D’Angelo Holdings is just the tip of the iceberg.
The real issue lies in his insatiable greed, and I don’t mean money. Fuck, anyone can have money. Money is the falsest of false idols, and it took Uncle Andre half a lifetime to realize that.
What he really wants—and what’s been out of reach for him for fifty long years—is power.
Power is an aphrodisiac of epic proportions. A drug of unparalleled potency—the ultimate high. And the more I possess, the more he’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands before he gains an iota of it.
When I say nothing, he goes on. “I’ve always admired the view of the Chicago River from Antonio’s office. Or should I say, your office now?” His sneer twists into a snarl as he speaks. “Just one of the many perks of your father’s disappearance.” Leaning closer, he nods with a smirk. “Spectacular views.”
My blood simmers beneath the surface, and it takes a long, meditative breath to lull it back. I remind myself that revenge is like a fine, aged whiskey—the flavor only deepens with time.
And when the moment for retribution finally comes, the taste of my vengeance will be unparalleled, rich, and lingering.
I let a grin play on my lips. “I could make you CEO,” I suggest, stroking my chin as if giving it serious thought. As if I would even consider handing over the reins to my father’s empire—his legacy. “Or...”
“Or?” he asks, interested.
“Or I could just lead you to the panoramic balcony of my office and send you plummeting a thousand feet to the pavement below,” I suggest casually, relishing the shock that flickers across his face. “Spectacular views.”
With a furious flick of his fingers, he snaps. The echo of footsteps begin from down the corridor.
Given my arrangements with the church, I half-expect Father Malone to round the corner. As a devout and trusted agent of God, he’s become the quintessential consigliere to both camps—a role no one else can claim.
And, considering Uncle Andre’s ticket to hell was bought and stamped ages ago, it’s odd that his donations to the church still rival mine. As if he can buy his way out of eternal damnation and into the pearly gates.
I’m not easily fooled or insanely delusional. Sins don’t exactly pile up on their own, and I don’t pour millions into this church for absolution.
For starters, my sins are too dark, too damning. They’ve earned me a place in hell that’s probably ten times hotter than Uncle Andre’s, and I’ve earned every scorching degree.
They tilt the balance in favor of every mother, child, and Trinity out there. A fighting chance to continue the goodness my father endeavored to leave behind.
And a colossal fuck you to my uncle.
The footsteps draw near, and I check my watch. Right on time.
But it isn’t Father Malone’s measured steps that come into view.
It’s Rocco’s.