The Hunter (The Bianchi Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

Matteo

“You dumb fuck!” a familiar frustrated voice rouses me from my stupor.

An unintelligible obscenity falls from my lips in response to this unwelcome wake-up call. While it’d be a stretch to say I was enjoying my scotch-fueled nap on this unforgiving surface, there’s no doubt it’s preferable to my cousin’s verbal assault. I’m too unimpressed to bother lifting my head to enunciate a better retort. Or, more likely, just overly comfortable with the way this table feels smashed against my cheek. I instead exhale a sound that’s half irritation, half snore.

“You’d made it almost four months. Four damn months numb nuts,” the disrespectful asshole berates, yanking me up by the back of my collar.

Cracking one eyelid wide enough to let the light of this otherwise dark and dingy pub annihilate me, I wince before flopping back down over my crossed arms. “Fuck off, G.” I extend my right arm in the direction I’d last seen my highball glass, but come up short. Glancing in my cousin’s direction, I discover he’s moved it, and the nearly empty whiskey bottle, a few inches beyond my reach.

Hadn’t the bartender just brought that?

I give Giovanni the one-finger salute and raise my hand to signal a waiter. “Shit!” I bark in response to an abrupt smack to the back of my head.

“Right, cretino. ( idiot ) Who do you think called me to come get your sorry ass?”

Guess it’s time to find a new watering hole.

“Why he cares?” I stammer, giving up on trying to speak in decipherable sentences.

“Well, I don’t think the look or smell of you is good for business. Hell, at least the homeless guy I passed on the sidewalk has an excuse for his current state. And I dare say his eau de toilette is preferable to yours.”

“Vaffanculo.” ( Fuck off. )

“C’mon, cugino.” ( cousin ) He lowers his voice. “You’d finally made some headway. I know it wasn’t easy, but you’d been trying to put your demons behind you and do something with your life. Something besides making your liver do the backstroke.”

“A real comedian,” I huff.

Put my demons behind me. That’s the real joke. My troubles are like a second skin, my constant companions. The only thing worse is knowing I’m a direct descendant of the source of my torment.

Satan isn’t in the fiery depths of hell. He lives among us. And I get to call him Il padre. ( father ) Well, not much longer if I have anything to say about it.

“What the hell happened, Matteo? Did you see her?”

I don’t bother answering his ridiculous question. My life has spiraled into one drunken bender after another over the last few years. If it isn’t the vivid memories of my mother or sister that haunt me, it’s her. The one person I allowed to bring light into my war-torn world.

It was fleeting, but she single-handedly offered unrealistic hope to my otherwise bleak future. She made me believe even the son of the devil himself might be worthy of love. Worthy of a joy I never imagined possible.

Yet she was merely one more woman I’d let down. I’ll never forgive myself for hurting her. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing her into my dark existence.

Truth be told, it takes far less than seeing my beautiful girl to cause my grip on reality to wane. Memories of what could’ve been are all the agony I need to begin my self-destruction. But, yes. I’d managed to stay on the wagon over the last few months, focused on my mission. Vengeance.

Until I saw her.

“You have to stop this. You’d come so far, cugino.” He stops his lecture, and I mistakenly think we’ll be heading somewhere I can sleep this off for a few days until he adds, “Apparently avenging your sister and mother and protecting Sydney aren’t the priorities you proclaim.”

Despite my stupor, I push up from the table and deliver the best glare I can muster under the circumstances. “Katzo,” I slur.

“Calling me a prick would be a lot more insulting if your arms weren’t glued to the table.” He chuckles sarcastically. My jacket sleeves crackle like Velcro against the residue of dried scotch as I forcefully lift my arms. Giovanni snorts. “Come on, Matteo. It’s just a setback. If you did it before, you can dry out again.”

Giovanni nudges my side, urging me to move. Yet, the scotch to brain quotient remains far too high. “Let us watch Sydney. You have enough demons.” He pats my shoulder before standing. Reaching down, he yanks me into his side, draping my arm around his shoulder as he points to the front door. “Let’s get out of here, my inebriated avenger. Tomorrow is a new day.”

What is that pounding? “Shut the hell up!” I bellow, tossing what I believe is a pillow in the direction of the door. Scrunching my face, I try to recall whether a neighbor is having construction work done, but quickly abort any attempt at thinking at this ungodly hour. What time is it, anyway?

Suddenly, the door flies open, nearly scaring the piss out of me. Giovanni strolls in as a thin, pretty brunette scurries behind him, carrying a tray. “What the hell are you yelling about?” He points to the bedside table, and she quickly places the ornate silver platter down. The sight of coffee and dry toast doing nothing for my appetite.

Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves two white tablets that I assume are pain killers. She thrusts them and a glass of water in my direction, simultaneously turning her face away. Her nose wrinkling in revulsion.

Yeah, yeah.

The hammering in my head feels as if my brain is trying to escape my skull through my eyeballs. Forget the sensation of being hit by a bus; this is akin to stepping in front of a high-speed train. Deciding I should accept the pills, I give the young woman a curt “Thank you” before grasping the glass. It takes several attempts to forcefully pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth before I can down half of the water. “Why the hell are construction workers here so early?”

The pretty young girl and my cousin share a questioning glance before Giovanni rolls his eyes. “There’s no one here. That’s your head, idiota.” ( idiot ) Barely able to lift my eyelids to fully take in what’s happening in front of me, I reach for another pillow and bury my head beneath it as G continues, “Matteo é proprio un cagacazzo.” ( Matteo is a real fucking pain-in-the-ass .)

Lifting the soft white cushion from my face, I squint in their direction, my vision remaining unfocused. Is this girl Italian? Or is he simply pretending to speak to her in our native tongue to privately insult me? I bite down on the inside of my cheek in an effort to break through my fog, but instead remain focused on the coppery taste of blood that’s now taken up residence in my mouth.

G walks over to the window, yanking open the drapes, the bright morning sun blinding me before I can slam my lids shut. “Fuck, rompicoglioni. ( ball breaker ) You couldn’t wait a few hours for that?”

“Wait for what? It’s 3 o’clock.”

Shit .

“If you recall, you did enough sleeping two years ago to last a lifetime.”

I scowl when I catch his meaning.

“We aren’t going back there. Now get up, you pickled old prick. Take a scalding hot shower and try to burn the first layer of whiskey off. I wasn’t going to risk you puking all over me last night so just threw you in the damn bed.” Turning to his assistant, he adds, “Don’t hesitate to throw those sheets out if it’s too much for industrial strength laundry soap, Lala.”

“The fuck?”

“There’s a change of clothes and fresh towels for you, sir,” Lala shares quietly, nodding toward the en suite. My cousin and I are a similar height and build, although I’ve admittedly lost some weight and muscle mass over the last few years. But I’m sure whatever they have will do until I can return home.

“Thanks.”

“That’ll be all, Lala.” She wastes no time heading for the door. “You could give your rosy disposition a break once in a while. That poor girl didn’t ask for your—”

“Okay. Okay.” Knowing they mean well or not, I’m in no mood to entertain company right now. It’s taking every ounce of strength I possess to keep from passing out and sleeping this off for the next two days. “I’ll get a shower and head back to—”

“You aren’t going anywhere, cugino. Backslide or not, you’re staying here until you can get a few sober days under your belt and your focus back on track. Anthony has brought your things, and we’ve removed every bottle of scotch from your place.”

“What the hell, G?”

Giovanni comes to the side of the bed and pulls me up by the front of my alcohol-infused shirt. It nearly rips out my chest hair with the friction, it’s been stuck to my torso for so long. His tone is low and menacing. “My time is valuable, Matteo. I have a busy club to run and security to manage. You aren’t the only one with important business. I can’t keep babysitting you. You’re famiglia. I’ll always have your back. You know this. But get ahold of yourself. You swore you wanted to be nothing like him, yet…”

I bat away his hand. Thankfully, my cousin has the decency to let go of me and drop the conversation before further comparing my vices to that of my father. Yet, as annoyed as I am at him, I’m more disgusted with myself. “Fine,” I snap, collapsing back onto the bed. The act of sitting upright requires more energy than I’m capable at the moment. My body’s vacillating temperature changes from sweating to chills is draining my endurance.

Pivoting on his heel, he strides to the door. “I’ll be in my office. We’ll have dinner later and you can tell me what happened.”

Reaching back, I massage the back of my neck before planting my feet flat on the floor and attempting to stand. Dinner? As if this hangover hasn’t destroyed my appetite, reliving the last twenty-four hours will ruin what’s left.

I head to the shower, reaching in to start the water, ensuring the temperature is hot enough to kill the stench that’s clinging to my body. As steam fills the oversized marble enclosure, I make my way to the sink to brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash. Looking around the familiar guest bath, I stop feeling puzzled. Then it hits me.

I let out a heavy exhale at the realization. Giovanni has removed the plastic bottle of amber liquid. For fuck’s sake. I’m not that bad that I’d resort to drinking Listerine. After brushing and rinsing my teeth with water, I stand to my full height. The reflection mocks me from above the sink.

Looking at the man in the mirror, I barely recognize the person before me. My thinner frame, the dark circles under my eyes, and the unkempt beard cause me to hang my head in disgust. What has become of me? Letting my life fall to ruin due to the horrors I’d witnessed from my mafioso father was one thing, but because of her? What kind of man am I? Crumbling like a cheap suit over losing a woman.

But she’s not any woman.

She’s my everything.

Immersed in a world of evil, preparing to one day take over the family business had hardened me to most things. Even my mother’s suicide and my sister’s kidnapping had only made me hungry for vengeance. Yet watching her move on to a life without me has me at my breaking point.

Turning toward the shower, I peel the disgusting clothes from my skin, the overwhelming odor practically causing me to gag. Hell, Giovanni was right. He probably should burn my clothes along with the bed sheets.

How much did I drink last night?

Were these aftereffects worse simply because I’d relapsed? Because I’m certain I consumed far more two years ago than I had last night. In hindsight, I can’t help but surmise my hangovers are more ruthless if I cut back on my alcohol intake. If that isn’t a kick in the teeth. It’s as if my liver expects more of me and revolts in utter discontent at my lack of ambition.

I let out an infuriated exhale and step into the hot spray, adjusting the temperature to a scorching level. The need to inflict sweltering punishment on my body feels mandatory. You’d think I’d learn that distracting myself from my personal torment this way is fleeting. Shit, if drowning in a bottle of bourbon couldn’t do it, second and third-degree burns won’t make a dent.

My mind wanders to seeing her .

It’s difficult to recall the events of last night. The scenes are so broken, disconnected. This is clearly nothing new for me when the blood-brain barrier is completely annihilated. And over the last two years, I’ve trained for this sport like it’s an Olympic event.

Walking into that restaurant, I had no idea what was to come. It was a rare night I’d actually been looking forward to. To relax over dinner with my cousin and one of his friends from the club, no talk of my troubles. Giovanni has always protected me from regressing. Little did I know, my night was about to get turned on its ear.

Dragging my hands down my face at the image taunting me, I have to fight the urge to scream. To purge the rage I’m feeling. The only thing more painful than unexpectedly finding Sydney all dolled up for a night on the town without me was seeing her in a slinky evening dress.

With another man.