17. Enzo
I straightenmy cuff as the black car races toward me at record speed. One look at the driver, and I brace for impact.
The sleek sports car screeches to a stop. Wisely, my men maintain their distance. They’ve been with me long enough to know better than to interfere.
Hmm. He’s wearing my sunglasses. Which means he’s been snooping through my shit again. I wonder what else he stole.
Dante advances like an impending storm, his strides deliberate, his presence pure don’t fuck with me.
It’s a sight to behold, watching my usually composed and collected brother lose his absolute shit. Like having a seat, front-row, center, at the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.
He grabs me by the shirt with a grip that could crush steel. “What the hell, Enzo?” His voice is a low growl, the anger barely contained.
I can’t help but flash him an innocent smile. “Problem, Dante?”
His eyes practically shoot fire as he gestures angrily towards the shiny new jet behind us. “Do you want to tell me why my black card has been charged for a fucking jet?”
I shrug, admiring it. “I needed a plane,” I reply casually.
Dante waves a hand towards the jet. “Obviously,” he mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Besides, doesn’t it feel good to get all that pent-up frustration out? You need this kind of release. God knows you’re not getting it through sex.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong with your plane? And do not lie.” He gives me that frustrated look that means a punch might be headed for my throat.
So, I explain. “Between the media and Uncle Andre, I’m constantly tracked by bloodhounds. I needed my space. My privacy.”
“You need a swift kick to the ass, that’s what you need.” Dante takes a breath, looks skeptically at the plane, then back at me. “Privacy,” he repeats slowly. “For what?”
Uh-oh.
This is the problem with having brothers. Crack open the door even a smidge, and they’ll bulldoze right through. Nosy as all hell and always up in my business.
And do I spill about Kennedy?
Not even if every last one of my fingernails was being ripped from the skin. Dante would never let it go. He’d launch into endless lectures about having a conscience and respecting women, yada, yada, yada...
But because Dante runs ten miles every damn day, he zips past me like a gazelle before I can stop him.
I scurry after him, practically crashing into him as soon as we’re inside the doors.
“Hello,” Savannah says, all flirty smiles when she sees Dante.
Confused, he waves back. “Uh, hello.” His gaze flicks between her and the dog, then he shoves me back and whispers, “You’re seeing Savannah Whitaker, ‘Dog Trainer to the Stars’?” He air quotes for effect.
He knows damn well she’s not my type. At all. I make sure we’re out of earshot. “I am not dating Savannah Whitaker,” I scoff under my breath. Not in a million years.
She’s like a bone china doll—beautiful and polished but utterly pretentious and high maintenance. The kind of woman who’s obsessed with taking selfies and a nightmare to fuck.
“Then what’s she doing here?” Dante asks.
I glance at her and try to think. “She’s...training my dog.”
“You have a dog?” Horrified, he looks back at the useless ball of fur. “Does the ASPCA know about this?”
I sock him in the chest. “You know I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“When you were eight.” We both look on as Savannah takes a selfie with the little guy. Dante turns back, skeptical. “I’m not buying it. You didn’t buy a jet to take a dog to Italy.”
“You’re right. I didn’t buy the jet. You did.” This time, it’s him who socks me in the chest. Ow.
Then he sniffs the air. “What is that?”
The issue is, I smell it too. Floral with that alluring hint of lemon that follows Kennedy wherever she goes. I try to throw him off. “Jet fuel,” I state.
“It’s not jet fuel, it’s not her,” He points to Savannah as he steps towards her. “And it’s definitely not him.” He points to the panting patch of fur on Savannah’s lap. “There’s someone else here. I can smell her.”
Dante heads for the back room as Savannah chugs her drink and tries not to pay attention.
I grab his arm. “First of all,” I point out, “you saying that is just creepy. No wonder you don’t have a woman. Your vibe is too Hannibal Lecter. And second, there’s no one else here. You’re simply starting to crack.” I throw an arm around his shoulder and try to lead him out. “There’s an excellent shrink I could recommend.”
“I bet you could.” Dante weasels out of my arm and rushes for the back. He throws open the doors and puts both hands on his waist.
Protectively, I rush in. If by some miracle Kennedy decided to get with the program—lying buck naked with those sculpted, soft thighs spread in the center of my bed—no one sees her but me.
But no such luck.
“What the fuck?” he asks.
And what the fuck is right.
Front and center on the bed are an assortment of toys. Dog toys. Along with treats. And outfits. So many fucking outfits it’s like the damned dog is having a baby shower. Or he’s one of those bears you stuff at the mall. What are they called again?
Dante picks up one of the outfits, still on a little hanger with one finger. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” He roars with laughter and makes a call on his phone.
And this is where I can feel the tip of the cock, pushed in an inch and ready to fuck me up the ass—without lube—and there’s not a goddamned thing I can do about it.
I am not telling them about Kennedy. Period. No matter how much I have to bite down and take it.
His phone rings out. Great. A FaceTime. A group one. With all of them.“Guess who’s suddenly into this?” He holds the tiny outfit to the camera.
Their eyes light up as he dances it around the screen. “What the hell is it?” Dillon asks, smiling wide.
“Is he supposed to put that on his dick or something? Like some weird kink?” Mateo howls and waves a finger in my direction. “You are one sick shit.”
“I second that.” Smoke chuckles.
I snatch it from Dante’s hand. “This is not some furry cock ring, you twisted shits. It’s a...” I make a face. What the hell is it? I inspect the little leather jacket with a fur-lined collar and sleeves. It’s like something you’d give a drag queen at a biker bar. If that drag queen was a squirrel.
Bzzz-bzzz.
A small noise comes from the closet. I’m not sure if Dante heard it, too, but as soon as he looks that direction, I blurt out, “Yes, I have a dog.”
“One you’re playing dress up with?” Dante says, grabbing another hanger. This one is purple with a frilly collar. All it’s missing is heels and a powdered wig, and he’d be a dead ringer for Marie Antoinette. Or Elton John.
They all wait for my response. If I deny it, who knows when this torture will end. I take a breath. “I have a dog. It has clothes. Despite keeping my distance from everyone, I have a touchy-feely soft side. One that you fuckers wouldn’t know anything about.”
The room falls silent, a welcome reprieve. But, predictably, it doesn’t last long.
Smoke’s sharp gaze lands on me, suspicion evident in his raised brow. “Getting a dog to connect with us?” His tone is laced with skepticism.
My internal alarm blares. Abort mission. But it’s too late. I nod anyway.
He leans in closer to the screen, disbelief across every line of his face. “Then what’s its name?”
Damnit. Smoke knows me too well. Ruffles? Duffle? No, think. Something edible. “Truffles,” I say with confidence.
After a split second of silence, their laughter erupts even louder. It’s all I can take. “Goodbye,” I declare, ending the call abruptly and ushering Dante towards the door.
We pass Savannah, still seated and sipping like a camel. “Bye, Savannah. Bye, Truffles,” Dante says, bidding them both farewell.
Truffles barks on cue, his timing impeccable. At least he’s good for something.
We arrive at the steps. “Oh, and thanks,” I add before Dante leaves, handing him the fob for his Aston Martin. I refrain from telling him that I’ve gifted the hood ornament to a little girl who will probably use it to pick her nose.
“If you so much as breathed on her wrong,” he warns.
With a smirk, I pat him on the shoulder. “Not a scratch.”