49. Cupid
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CUPID
The last three days, I stuck to Vanessa’s side, unwilling to leave her.
I was an insufferable asshole in the days following Funeral Gate, insisting on escorting my ole lady to all her classes and clinical hours even when my protection was overkill.
The traffickers are gone and no longer a threat to my woman.
Although being away from her causes me anxiety, today it’s necessary.
It’s Friday afternoon and we’re delivering the largest order of firearms our club has ever dealt with, handing the goods over to Piero Bianchi—the Don of Denver. Oaks and I are escorted into the Bianchi estate by Piero’s guards. We eyeball the luxurious surroundings with awe.
There’s rich, and then there’s filthy rich. Piero is the latter.
“Damn. I should have been a mobster,” Oaks says, his head swiveling to take in all the grandeur of the mansion.
“Mobsters don’t ride,” I remind him. “And they wear suits all the damn time. Talk about stuffy.”
One of the suit-wearing guards escorting us turns his nose up at me.
“No offense,” I say, trying to smooth over my insult. “Y’all look great.”
“Maybe they’d make an exception for me?” Oaks says with an amused expression. “I can be their gun-toting, hog-riding, leather-wearing mobster.”
“Not our style,” says the other escort with a thick Italian accent.
Oaks shakes his head. “Well, that’s a damn shame. If you change your mind, your boss has got my number.”
The guards lead us out onto a patio near the back of the estate. I hear the distinct sound of a Harley in the distance, approaching the property.
Oaks hears it, too. His eyes and smile widens. “Hey, maybe they do have biker mobsters.”
“No biker mobsters. Just a biker brother,” a smooth voice says behind us.
We turn and find a tall, lean man with model-worthy, tousled black hair and wearing a suit that probably costs more than my hog.
The gentleman sticks out his hand, introducing himself. “Piero Bianchi.”
I shake his hand. “Cupid. This is my VP—Oaks.”
“Howdy,” Oaks says with a wave.
“Nice to meet you. Welcome,” the don says, his accent rich. He gestures to a patio table and chairs. “Please sit.”
Taking a seat, a group of house staff approach the table, setting out wine and one of those fancy wood boards with a shit ton of cheese, cured meats, olives, and more—I think Vanessa calls it a charcuterie board.
Oaks face lights up brighter than the sun. He loves food almost as much as he loves Marlene. “Now this is how we should do business, Prez. We need more of these fancy buyers who know how to treat their business partners.”
I roll my eyes at my VP, sipping my wine and wishing it was whiskey instead.
Piero chuckles, popping an olive into his mouth.
“I’m glad you find the accommodations to your liking, Oaks.
Normally, I don’t do business out of my home.
But I’ve heard firsthand from your National Chapter President—Jameson—that your operation is loyal to its customers.
I hope you don’t mind doing a house call instead of meeting on neutral territory. ”
“It’s not our norm,” I say. “But given the size of the delivery, I can understand not wanting to transport the goods twice.”
“Yes, it is a rather large order. But that’s intentional. Half is for mio fratello.”
My Italian is rusty, but I remember enough from my nonna speaking it to me as a child to understand what Piero is saying.
“Your brother?” I vaguely recall Rock from the Durango chapter mentioning the don was tight with an MC in Colorado, considering them family. “He’s the biker you mentioned earlier?”
“Sì. He will join us soon. It’s a surprise for him.”
Interesting. We do background checks on all our potential buyers. There was nothing in the don’s file about a brother.
“Gifting guns? That’s a fucking awesome surprise,” Oaks says impressed before turning to me with a puckered face. “How come you don’t gift me any guns? I’m your brother. I’m like your favorite best brother. I like guns too. Would it kill you to give me a Smith & Wesson every so often?”
“Depends on who you plan on using the gun on?” I tease. “You’ve never complained about the Harley-Davidson birthday gift cards I give you yearly.”
“I’m not saying no to either,” Oaks says, backpedaling. “But you could switch it up once in a while.”
Heavy footsteps loom behind us. I turn to see who is coming, and my eyebrows jump to my hairline.
The Mercy Ravens MC President approaches, frowning at me. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Working. What the fuck are you doing here?”
He waves at Piero. “I’ve come to see mi hermano.”
“Ah! Wonderful. You’ll all know each other. We can skip introductions and get right down to business,” Piero says, ignoring the tension between us.
I spin in my seat to face the don, befuddled. “Atlas is your biker brother?”
“Brother by choice,” Piero says, sipping his wine. “I’ve killed all the males in my immediate family.”
Oaks gives me a sideways glance, whispering, “Did he just say that out loud?”
I’m equally shocked. It’s a pretty bold admission of guilt to say to men you’ve met minutes ago. Then again, he’s a mafia don—killing is in the job description, even if it’s family.
“Come sit. I have a gift for you,” Piero says, waving his Colombian brother over.
Atlas takes the seat next to the don, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “What have you gotten yourself involved in, Piero?”
“You need not worry,” he says to Atlas before he smiles, wagging his eyebrows. “I’m replenishing your arsenal.”
Atlas blinks at his brother before closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You bought illegal firearms from the Royal Bastards?!”
Well, damn. Seems the Mercy Ravens MC has been aware of our club’s operations all along. No doubt their hacker dug up that dirt on the dark web somewhere. I’ll have Cipher clean up our digital footprint.
“Sì. I bought lots of guns with my dead asshole of a cousin’s money,” he says in an almost giddy tone before he quickly sobers, doing the sign of the cross. “May he rot in hell.”
Atlas opens his eyes, scowling at the don. “I’m all for spending Lorenzo’s dirty money. But come on, Piero. You could have easily bought legal weapons.”
The don scoffs. “Where’s the fun in that, Atlas? I’ll have you know, I’ve gone to great lengths to legitimize most of my business practices. However, every once in a while a mobster wants to be a mobster and do some illegal feces.”
“It’s shit,” Atlas says, correcting his brother. “We don’t say feces. We say shit.”
“Same thing,” Piero says dismissively, downing the rest of his wine.
“Maybe you want to see the merchandise first before saying no,” I suggest, confident our inventory will win over Atlas.
“Excellent suggestion,” Piero says, motioning for me to present the goods. “You have the floor, Cupid.”
I lift the heavy canvas bag we had brought onto the table. “Here’s a sampler of most of the firearms Piero purchased.”
Atlas eyes the bag with interest, standing from his seat to open the duffle of goodies. He pauses for a moment before letting out a low whistle, pulling out a Barrett Model 82A1.
I know a happy customer when I see one. Still, I give him the pitch.
“Isn’t she a beauty? She’s the first and only semi-automatic .
50 caliber rifle available on the market.
It runs upwards of eight thousand. The chamber is chrome-plated, dimensioned for civilian and military ammunition.
The rifle offers amazing long-range precision with its enhanced accuracy and high velocity?—”
“You had me at chrome-plated,” Atlas murmurs, interrupting my speech. He cradles the gun, kissing the barrel before he grins at Piero. “I need to test it.”
Piero chuckles, stepping off the patio onto a grass lawn and leading the way to a gun range. “Of course you do, mio fratello.”
Atlas sets up the rifle on the ground, lying prone to take the first shot at a target a thousand yards away.
“That may be a bit of a stretch,” I warn Piero, worried that if Atlas misses the target, the don may back out.
Piero waves away my concerns. “He won’t miss. He never misses. When Atlas was a SEAL, he was an extreme long-range sniper specialist. A thousand yards is nothing for him.”
“Damn,” Oaks says with admiration, rocking back on his heels. “Glad we’re on good terms with him.”
I snort, agreeing.
Atlas dials in his sights, unbothered by us chatting behind him. He’s still for a moment before the blast from the gunshot echoes around the outside of the estate. The center of the target is blown apart.
The former sniper whoops loudly, jumping to his feet. “FUCK, YEAH! How many of these did you get, bro?”
“A whole cargo truck full,” Piero says smugly. “We’re splitting it.”
I casually walk up to Atlas, holding out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Atlas smirks, shaking my hand. “Deal.”