Chapter 21 Nicolò
Nicolò
I rub my temples as I watch cars draw up silently, a steady stream of people leaving and people arriving.
It seems the Bellucci club never closes.
I texted my contact shortly after I left Lina in the kitchen.
He reassured me it was rare to see Alessio in the club.
As the don himself had suggested, the club was pretty much his sons’ territory.
I just wanted to make sure he definitely wouldn’t be here before I wander back uninvited.
While Cristiano and Alessio watched each other, I watched Fiero, and came away feeling certain that Fiero isn’t on board with his father’s wish. I want to know more. I want to know why.
When the coast is clear, I step out of my car and walk across the lot to the door I’d entered only yesterday with my cousin.
There are two men outside today and neither of them will recognize me. They watch me, guarded, as I approach holding out my gun as a peace offering.
“Is Fiero here?” I ask the largest, meanest-looking security guy, whose size matches mine, foot for foot, inch for inch.
“Who’s asking?” he grunts, taking my gun.
“Nicolò Di Santo.”
His eyes pop. “Is he expecting you?”
I’m about to say ‘no,’ but on second thoughts, a part of me wonders if, actually, he is.
“Possibly.”
“Wait here.”
The man disappears inside while the shorter one eyes me up and down, curiously, like I’m a species he’s read about and has been granted a rare viewing of.
I run my tongue over my teeth and wait. Several minutes later, the guard returns and jerks his head toward the club. “Follow me.”
We walk back through the venue and I’m stunned to see how busy it is. It’s the middle of the day but the lack of natural daylight, the softly throbbing music and the flowing alcoholic drinks make it feel like it could be any time of the night.
Instead of being taken to the meeting room, I’m led to a private booth in a secluded part of the club.
Fiero is sitting in the corner, his arms resting along the back of the velvet sofa, one ankle crossed over his knee.
On one side is a man who looks faintly like Fiero; on the other is a beautiful, leggy, blond woman who stands and looks me up and down as I approach, then walks past me into the main area.
I stand at the edge of a table, my hands in my pockets.
“Good to see you again, Nicolò,” Fiero says, a smug smile pulling at his lips. “I wondered when you might return.”
I arch a brow and glance to his left.
“This is my brother, Remo.”
Remo leans forward and extends a hand. I shake it, tentatively, and sit in the seat opposite.
A waitress appears from one of many dark corners. “Can we get you anything? Coffee, whisky? A Manhattan?” Fiero asks with a wry smile.
“Just a water, thanks.”
Fiero winks at the waitress and she sashays away with a swing in her hips. Then he turns back to me with a glint in his eye. “So, what brings you back here?”
I get straight to the point because two weeks can pass by quickly and I don’t have the luxury of time.
“I was curious about your reaction to your father’s demand. It seems to me like you don’t want Manhattan.”
Fiero exchanges a knowing look with Remo then wipes a smile away with a sharp knuckle.
“No, no. It’s not that we don’t want Manhattan; it’s that we don’t need Manhattan.
You’ve seen what we’ve got here. If you saw our client list you’d realize we already own a significant share of Manhattan.
We have enough intel on New York Society, the FBI, the NYPD, governors—you name it—to blackmail the entire East Coast of America. ”
I contain my surprise. I was under the impression this club was… just a club. That the Belluccis’ influence was largely asserted through illegal gambling.
“What about your casinos?” I ask with a slight frown.
Fiero shrugs. “They don’t interest me. Sure they’re profitable, they’re useful tools, but the shops are old school, predictable. Alessio’s thing. Not ours.”
Alessio? The fact he calls his father by his given name implies distance.
“Do you disagree with many of your father’s actions?”
He snorts. “‘Action’ is putting it generously. He lords over the empire that we are now building, while his has crumbled into insignificance.”
I glance at Remo who eyes me curiously as his brother speaks.
“My brothers and I have brought real wealth into this family, while he’s just sat back and criticized us for it.
He’s bitter. He never got over what your uncle did to the Bellucci family, but while we’ve moved into new, lucrative and far more influential arenas, he’s remained stuck, decaying in his bitterness. ”
I school my features into something passive but my interest is well and truly piqued. Then he delivers the blow that my instinct has been screaming at me since we sat down with Alessio.
“He won’t get the Russians off your back, Nicolò. If you give him your streets, he’ll drive them into the ground.”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth while choosing my words carefully. “Why are you telling me this? Do you want to jeopardize his plans?”
Remo’s brows lift as he takes a long slug of his own water.
“His plans are embarrassing to us. He needs to retire but he refuses to. This family has always been about what he wants and what he thinks is best. He talks a good talk, says he grew this family for us, but he’s a narcissist through and through.
His description of the power he holds outside of his precious casinos is somewhat… inflamed.”
I swallow down my surprise at how candid he’s being.
“So you don’t believe that giving him Manhattan will strengthen our fight against the Russians?”
Fiero laughs in a way that is knowing and assured. “He has nothing to fight with.” He lowers his gaze to me. “Have you never heard the saying, “If you can’t beat them, join them?’”
I feel like I’m getting close to something that could change the game entirely, but I decide to play a little Devil’s Advocate. “Of course I have. But Alessio—at least for as long as I’ve been around—hasn’t tried to beat us. We’re offering to join forces with him. There’s no friction here.”
Fiero runs his tongue along his teeth. “Maybe you’re not the people he wants to join forces with.”
I blink slowly. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“Your father wants to align with the Bratva?”
Fiero and Remo exchange a knowing glance. “When you’re as unfortunately close to him as we are, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out his motivation.”
It takes me a moment or two to let the revelation sink in, then I thank them for their time and head back outside to the notably fresher air.
Back in the driver’s seat of my car, I reflect on the surprising exchange.
Alessio and his sons tell very different stories.
Fiero could be playing me, but what would that achieve?
If he truly wanted what his father wanted, wouldn’t he be asserting the importance of us giving them Manhattan?
Why would he be actively sabotaging his father’s plans? What would he gain?
And if Fiero is telling the truth, it’s possible that Alessio is conspiring with the Russians. That means only one thing: if Cristiano makes the wrong decision, we’ll lose it all.
I need to speak to Cristiano, but I need to calm down first—I need to clear my head. But every time I try to shut out any thoughts of Manhattan, the Russians, the Bellucci’s, my head is flooded with images of Lina and that fucking brown book.
I knew I should never have opened it, because I’m addicted now. I need to know what she’s thinking, and how my actions and words in real life are being interpreted in her pretty little imagination.
Jeez, did I just call her imagination pretty?
I can’t think straight anymore. Is it because of the threats to my brothers?
The shifting dynamics in my immediate family?
Or the words I replay over and over in my waking and sleeping hours?
I don’t know. All I know is I came alarmingly close to kissing Bambalina last night and I can’t even blame alcohol because I sobered like a judge the second I realized I’d caused her pain.
How does she feel about me now? Did my attempt to turn her off with rudeness work, or did the betrayal of my own will bring her even closer?
I need to know.
The tires burn hot as I drive faster than I should back to the house. Mom and Tony will be at the port monitoring consignments, and I know for a fact Lina isn’t home because Tess let slip she was taking her on a surprise birthday shopping trip before tomorrow’s party.
As soon as my feet hit the wooden floor, I race up the stairs, taking two at a time. Once inside her room, my gaze settles on the diary by her bed. It’s beckoning to me like a beacon in the fog and I don’t even sit before opening it to the most recent entry.
Ava doesn’t know what just happened. She heard a noise downstairs and went down to investigate and found Brodie drunk in the kitchen.
He’d clearly consumed a LOT of wine and had broken one of the glasses.
When Ava tried to talk to him, he was so rude.
His face when he called her a virgin was kind of angry, like he hates that he knows that about her.
At one point, she stood on some of the glass that had fallen to the floor and it got wedged in her heel. Fuck it hurt. But Brodie’s behavior changed instantly. He snapped from being grumpy and rude to being like the most attentive person in the world. He pulled the glass out and bathed Ava’s foot.
He even took his shirt off and used that as a bandage.
Everything that happened after was a blur because she couldn’t take her eyes off his chest. His skin is so smooth and even the tattoo of a dove amidst a flame over his left chest muscle is tidy and discreet.
She had to wipe her mouth because she was salivating so much.
When everything had calmed down he turned to face her and stroked his hand around the back of her neck.
Ava’s entire body sizzled at the contact.
Part of her knew it was so wrong and anyone could’ve walked in, but another part of her wanted him to go further.
To maybe grip her face with his other hand and kiss her fiercely.
God, she would have died. In a good way.
She wanted to reach out and touch his chest, his abs, trace that little line of soft hair that trailed from his naval to the waistband of his slacks.
She’d have let him do whatever he wanted. Anything. He’d have called her his ‘little fawn’ and she’d have melted all over the kitchen island.
Little fawn?
I remember the way she scowled at me when I referred to her as a baby deer, then stomped off into the house. So, I’m surprised she came up with ‘fawn’ herself. I like the name ‘little fawn.’ It suits her, especially in the context of what ‘Brodie’ is doing to ‘Ava’ in her fantasies.
I read the rest of the passage then close the book softly.
A sense of nostalgia rolls over me as I realize this will be the last time I read her diary.
I can’t abuse her privacy any longer. I can’t continue to take from her while giving nothing back. And as long as I keep these thoughts alive in my mind, my dick is never going to get the memo she’s off limits.
The last thought tastes sour, but I swallow it anyway.