Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DOMINIC
Slamming the car door, I squint as the sun flips a middle finger and smacks me right in the face. Mornings are not my friend, but this one is extra shitty for multiple reasons. One of them being the raging hangover that’s stabbing into my brain with a rusty icepick.
I admit, downing half a bottle of whiskey last night wasn’t the brightest idea. With a lawn-full of paparazzi foaming at the mouth, I should have kept my wits about me. I should have kept Angel inside and contained. I should have kept an eye on her while keeping my distance.
I should’ve kept my hands to myself.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s just it—I wasn’t thinking. At least not with the head that mattered. Thankfully, the paparazzi were still fucking around on the front lawn, or who knows what might have happened.
Not true. I know damn well what would’ve happened. I would’ve had her bent over that lounge chair screaming my name until she was hoarse .
There’s something about her that gets under my skin. For some fucked up reason, I have this insane need to protect her as I exploit her. Even though she’s determined to hate me almost as much as I’m determined not to care.
News flash. It’s not working.
Sometimes determination lands you right back where you started—swimming in a pile of shit.
And that’s where I am right now—standing outside a giant pile of shit. A half green, half white painted building I swore I’d never step foot in again, much less be summoned to like a goddamn servant.
Yet here I am.
Dominic McCallum, at your service.
I glance up, gritting my teeth as Monty’s Auto Body Repair Shop glares back at me in big, block letters. One of LA’s finest full-service garages. Guaranteed to tune your car in the front and wash your money in the back.
Grimacing, I squint again, pressing my thumb against my temple to counteract the incessant drilling in the side of my head. I should’ve expected this. The minute my phone rang last night, I knew who was calling. Not because he gave a shit, but because the bastard still thinks I owe him. Because he’s concerned about his own ass. Or maybe because he read the blast and dollar signs shot out of his ass faster than a two-dollar taco.
Letting out a breath, I open the door, wincing at the obnoxiously loud jingle. Walking into the muted yellow office feels strange and familiar at the same time. It’s like visiting your childhood home and seeing a new family playing in the front yard. A part of you belongs to it, but it no longer belongs to you.
That’s some deep shit I don’t care to delve into with a hangover .
“Dominic, what a surprise.” Sofia’s red lips curve in a forced smile as she stares up at me over her computer.
I’d roll my eyes, but it’d aggravate my headache, and this bitch isn’t worth the ibuprofen. “Where is he?” I ask. Forget it. I’m fresh out of fucks to give, so I don’t wait for an invitation. I’m around her desk and headed down the long hallway toward the office at the end. The one with the permanently closed door. To enter requires an invitation, and to exit, well, sometimes that depends on the mood of the man sitting behind the desk.
“Asshole!” Sofia yells at my back.
I flip my middle finger over my shoulder and keep walking.
By the time I get to his door, my irritation morphs into something darker and it boils over as I walk in without knocking.
A cardinal sin in his world.
In an instant, the pungent, peppery smell of cigar smoke hits me. For some odd reason, Angel’s voice comes barreling back. “California smoking ordinance states you have to be twenty feet away from a building to light up, champ.”
True. But ordinances are laws.
And laws don’t apply to Luciano Ricci.
Hearing the unmistakable clicks, I slide my gaze from his left to his right where I’m staring down the barrels of two guns. I’m not surprised—annoyed, but not surprised.
“If you wanted to shoot me, Luciano, you could’ve at least done it out there and saved me from having to deal with Sofia.”
“Ay!” Carlo pipes up, his eyebrows pinched together. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about!”
Luciano raises his hand, unfazed at Carlo’s outburst. “Leave us. ”
No one questions him. Both men lower their guns, glaring at me as they walk out the door. Once we’re alone, Luciano regards me quietly. I assume he’s assessing if I barged into his office armed.
Of course, I did.
You don’t run with wolves and then walk into the forest without a flashlight.
He leans forward, tucking the cigar in between his teeth as he rests his elbows on the desk. “Entering a room without knocking first is disrespectful.”
Even through the puff of smoke I see his confident smirk. The man has a forbidding presence that dominates a room. From his swept-back silver hair to his gray double-breasted Italian suit, to his silk tie, Luciano Ricci commands attention. Unlike most, he enjoys the spotlight, choosing not to conceal himself from the public eye, but rather embrace his celebrity gangster persona. A choice that the boss of the Vitoli family doesn’t necessarily agree with.
Not that it matters. Luciano has had as many trials as hair plugs, but the FBI never manages to make anything stick. The media will tell you it’s because of insufficient evidence.
Bullshit.
It’s because he pays off the FBI, fucks their sisters, and eats dinner at their mothers’ houses on Sundays. And once upon a time, I sat next to him at the table.
Holding his stare, I cross the office. His fingers scissor around that damn cigar, but he doesn’t say a word until I sink into the leather chair in front of his desk and rap my knuckles on it three times. “There, I knocked. Happy?”
He barely blinks. “Boy, do you have a death wish?”
I shrug. “Maybe I do.”
Luciano smiles. It’s not pleasant. It’s because he gets off on the chase more than the kill. A demented hunter who prefers to play with his food before he devours it. He may have me in his crosshairs, but I’ll be damned if I’ll dance around while he pulls the trigger.
“I told you seventeen years ago, you keep fucking with the wrong people and someday you’ll get your wish.”
“Let me guess, today’s the day.”
His smile fades. “It’s coming sooner than you think if you keep pulling shit like you did last night.”
“What does it matter to you, Luciano?”
“You know damn well why it matters to me!” he roars, slamming his fist onto the desk. “Don’t push me, Dominic. I love you like a son, but if you act like a traitor, I’ll treat you like one.”
“For the good of the family, right?”
“Yes, for the good of the family. We have enough to worry about without you creating an international shitstorm.” His brow creases. “What the hell are you thinking, passing off some cocktail waitress as a dead heiress? Do you know what kind of unnecessary attention you could cause us?”
I roll my eyes. “Give me a fucking break. You live for attention. If you had your way, you’d strap a mirror to Carlo’s back and make him walk in front of you so you can admire yourself.”
“That’s the second time you’ve disrespected me. Don’t let there be a third, son.”
“I’m not your fucking son. You made that perfectly clear when Greg Rosten sued my ass, and you slammed the door in my face.”
“I told you not to write the damn expose. You didn’t listen.”
“And you didn’t give me a good enough reason not to.”
“Because—”
“Because ‘he owns Hollywood’ doesn’t cut it, Luciano,” I say, cutting him off. Grabbing the edge of his desk, I jab my finger onto the sleek wood. “That man is the reason my mother doesn’t know who the hell she is half the time. Because of him, I spent my childhood begging strangers for change. And thanks to him half of Hollywood thinks auditions should come with a complimentary blowjob.” I fling myself back into the chair. “He’s an overrated producer, not God.”
“You want to talk about God, boy?” he snaps, spitting the words at me. “What about you playing God with your mother’s life?”
Bastard. She’s exactly the reason I came crawling to him in the first place. The fact he dares to use her as a pawn makes me twist my fingers around the arms of the chair just to keep from reaching across the desk and strangling him with his own tie.
“Say what you have to say, Luciano. I have a busy day ahead of me.”
He narrows his gaze. “And what is it you think I have to say?”
“That you want a piece of the action. But no risk means no reward. Which also means if you think you’re getting a dime of that money, you can suck my dick.”
He slams the lit end of the cigar into his ashtray, pulverizing it until it’s nothing but a bent mass. Eyes as cold as steel gaze up at me from under his gray eyebrows. “I don’t want your goddamn money. Call this off, Dominic. We both know that girl is no more Alexandra Romanov than I am. Send the bitch back to Chula Vista and issue a retraction. I won’t tell you again.”
I leap to my feet. “Is that a threat?”
Not to be outdone, the devil rises from his chair and places both palms flat on the desk. “That’s a promise. Continue with this charade, and you’ll wish you’d listened. ”
It’s only then I realize how ironic life can be. I begged this man to put a bullet in my head seventeen years ago. He refused, taking me under his wing and forcing a life on me I never wanted.
Because of it, what I’m about to do will send us both straight to hell.
Mimicking his stance, I lean forward with my palms against the wood, our faces inches apart. “Someone once told me wishes and hopes are useless weapons, and the fool who stands with his hand out waiting for life to step up to the plate only ends up with two things.”
His eyes flash. “Empty hands and an empty wallet.”
“I’m no fool, and my hand’s no longer out, Luciano. You do what you have to do because I’m damn sure going to do what I have to.” Pushing off the desk, I do something few men have ever done and lived to talk about. I turn my back on Luciano Ricci and walk away.
“Dominic.” I’m halfway out the door when his booming voice stops me. I slowly turn my chin over my shoulder and meet his emotionless stare. “That was the third time you disrespected me.”
“Then I suppose I’d better make it count.” I slam the door behind me.