2. This fucking blows
Chapter 2
This fucking blows
Luca
G lancing at the line of cars at the curb outside the baggage claim of the Las Vegas airport, I realize I don’t know what I’m looking for. I have no idea what the fuck Marco drives. Something expensive, I’m sure, but more than a few vehicles out here fit that description.
I don’t see Marco. My frown deepens as my duffle bag slips off my shoulder. I hitch it back in place and drag my rolling suitcase away from the doors. After dropping my duffle to the ground, I pull my hoodie off and toss it on top because the night air is warmer than the plane was, even in April. Leaning against the building with my arms crossed, I wait.
After a few minutes, a little boy walking by stops and looks up at me. He has to crane his head way back, and his eyes go almost comically wide.
“Woah.”
With my earbuds in, I pretend not to hear him even though I don’t have anything playing. It’s generally a good way to keep people from trying to talk to me. His mom gives me a once-over and tugs on his hand, pulling him away.
“Mom, did you see his muscles? And his tattoos?” he asks, glancing back at me.
She mutters something about bad boys and steroids as they disappear into a crowd, and I roll my eyes. Time and effort in the gym, but never steroids. People can be so fucking judgmental.
A blacked-out luxury SUV pulls up in front of me, and the passenger window rolls down. My uncle stares at me with his eyebrow slightly cocked. We haven’t seen each other in years. He looks about the same, but I sure as hell don’t.
“Get the fuck in, Luca.” Marco’s voice leaves no room for argument. With a heavy sigh, I peel myself away from the wall and toss my bags in the back before climbing into the passenger seat.
Twenty minutes later, neither of us had spoken a single word since I got in the SUV and we started to drive away from the city. I’m not ready to talk yet, but the silence is uncomfortable as fuck. Who the hell drives without something going? Music, a podcast—even an audiobook would be better than this. It’s weird. It’s unnerving. It’s fucking stupid.
This whole thing is fucking stupid.
Maybe I should be more appreciative of this opportunity to do… something. It’s getting me out of my parents’ house if nothing else. And I am appreciative, under the bitterness. But I’m simmering in that bitterness at the moment.
Bitterness isn’t exactly new to me. I’ve felt it for as long as I can remember. At least where my mom’s concerned. I don’t know what I did to deserve her hatred. Maybe I tore her a new asshole on my way out twenty years ago.
While Mom hates my guts, Dad acts like I don’t exist. We used to do a lot of father/son shit, but we haven’t been close in a long time. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse. But I’m used to both at this point, so whatever. I’ve spent as little time around them as possible for years.
Throughout most of middle and high school, I played almost every sport to keep myself out of the house. Once I got my driver’s license, I started hitting the gym instead of going home after school. Well, after detention, usually. Beating the shit out of asshole bullies and predators got me a lot of detention, but it was worth it. I found my way into an underground fighting club shortly after graduation.
Fighting has been the only bright spot in my life. I worked my way to the top and let myself believe I could be happy; that I had a future.
I believed it until today. Fuck, I wish there was something to distract me from my memories. I took my earbuds out when I got in the car, and now I just keep replaying the bomb Mom dropped on me.
Mom marches into the kitchen and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees. She scowls when she sees me leaning against the counter, eating directly from the casserole pan. “Luca, your gap year turned into two, and it’s coming to an end. You need to pick a major for when you start college in the fall.”
“Huh? Gap year? The fuck?” I scoff, my mouth full of leftover lasagna I didn’t bother warming up. The less time I spend in common areas, the better. I’ve been saving for my own place, but the economy is shit. “I didn’t even apply anywhere.”
She screws up her face into a disappointed grimace. “Language! And don’t talk with food in your mouth.” Turning to glare at Dad standing in the doorway, she makes it clear she places the blame for my failings on him. God, why are they still married? They clearly don’t even like each other anymore. When her eyes fall back on me, there’s nothing warm or motherly in them. There never is. “I sent in applications for you, and you’ve been accepted to quite a few schools.”
Just to piss her off some more, I take another bite before responding as I chew. “How did I get accepted anywhere?” I wasn’t a good student and barely graduated. Other than fighting, I have no real marketable skills and never gave much thought to a career. Nothing ever felt like it would fit. At least not shit they teach in school.
“You’re a DeVille, that’s how. Names and money get you anywhere in this world. I’ll give you a list of colleges and acceptable majors to pick from.”
“That’s not happening.” I would laugh if I had it in me, but instead, I keep eating.
“Oh, I assure you, it is. Be thankful I’m even giving you options in this matter. I haven’t decided if the same is true on the other.”
“What other matter?”
“A wife. Connections are made through marriages.”
A noodle lodges in my throat. “Are you fucking nuts?” I ask between coughs.
“I just reminded you about your language. And no, I’m not. It’s time you give something back to this family.”
I glance at Dad, but he’s not looking at me. He also hadn’t said a damn thing, so fuck him. I turn my attention back to the woman making irrational demands.
“I’m not going to college, and I’m not marrying someone you pick out for me.” I shove the lasagna away. just hoping to keep what I already ate down. This conversation is making me nauseous .
“Connections are important. Bloodlines are important. Arranged marriages are not uncommon for families like ours. Your uncle might not be so old school, but others are. And many of those families are very interested in being connected to the DeVilles,” she says, her voice filled with pride. Yeah, that’s why they’re still married. She doesn’t want to be an ex-DeVille, even if she hates us all.
When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “You’re going to marry a girl from whichever family I pick and start working toward a respectable career. You don’t have a choice.”
Fuck. This. Shit. With every intention of packing my shit and walking out the door with no real plan, I push away from the counter and take a few steps toward the doorway but stop when Dad’s voice fills the room.
“Marco.”
“Marco, what?” Mom snarls.
“Luca has another choice. He can join Marco’s crew.”
Mom’s face pinches so hard it looks painful. “What would he even do there?”
“Whatever the hell Marco wants him to do. Most likely, things that he’s more suited for. Luca was never going to be a lawyer or doctor, Tina.” Dad sends an apologetic look my way, but he’s not wrong.
Whatever. Of the two options, one’s clearly the lesser evil for me personally. Which is almost humorous. I’m not sure what all Marco’s got his hands in, but I know most of it isn’t legal. But it doesn’t involve college or a wife. “Guess I’m moving to Vegas,” I grumble.
Dad’s on the phone before Mom can say another word. She’s obviously not happy that her grand plan has been blown to shit, but she’s not going to say anything now that Marco’s involved. She storms out of the room, and I go pack .
A few hours and one short flight from Reno to Vegas later, my whole world has changed.
Leaning my head back against the headrest, I blow out my breath in a loud sigh, breaking the silence. I’m pissed about everything and feel like I have no control over my own life.
“You hungry?” Marco asks.
I resist the urge to glare at him. “Do I look like I’m ever not hungry?” I’m not joking. I’m 6’7” and was built like a god damned tank even before I started training every day. Plus, I don’t joke. My life is a joke enough as it is. I don’t need to add to it. It’s been a long time since I felt lighthearted enough to joke around. In the ring, I’m known as The Grim Goliath, but even when I’m not fighting, most people call me Grim.
A little black Maserati flies by us on the freeway, and I let out a low whistle as my eyes follow it. “Damn, that’s a nice fucking car.”
“That’s my fucking car,” Marco grits out as he presses his foot down harder on the gas pedal and we pick up speed.
“Seriously? Why didn’t you pick me up in that thing? I might have cracked half a fucking smile if that had been waiting at the airport.” Meh, probably not. I can’t remember the last time I smiled. But apparently, anything’s possible, given my current situation.
“Because that car was stolen over a year ago, and it’s been missing ever since. Except for when it’s fucking not because at least once a month, someone spots it. Whoever took it, they have it hidden well, drive like a professional, and aren’t afraid to die because I’m going 125 right now, and they’re still pulling the fuck away.” Marco sounds almost impressed. Almost. And also pissed. Mostly pissed.
“How the fuck did one of your cars get stolen?” I know he’s got a huge wall around his house, trackers on probably everything he owns, and goons stationed everywhere. I might not have ever been to his place, but I’m not stupid. Marco DeVille runs a mother fucking empire. Maybe it’s the actual mafia, and my uncle’s an honest-to-god mobster. I don’t know the details. But whoever stole a car from him has big balls. Or a death wish. Or both.
“They didn’t take it from the house, they took it from a parking garage that had shittier cameras than we realized. They found and removed all the trackers in the damn thing before we knew it was gone. They get away every fucking time one of my guys chases it.” He bangs his hand on the steering wheel, then drags it through his dark hair as the other car continues to pull away. “I keep getting calls from the officers on our payroll asking me to stop driving it so fucking fast.”
“The cops don’t know it’s been stolen?”
Marco looks over at me, and the way his eyes assess me makes me feel like I’m stupid as fuck. He doesn’t involve the police in something like a stolen car.
Duh, bonehead.
“Never mind,” I grumble. The Maserati is nothing but a distant pair of red lights now.
Marco sighs. “Fuck, I miss that car. Mia won’t let me get another one.”
I scoff. “Your wife won’t let you get another one?” What a pussy. “I thought you were the boss around here.”
“I’m the fucking king, but Mia is my queen.” His tone is sharp. Marco’s definitely not as tall or as broad as I am, but there’s no denying the fact that he’s scary. He doesn’t need size or muscle to get that across. Marco DeVille simply oozes power. “Luca, someday, if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a woman who will become the center of your universe. A woman your entire world will revolve around. If she tells you no Maserati, then no Maserati.”
I huff and stare out the window at the desert. Like fuck I’m ever letting some chick have that kind of control over me.