Chapter 7
“Come now, son,” my father says, leaning back into his chair, “you are not truly serious about wanting out of this.”
Keeping a scowl off my face is damn near impossible.
Accidenti.
How many times am I going to have to have this conversation with him for it to become clear that I do, in fact, want out of being the son of a Made Man? My brothers love it. Victor can’t wait to take over the business from our father despite his not Matching yet. Lorenzo loves being involved in everything: the fights, the bets, the girls. I’m the odd one out, the one that can’t stand it, the one that vomited everywhere the first time I had to kill a man myself.
Forcing the thoughts away, I nod my head once, slowly.
“Yes, father, I am,” I say after another minute.
His frown settles in, the lines of his face deepening.
Looking at him is like looking in a time machine set to thirty years in the future. While my brothers take after our mother, I’m my father through and through. The dark hair, the brown eyes, the sharp cheekbones and narrow chin. There’s none of the softness my mother has. Certainly not her vibrant green eyes that remind me of the palm trees near the ocean.
He blows out a breath before leaning forward.
“Very well, Domenico,” he murmurs. He pulls a nondescript manila envelope from a drawer and sets it on the desk between us. “I will not expect anything else from you regarding the business under one condition.”
Only one? That’s lowered from the three requirements he was adamant about the last time I brought it up several days ago.
“What is it?” I ask.
He purses his lips.
“You are to register with the Council and submit to being matched.”
The disgust settles in my gut faster than I can take in a breath.
No.
I breathe through the visceral reaction, keeping those instincts locked down tight before they can cause problems for me. For all his ruthlessness, my father is still a Beta. He doesn’t understand the bone-deep craving that drives me to restlessness when I ignore it for too long or the swift violence that rises when something—or someone—in my keeping is threatened.
“It can take years for a pack to Match.” My voice is calm, collected, but my father still grunts, his disapproval clear in the set of his shoulders and tapping of his fingers on the envelope. “Am I to wait years to be given complete access to my trust when something of that nature will influence the Council’s choosing?”
Silence stretches between us. I glance behind him, taking in the small trinkets on the dark mahogany bookcases that dominate the wall behind the desk.
“Matching can take years,” I say after a while, reiterating my point. “How long will you expect me to submit to the Council’s whims, padre?”
He blows out a breath, the tension falling from him as he leans forward, his shoulders dropping away from his ears and his hands flattening on the envelope.
“You will submit to being a candidate for at least one cycle, Domenico,” he murmurs, not an ounce of give in his voice. “In exchange, you will have complete access to your trust, and I or Victor can call on you if a situation requires your set of skills. Yes?”
Better than nothing, I suppose. Though Lorenzo is the better fighter, so the odds of them needing to call in my own brutality is slim to none.
I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says, twisting to grab something else from the desk. “Now go talk to your madre. She has been worried sick with you being gone all week.”
I leave the room, closing the door softly behind me. Mamma probably has been worried, but my father only ever uses that as a reason to get his sons out of his office sooner rather than later. He brings up Mamma? End of conversation.
The grandeur of the house has faded over time, its appeal lessening each time I return. The heavy woods, the over-the-top artwork, the light tile—it’s all a symbol of our wealth and our heritage. But no one else in the family seems to care that it was built with literal blood and violence and preying on the vulnerable. That’s me, though, the deer among the predators. If deer also have the ability to kill with little remorse—anymore, at least.
I smooth out my face as I near the kitchen, not wanting Mamma to see the indecision. She’ll take it personally, a mark against her ability to raise sons that want the family legacy.
She’s turned away from the doorway, leaning over the stove as she stirs something into a large pot. I tap on the doorframe of the kitchen so I don’t surprise her, and she glances over, eyes wide.
“Domenico,” she says, a smile lighting her face. “I didn’t know you were here today. It’s Friday, yes?”
“Fridays you make new pasta, Mamma. Why wouldn’t I be here?”
She rolls her eyes, my attempt at flattery seen for the diversion tactic it is.
“Come, give me a kiss.” She urges me over, the spoon still in her hand, and I indulge her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and ducking so she can kiss my cheek.
“Have you already met with your father, then?” she asks. I pull away from her and lean against the counter, tucking my hands into the pockets of my slacks. When I nod, she makes a sound in her throat that I’ve come to know as a sign of her frustration. “Well, you haven’t slammed the front door yet, so I’m hoping I managed to get him to see some sense. Just because you are an Alpha does not mean you need to submit to the Council. You’re more than capable of finding a beautiful Omega on your own.”
It’s easier to keep my face neutral with my mother.
“You are staying for lunch, yes, Domenico?” she asks, filling the silence with little encouragement from me.
“Of course, Mamma,” I murmur. My phone vibrates, and I push away from the counter. “Let me just take this call for a moment. I’ll be back before the food is ready.”
She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything, and I’m already halfway across the kitchen when I realize it’s not one of Father’s men calling me for something they need. I step into the small bathroom just down the hall and close the door, flipping the lock as I answer the call.
“Jasper,” I say, leaning against the door. “Everything all right?”
“Sorry, yes,” he says after a moment’s hesitation.
It’s not the first time we’ve chatted since our date on Wednesday, though he seems more embarrassed than the previous time. The sounds of people talking and laughing filter in through the background.
“Oh my god, is that him?” A female voice gushes loud enough that I can hear it. “Tell him he’s hot!”
I chuckle and close my eyes, letting the overbearing feel of my parents’ estate fade into the background, too.
“Huntley, I swear to all the gods, shut up,” Jasper stage whispers.
My chuckle turns into a full laugh. The background din of the call fades before the click of a door closing causes it to quiet entirely.
“Hey, I was just curious what I should expect for Sunday,” Jasper says. “And I realize I should have just texted you, but…”
He trails off, and those instincts come roaring to life, wanting to soothe him and make him feel safe.
“It’s fine,” I say. “My plan is dinner and then letting you turn in the raincheck for that kiss. Though I’m sure I could find a movie or something similar if you want more than dinner.”
Jasper chuckles, and my need to see him happy quiets under the sound.
“All right. Cool. Sounds great,” he says. I can practically hear him fidgeting.
I put a bit of bite into my voice. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
There’s a long moment of silence before he blows out a breath. I keep my hand in my pocket, messing with my wallet, forcing myself to be patient.
“It just feels a bit early to be asking what you want from all of this,” he says eventually. “But I don’t want to have a different idea in my head.” I start to say something, but he continues. “Is matching something you really want?”
Translation: Is he just something to pass the time until I find an Omega?
“No,” I say, vehement. And it’s not a lie. He didn’t ask if I plan on matching, only if I want it.
And I don’t, no matter what my father is forcing me to do with the Council.
“Oh. All right.” The door opens, and noise filters back in. Jasper’s voice grows lighter. “So dinner? How fancy?”
“Business casual,” I offer.
“Great,” he says. That woman says something in the background again, but I choose to ignore it. “I’ll be ready, then.”