1. Nico
CHAPTER 1
NICO
Days later, his eyes still haunt me, icy gray and full of secrets.
I don't let my one-night stands get under my skin, but the handsome devil with the Russian accent was some of the best hand jobs I've gotten. And LA is known for its skilled boys.
Don't think back, Nicola.
Think forward.
That's what Father always said.
The rhythmic thudding of my feet on the treadmill echoing through the private gym of my Beverly Hills condo is a distraction that doesn't last long. The burn in my muscles and sweat beading on my brow as I push myself harder reminds me of him again, of what transpired in that hotel suit in Malibu.
I close my eyes, picturing the distinct cheekbones and the wry curve of his lips. The crisp lines of his tailored suit, clearly bespoke. A golden chain around his neck with an orthodox cross, hiding beneath his shirt. He's a believer. And those diamonds weren't fake. Old money, or new? Someone's heir or a self-made man?
My mind races with possibilities as I increase the incline. The physical exertion helps me think, helps me strategize. It's a habit ingrained since childhood—stay sharp, stay focused. In our family, letting your guard down is a death sentence.
" Chi cazzo sei ?" I mutter under my breath. Who the fuck are you?
The memory of his voice triggers another shiver to roll down my spine, despite the heat radiating from my body. Deep and smooth like aged wine. And that accent only added an edge of danger.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of lust clouding my judgment. If I don't plan on meeting him again, then he shouldn't be occupying my mind. Still, I can't help wondering what those hands would feel like on my skin again or how those lips would taste after sucking my dick.
Gritting my teeth, I punch up the speed. The sting in my legs intensifies, grounding me in the present. This is what I need—the simplicity of physical pain to drown out the unnecessary noise in my head.
I am a Morelli, after all. I'm disciplined. I'm focused. I am...completely fucked if I can't get this stranger out of my head.
The sound of my phone cuts through the pounding of my feet. I curse under my breath, recognizing the ringtone. Claudio. My uncle's consigliere never calls unless it's urgent.
I snatch the phone off the treadmill's charging station, my breath coming in short bursts. "Yes."
"Nicola." Claudio's voice is tense, clipped. I've never liked the slippery bastard. Too smart. Even for a family advisor, but Uncle's been favoring him ever since Claudio started working as an accountant at Primavera. "How are you?"
"I'm well, thank you for asking." I punch the button to slow the treadmill. "I take it it's not just a courtesy check-in call."
"You are perceptive, Nicola."
I'm certain the asshole is mocking me. There's nothing perspective about him reaching out. It's either bad news or more bad news.
"You need to come to Vegas," Claudio finally says.
My jaw clenches for a moment but I take a deep breath to relax. It was bound to happen again. "What's going on?"
"It's not for phone discussion. Your uncle needs you here."
I step off the treadmill, wiping sweat from my brow with the towel. "Let me guess. Roberto's fucked up again and Uncle wants to see what his nephew can offer to fix up the older son's mess."
A heavy sigh crackles through the line. "It's... complicated and I will not get into the details over the phone. Tony wants you here to handle it personally."
"Christ," I mutter. "That bad, huh?"
Claudio ignores my quip. "How soon can you be on a plane?"
"I'll have Costa check for the flights this afternoon."
"This can't wait, Nicola."
The urgency in his tone tells me this time Roberto's fuck up is grandiose. "I'll be there."
I end the call, my mind already reeling. Roberto, that cazzo , is always stirring up shit. And I always end up cleaning it up. Even though it's Claudio's job technically, but I guess he's just too tired to babysit my cousins.
As I exit the gym, my earlier fantasies evaporate like mist. The stranger with the Russian accent—even if he is in my head only—will have to wait. Family comes first. Always.
I mutter another curse as I head for the shower. So much for my quiet life in LA. Once again, I'm being dragged back into the family's web of dangerous games.
But I can't say no to Uncle Tony.
He's like a father to me, to replace the one I lost years ago.
The hot water cascades over my shoulders. Only it does nothing to wash away the dread settling in my gut. Whatever's waiting for me in Vegas, I know one thing for certain—there will be blood.
* * *
The plush leather of the business class seat cradles my body, but I find no comfort in its luxury. Through the small oval window, LA's sprawling landscape fades into the distance, taking with it the semblance of normalcy I've cultivated over the past few years while staying here.
Every time I fly back to Vegas, I have no idea if I'll be back to this city.
I drum my fingers on the armrest. The familiar weight of my watch is like a strange reminder of the life I'm reluctantly returning to. Hard to ignore. The flight attendant offers me champagne as soon as the lights above my head indicate I can lose my seatbelt. She flashes me a practiced smile, but I decline the drink with a curt nod.
I don't feel like alcohol will solve my problem.
If you're a Morelli, you are expected to do everything to assist the family. Even if the said family is the reason I have no father. Sure, Uncle tried to compensate. Best toys, best tutors, best schools. Best everything. But luxury doesn't erase the fact you have no parent. Still, going against Uncle's wishes isn't something a real Morelli would do.
"Padrino," Costa's whisper cuts through my brooding. I told him before not to call me that, especially around family members. That title isn't for someone like me. It's reserved for a family prince and I'm nothing but a spare to a spare. But Costa's gotten it in his head that I'm worthy. And his belief has started rubbing off me. He's leaning over, a tablet in hand. "I thought you might want to see this."
I turn, studying my right-hand man's face. At twenty-four, Costa's features still hold a hint of the boy I met in Sicily a decade ago, but his eyes are older, harder. They were hard then and they've become like rocks now. He's the product of a wretched life in the street I saved him from, only to drag him into another hell.
"What is it?" I ask, reaching for the tablet.
Costa's lips quirk in a rare half-smile. "Something to take your mind off... things."
The screen before me reveals a sleek, cherry-red Ferrari. My breath catches. "LaFerrari Aperta?" I whisper to myself, then return my attention to my assistant. "Costa, you beautiful bastard."
"It'll be auctioned next week in Vegas," he clarifies. "Thought you might be interested."
I lean back in my seat, letting out a low whistle. "Interested doesn't begin to cover it. How did you even hear about this?" These types of auctions—for the filthy rich—are usually invitation only.
Costa shrugs. "I have my ways."
Of course he does. It's why I keep him close, why I pulled him off those Sicilian streets all those years ago. The boy had potential, and I wasn't about to let it go to waste. Uncle was furious when I came back from my vacation with a scrawny teenager. But in the end, things worked out.
I focus on the photo of the car I've been wanting to own for so long. For a second I'm distracted from the looming specter of family obligations. "Costa, sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself."
"It's my job, Padrino," he replies, his tone carefully neutral.
I glance at him, catching a flicker of something in those intense brown eyes right before he sinks back into his chair. Dedication? Or something deeper? I push the thought away. Now isn't the time for such musings.
"Well, I suppose there's at least one thing to look forward to in Vegas now," I mutter, handing the tablet back to Costa. "Besides cleaning up after Roberto's latest clusterfuck, that is."
Costa nods, his face a mask of practiced indifference. But I catch the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the tablet's edge.
He knows, as well as I do, that whatever's waiting for us in Vegas, it's going to be ugly. The family doesn't call in the nephew for trivial matters.
I close my eyes, memories of my father's fate threatening to surface. The price of loyalty in our world is often paid in blood. And I have a sinking feeling that the bill is coming due.