Chapter 2
Alessandro
present day
Milo holds up his hands, one of which is clutching a scotch glass.
His shit-brown eyes are glassy, raven hair slicked back with pomade, and he’s wearing a gray silk shirt that’s too tight, showing off his gym-obsessed physique.
“Relax, Sandro. I’m just sayin’ we don’t have enough cops in our pocket to deal with the carnage you unleashed here in the last six months. It’s caused some… issues.”
I feel Gunnar’s energy change beside me, stiffen, ready himself for conflict resolution in the form of a fist to Milo’s face.
Milo’s always been a punk, but a dangerous one.
We’re the same age and spent our summers together here in Tampa at Club Paradiso, an exclusive mafia-owned beach club with a strict peace-on-the-grounds policy. Rivalries were left at the door.
That didn’t stop Milo and I from secretly trying to kill each other though. The rivalry has only gotten more savage since the New York bosses passed him over for me to run Tampa. More into enemy territory. I won’t be turning my back on him anytime soon.
Rocco, my younger brother by two years, sits to my right. Father ordered him to come with me as my underboss.
He meets my gaze with a raised brow, and I shake my head almost imperceptibly. Crazy motherfucker is always looking for a fight. I think this is the real reason Father sent him with me, to keep him on a short leash.
We had to leave our younger brother and sister behind in New York to fend for themselves with Mother, the psychotic bitch who birthed us. That guilt is its own beast.
I pick up my glass of scotch, swirl the amber liquid and let my gaze meet Santino Zerilli’s, my future father-in-law. Despite his obvious weight loss and lack of energy, he still insists on being a part of the decision-making while he can. “You agree with this assessment?”
Santino sizes me up with dark, tired eyes. Even ravaged with cancer, no one would mistake him for anything but mafioso with his salt and pepper hair, olive skin, gold rings, necklace and the relaxed energy of a man used to getting what he wants.
Finally, he shrugs a shoulder and lifts a finger to someone behind me. “We will need to put more cash on the streets, it’s true. But enough business. Tonight we’re celebrating the opening of your beautiful club.” He holds up his glass and waits.
Gunnar, Rocco and I do the same.
“Let’s forget our thoughts for now and focus on celebrating the moment. Su i bicchieri e giù i pensieri,” he says.
“Salute,” we say in unison.
A small cluster of women sashay over to us, clad in gold miniskirts and bikini tops.
Rocco punches me in the thigh and motions toward them as they begin to wrap themselves around the men, grinding and swaying seductively. I’d let him interview the women and pick the entertainment, so he’s itching for a compliment on a job well done.
I nod, giving him a bone. I could give a fuck. I begin to check emails on my phone as the men enjoy their lap dances.
A few emails in, I feel warm breath on the back of my neck. Before I can reach for my gun, a lanky girl who has removed her top swings her body around and seats herself on my lap. I freeze. Her long hair is brushing my arm, her bare breasts pressing into my chest, her lips inches from mine.
“Oh shit,” Rocco says beside me with a chuckle.
The music fades into the background, distant and hollow, as I’m instantly pulled back fifteen years to the sweltering summer day that changed my life.
It was the summer I turned thirteen. Us boys had been playing tackle football on the beach in front of Club Paradiso.
The sons of four different mafia families, so it had gotten violent.
Afterward, Rocco, Gunnar, and I—along with two of my cousins—sat with the rest of the boys in lawn chairs, feet in the surf, nursing our black eyes, bruised ribs, and bloody lips.
Gunnar noticed her first. “What do we have here?”
All banter stopped as she stepped up to our circle in a green bikini, a metal bucket cradled in her arms. Her pale skin was flushed, wild auburn hair down to her ass blowing in the wind, green eyes sparkling above a pert, freckled nose.
“Well, hello there,” Milo said, making a show of eyeing her colt-like legs.
“Don’t be a prick,” I barked. “You lost, sweetheart?”
I’d heard my uncles call women that and they seemed to like it. I was rewarded when the flush deepened like a sunburn on her cheeks. She met my gaze and we both froze. Something caught in my chest, and I lost sight of everything around me but her. Dangerous.
Finn Murphy, a seventeen-year-old Irish soldier from Chicago (the one responsible for my throbbing bloody lip) said, “Cat got your tongue, lass?”
Then something extraordinary happened. I watched as the little flame in front of me threw a hand on her hip and whirled around to glare at Finn. “My tongue is none of your business, mobster.”
There was a round of shocked ooooo’s as we all glanced at each other. That was something that would’ve gotten her bricked and thrown in the ocean if she’d said it to adults. But we found it so fucking funny, we just burst out laughing.
“I like you, Red,” Finn said, wiping his eyes. “Whatcha got for us in that pail?”
Eyeing him warily she said, “Mr. Raines thought you all could use some ice after that game. He… ordered me to bring it down.” She began to hand out the baggies of ice, and the boys dutifully pressed them against their swollen, aching body parts, not giving her any more shit. She’d earned their respect.
When she got to me, I don’t know what possessed me. She held out the baggie of ice, refusing to make eye contact. I just knew I wanted her to see me. I grabbed her wrist instead and gently tugged her into my lap.
As soon as her sun-warmed flesh pressed against my bare chest, her eyes flew up to meet mine.
Light green with tiny gold confetti around the pupil.
Her mouth opened in surprise. The scent of cherry ChapStick and coconut sunscreen wafted over me.
I could hear the boys laughing in the background, heckling me but I didn’t care.
All I cared about was this exotic creature pressed against me, her long hair tickling my thighs, her presence doing something to my breathing.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi,” she whispered back. Then her teeth scraped her bottom lip, and a shy smile formed on her mouth.
I was a goner. I finally released her wrist. “I’m Sandro.”
She lifted the ice and pressed it gently against my left cheek, where I already felt a bruise forming. Then she moved her gaze down to my mouth. Her other hand came up, and with a feathery touch, she pressed her finger to my busted lip. “Lennon. I’m Lennon.”
I almost groaned out loud. I’d never been touched so tenderly. And as I watched a tiny frown pull her brows together, I realized it was so foreign. Watching a complete stranger care if I had a bloody lip. Who was this girl? A fucking angel, that’s who.
She pulled her finger away and held it up between us, her voice sweet and caring. “You’re bleeding.”
Jesus. Yes, I’m bleeding. Because you, strange little red-haired beauty, have stabbed me right in the fucking heart.
Coming back to the present, I slip the pocket knife from my slacks and hold it to the woman’s throat. “Get the fuck off me while you can still breathe.”
With a gasp, she scrambles from my lap, falling on her ass. Her wide eyes stay locked on me as she scoots back and then scurries to her feet, disappearing.
As I’m shoving the knife back into my pocket, Milo is laughing. “Hey, Sandro, didn’t realize you were going to be so faithful to my sister.”
“Fuck off.” I need to get out of here before I stab someone.
Gunnar pushes a blonde off his lap and stands.
I hold up a hand. “No, you stay. Enjoy yourself. Caelian and I have some stuff to go over tonight anyway.”