Chapter 2
NICOLO
The buzzer on my desk echoes in the quiet office, and my assistant’s voice comes on.
“Sir, your brother is here. Would you like me to let him through?”
Romiro doesn’t let it slide, and I manage to hear what he says before the buzzer turns off.
“Don’t be an asshole, David. Of cou—”
I lean back, letting out a deep sigh through my nose. Romiro won’t go away without his microdose of attention. The little shit is a migraine that won’t leave.
Pressing my thumb to the buzzer, I say, “Let him through.”
Short. And to the point.
My younger brother walks in, acting like a fucking princess in love. It’s pathetic. Love has done nothing but bring trouble to his doorstep. Only fools fall in love.
“Hello, brother.”
Some days, I question whether we are truly brothers or if somehow, there was a mix-up. I run my hand through my hair, wishing he’d leave without having to engage him in a conversation. Knowing Romiro, he’ll just sit there and talk my ear off.
“What do you want, Romiro?” My gaze drifts back to my computer screen, my fingers tapping on the keyboard loudly.
This deal with the Japanese isn’t going to close itself. My business, my empire, my legacy is the most important aspect of my entire existence. My parents never amounted to anything, and I refuse to end up like them: depressed, on drugs, or dead.
I drag my eyes up to Romiro, lifting a brow as I wait for him to answer my question, but he walks over to the couch and throws himself on it, patting the plush cushion next to him.
“When’d ya get this?”
Lacing my hands together, I place them on my glass desk. “The correct question to ask would be who got it for me. You know I don’t care for comfort.”
He snorts. “Of course you don’t. What the hell was I expecting of my robotic older brother?”
“Funny,” I mutter drily.
His humor is anything but funny—it borders on disrespectful—but I let it pass.
“I know, I’m the funny brother and you’re the robotic brother. That kind of our shtick.”
I look at my 6300A and watch as the seconds tick away. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Romiro waves his hand in the air, as if dismissing the idea of even answering me, and instead says, “We should go for drinks tonight.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
I narrow my eyes at him, assessing to see if he might have any head injuries that I don’t know about. “The definition of ‘no’ is used to—”
“I fucking know what the word means, you asshole.” He shakes his head before saying, “I meant why not?”
“I don’t answer to you, Romiro.”
“That’s not what I said.”
He’s getting annoyed. There’s that distinct lift of the corners of his mouth that he’s always done since he was a young child.
“It’s what you implied,” I say.
“No the fuck it’s not. Besides, all you do is work. It’s not like you have something better to do,” he tries to argue.
“Work is better.”
He rolls his eyes, unimpressed, before muttering under his breath, “Workaholic.”
I barely catch the word, but it doesn’t have the effect he thinks it will.
“Your work will still be here when we get back.”
I turn back to answer the next email chain between me and Nestor. “I have a meeting later on.”
“Liar.”
My hands hover over the keys, and I run my tongue over my lower lip, debating whether to kick him out or let him have the fight he’s itching for. “Call me a liar again, Romiro, and you won’t like what happens next.”
He lifts a single blond brow.
“I have a meeting.”
“With who?” Leaning back in my chair, I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
Another sentence out his mouth and I’ll remove his vocal cords myself.
“Nestor Vasilios,” I finally tell him.
Romiro’s brows knit together before he asks, “What for? Can’t you cancel?”
I slam my hand down, my desk rattling with the force. “Enough with the damn questions. You’re like a dog with a fucking bone who won’t quit. Why do you even want to go out for drinks?”
He pauses, his lips pressed into a thin line, making the scar that runs from one corner of his mouth to the other more prominent. “There’s something that Eli wants to discuss with you.”
Folonari might think I can protect his sister, but he doesn't know that she'll need protection from me the most.
“No.”
His face morphs into an unpleasant pout. He looks so stupid. “Not even for your—”
“No, Romiro. Anything else?”
He taps his finger on his chin, as if contemplating what to say next.
“Nah.” His hand rests on the doorknob, and just before he slips out of my office, he turns to face me. “You know, everyone says I’m the most beautiful man they’ve ever seen. Stay ugly, motherfucker.”
I sit there for a couple of seconds wondering how the fuck I’m related to that conceited asshole. The clock behind me ticks away as the seconds eat away at the minutes.
Fifteen minutes pass before the sound of my assistant’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Mr. Esposito, everyone is in the meeting room, and Mr. Vasilios has arrived.”
Pushing back my office chair, I grab the folder that will secure today’s deal.
My steps are measured, slow, steady, and sure. One thing that I’ve learned is that no one respects your time other than yourself. And there’s no one worth rushing for, no matter who it is. The elevator doors slide open to the fifteenth floor, where the meeting is taking place.
If—when—I secure this deal with the Russians, no one will stand in my way of crushing the Mancini brothers. Those fuckers have been breathing down my neck since I secured that Castillo off the edge of Naples.
I can hear the idle talk from down the hall, the grating voice of Vasilios as he talk to Emilia, one of my executives. There’s a flirty undertone to what he saying, but she’s answering him with a dry tone.
Emilia has a no-fucks-given attitude about her. I’ve known her since business school, and she’s always been like that, which is why I went after her when I formed this company until she accepted the position. I only want sharks, not dogs.
A hush falls over the meeting room as everyone stands when I step over the threshold. I don’t wait for anyone to say anything, stepping inside and pulling out my chair.
“Let the meeting start,” I say, sliding my reading glasses on.
Nestor leans over—his blue eyes so light, they look almost transparent—and rests his elbows on the table. “What? Don’t I get a hello, Nico?”
“No time for pleasantries, Nestor. What’s your offer for the shipment we’ve put forward?”
He shrugs off his suit jacket, his tattoos peeking through the white dress shirt he has on. “Forty million dollars.”
This is going to be a long meeting, I can already tell. The fucker is only here to piss me off.
My phone pings with a reminder. I don’t need to look to know what it is.
Fifteen years. She’s been gone for fifteen years.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. The words on the paper in front of me blur and I slip off my glasses, rubbing my forefinger and thumb over my eyes.
I twist my wrist, checking the time. 2:55 a.m.
Work never ends, not for a man who is building an empire, a legacy, and certainly not for a man like me. I have a couple of text messages—two from my brother, three from that asshole Nestor, asking if I want to go for some drinks while he’s in New York. And the last one makes me pause.
Emiliano Folonari
We need to speak.
It’s about our agreement.
Come to Vault 61 tomorrow afternoon.
I don’t take orders from the Folonaris; my brother does. But I’m going, because whatever agreement we came to last time was not the one I had come for.
There’s not long left until sunrise. Instead of heading back to my apartment, I open the private room within my office.
Racks line the walls, filled with dress shirts, pants, and other clean clothes.
Yanking my tie off and unbuttoning my shirt, I drop them into the chute that will take them to housekeeping.
I slide my zipper down and let my pants and underwear follow the shirt and tie.
Stepping into the glass shower, I flip the high pressure water on, steam filling the place. I don’t indulge often, and when I do, it’s usually a boiling hot shower. Nothing relaxes the muscles more than that.
Fucking does.
I don’t have time for that. Especially not when I need to court a woman, let alone deal with the expectations of a relationship when they know that will never happen.
I wash the shampoo out of my hair, pushing back the wet strands that fall over my forehead. The tiled floors fill with suds as the water carries them off my body and down the drain.
Some would say my life is boring, monotone, repetitive, but that’s the way I want it.
Meticulous control is something I will never give up.
My brother and I lived in chaos for most of our lives with a junkie ma and a pa that only knew his way with killing for the mafia.
That isn’t the kind of life I want to live, being controlled by drunks or obeying every whim some boss has.
I step out of the shower, water dropping onto the pristine marble floors.
Grabbing the towel that’s hanging by the shower door, I quickly dab myself dry as I pull out a pair of boxers and black pants.
The clock reads four o’clock in the morning.
Three hours until the work day starts. My employees will fill this building, and not a second past seven, will everyone be at their desks.
And I will be in my office reading over more fucking contracts.
I need to get out and go to Naples, but if I do end up going, I’ll need to take the Folonari girl with me.
I've laid eyes on Mara Folonari only a handful of times; she puts models to shame, but she's just as dead in the eyes. And that is a fucking problem.
Her brothers are reckless idiots who can’t get their heads on right. What do I expect from boys who let their dicks lead them?
I button up my black dress shirt, forgoing the tie, and head back into my office to call Romiro.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Click.
“What kind of psychopath calls people at four in the morning? Are you insane?” he groans, his voice groggy from sleep.
“I don’t know any psychopaths, but I know a lot of people who call at four in the morning. And no, I’m not insane.” I keep my tone firm and serious.
I can hear him shuffling on the other end of the phone before he sighs and asks, “What the fuck do you want, Nicolo?”
“Tell Folonari that there will be stipulations to the agreement we had a couple of weeks ago. I’ll be at Vault 61 like he texted earlier. Be there.”
I hang up, not waiting for his answer.
I tap my forefinger on the sleek table. This part of the club is always on the quieter side; soft classical music plays and the low murmur of a few other patrons fills the air.
Vault 61 is the most exclusive club in New York. It accepts five new members each year and has a strict criteria on who even qualifies.
But it’s clearly not strict enough, seeing as the fucker Nestor is here and heading toward me.
“I didn’t say you could join me,” I grit out as he slides into the booth opposite me.
He waves his hand, as if to dismiss the notion of needing permission. “Now, why would I need permission to sit with my friend?”
My eyes narrow on his face, trying to figure out where he gets the stupidity from. I take a sip from my drink, letting the alcohol burn its way down my throat.
“Where did you get that notion?”
He grabs my glass after I set it down and sniffs it. Sniffs it. Christ.
“Vodka. A man of taste, I see. And which notion are you referring to?”
“The one where you think I’m your friend.”
“Oh, come on. I know you’re just pretending not to like me. I mean, who doesn’t like the great, magnificent, handsome—”
I stop him from continuing his ego-stroking rant. “Stop talking, Nestor. Your voice aggravates me.”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Everyone’s voice aggravates you, Nico.”
“It’s Nicolo, and that’s because everyone’s voice is aggravating.”
“You didn’t finish telling me why you’re here.”
I shake my head, wondering why the fuck I bother doing business with a man who has the perception of a cardboard box.
“I didn’t even start telling you. And…” I pause, leaning in. “I’d never tell you to begin with.”
Nestor opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but we’re interrupted by Romiro, Emiliano, and Dominico.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Nestor,” Emiliano says as he slides in beside me, while Dominico takes the seat by Nestor.
Romiro doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans over the back of the booth, watching us.
“What can I say? Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.” Nestor shrugs, as if anyone actually believes his bullshit.
“Cut the shit. We all know that you live for the thrill of stirring trouble,” Dominico says, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
Nestor gives him a wink before standing. “Well, at least I’m aware when I’m not wanted.” He turns his attention to Emiliano, his tone serious. “The Brotherhood is looking to set up a meeting with you.”
“And you can tell the Brotherhood what I’ve told them before. Hell will freeze over before I allow Russians to deal in my fucking territory.”
Emiliano has been refusing to collaborate with the Bratva, following in his pop’s steps.
Nestor straightens his jacket, his playfulness disappearing altogether from his face. “You’re too cocky for your own good, Emiliano. Let me remind you what happens to those who disrespect us.”
He lunges across the table and holds a gun at Emiliano’s temple, malice glinting in his eyes. Romiro and Dominico both stand, their guns drawn and pointed at the idiot. Nestor doesn’t spare them a glance.
Click.
The gun’s empty. The crazy fucker loves to mess with people.
“Russian roulette. Want to play?” He places the gun in front of Emiliano.
“Get the fuck out of my city before I put a bullet between your eyes.” Eli doesn’t even entertain the idea of picking up Nestor’s gun.
Nestor snatches his gun, shoving it back into his jacket. “If you think this is the last of me, you’re mistaken, Folonari.” He turns to look at me. “See you later, Esposito.”
“I’d prefer if it was never,” I murmur.