EIGHT
Benito
“ Y ou didn’t come to see me last night,” Mama laments from her spot, eating brunch in the sun.
I huff and tap my watch.
“Psh.” She waves a hand through the air. “You know I don’t mind if the hour is late.” She gestures for me to take a seat opposite her on the patio. “I’m glad you stayed, though. It means I get to see my boy in the daylight.” Her gaze softens as I lower myself onto the metal chair. “You grow more handsome by the day.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t give me that nonsense about a mother’s rose-tinted glasses,” she scolds. “You’ve already broken plenty of hearts.”
Only one that I’ve cared about. I sigh and lace my hands over my stomach, staring at Mama’s perfectly kept gardens. The lawn extends the length of a football pitch, either side lined with a flawlessly trimmed box hedge. Roses peek over the top in varying shades of pink and red, the odd white thrown in for variation. The centerpiece is the long pergola that runs the final twenty feet down to where the lawn drops away on slate steps to the lake beyond. As a child, I often bruised myself by climbing the sturdy timber frame before Mama’s roses took over.
“Your father told me about the deal with Arseni.” She takes a delicate bite of her grapefruit, chewing and swallowing before she continues. “Nastasya is a good match for you.”
I flatten my lips.
“Even if you two shared no history, I’d pick her,” she whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The girl is strong.” Mama has another bite of the fruit. “She knows our world, unlike half the waifs you’ve brought home from the nightlife.”
I snort, a chuckle rumbling in my chest.
“Yes, indeed.” She smiles, fixing her satin housecoat. “Vincent keeps me well informed of your antics.”
I may have left the family home, but I knew I’d never leave my parents’ watchful eye. I don’t often spot the familiar faces among the crowd, but I know my father’s men are there, watching.
Reporting.
“You and I know none of those girls were marriage material.” Mama lifts an eyebrow. “You need a woman of your caliber.”
Nope—the women weren’t wife material. But they sure were fun. My shoulders rise with the deep breath I draw. One-night stands are easy to manipulate; take what you want and kick them out. A relationship with Nastasya brings complications. Ones I hadn’t considered before now—I’m unprepared, and I don’t like it one fucking bit.
Mama sighs, noting my furrowed brow. “She won’t care, you know?”
I shrug. That’s yet to be proven.
“The only way to find out is to spend time with her.” Mama tidies her empty grapefruit skins into an orderly pile on the delicate China plate. “I’ll arrange dinner for the families. You two can then step away and converse.”
I lift an eyebrow. Converse?
“In your own way,” she stresses with a lilt of humor. “Are you here all day?”
I shake my head and rise from the seat. I have a job to finish. I like to stay busy when there’s a lot on my mind.
“I’m happy you’re here.” Mama reaches across the table for my hand. I place my palm in hers. “I know your brothers can make things hard, but this is where you belong.”
I’m not so sure about that. Until the dynamic around here changes, I don’t trust anyone. Even my mother. I slide my hand from hers and round the table to kiss her sun-kissed cheek. She’s loyal to my father and the life, which means being prepared to go against your children should the occasion call for it. Her motherly love means nothing when it comes to the family’s survival.
Broken hearts can be mended. The reputation of our family can’t.
I stride through the halls of the family home, collecting my freshly pressed jacket off the hook before I duck out the front exit. The sun hangs high in the sky, unhindered by any cloud. It’s a beautiful day—perfect for some people, but not me. I have a dead body that spent the night curled in my trunk and a goddamn grave to dig. A little cloud cover wouldn’t have gone amiss. I jog down the wide stone steps toward where the Defender sits parked on the driveway. Time constraints meant I had to leave the mark where I stashed him after ensuring his newly formed widow would remember where her allegiance lies when the inevitable questions start. I could have left the body where it fell as I initially intended—let the cops do what we pay them for—but there was a fucking kid upstairs. I might be a monster, but I don’t make a habit out of screwing up children for life. Therapy is costly, and there’s no better way to create a criminal than to give a man a need he can’t afford.
My polished boots crunch on the fine gravel, masking the curse words that erupt from the righthand facade of the house. I grin when Petey’s graying head comes into view. The man crouches beside his ruined tire, one palm inspecting the deliberate damage. He senses company, standing abruptly and turning to land his heated stare on me.
“You little fucker.” Thick legs carry him toward me. He was a champion boxer before a dirty hit robbed him of the hearing in his left ear.
I don’t run.
“This stinks of you.” He marches toward where I stand beside my ride. “Alessio wouldn’t have the brains.”
I chuckle, leaning back to avoid a fist to my shoulder when he reaches me. A shrug conveys all I want him to know; I told him not to park there.
He shakes his head, lips parting into a reluctant smile. “You owe me for a tire, you little shit.” His palm clips the side of my head playfully.
I give the guy a gentle shove to move him out of the way and open the driver’s door. He strolls back to his car and pops the trunk to retrieve the spare. My engine rumbles to life, and I flick through to some heavy beats to set the mood before pulling out of the driveway.
Petey is more an uncle to me than my own blood. A close friend of my father’s, he was a made man at sixteen—eager to prove his loyalty to the family. While my father spent countless hours learning the ins and outs of the business, it was Pietro who took an hour out of his day to play ball with me. Papa taught me how to be a man: how to shave, dress, and hold myself when in company. But it was Petey who gave me a childhood. Outings to the park, driving my friends and me around, slipping a few bills to spend an afternoon at the movies. I’m not stupid—he would have done most of those things to keep me occupied and away from the darker side of our life. But still, it was Petey and not my blood uncle, Ignazio, who took the time to treat me with respect.
I barely saw Uncle Naz, growing up. Grandfather would send him away on business more often than not. He would pass through town, stir the pot with my father, and then leave again. I never understood why Papa didn’t get along with his only brother, not when I had a close relationship with both of mine. It was only when my father slowly introduced me to the reality of our family obligations that I saw a new side to my uncle.
A side that ultimately cost me my place at the head of the table.
I settle into the leather seat as I hit the open road and reach into the center console to pull out a pack of smokes. Mama doesn’t like the habit, stating it’ll take me before a stray bullet does. Out of respect for her, I don’t light up when at home. But now that I cruise toward my destination, I satisfy the urge that’s crawled over my skin since Nastasya stepped out of that fucking car last night.
A cigarette calms me. Keeps my hands busy and my conscious mind occupied.
I don’t know what Stas’s reaction would have been when Arseni told her the news, and that bothers me—not because of the mystery but because it shows how little I know the woman now. There was a time when I could have predicted her reaction; I would have gotten it word for word, but now?
She’s a stranger to me. A stranger with whom I long to set things right.
I’m not the type of guy to care about people’s feelings or to need to set the record straight. I get what’s necessary done and leave emotion out of it. Exactly why Papa sent me out yesterday to clean up a loose end. I earned my nickname amongst the lower levels on the street years ago—the Janitor. When it became apparent that I wouldn’t be useful to the family for my negotiation skills, Papa utilized my loyalty and dependence in other ways. It started with a tweaker who stole from the supply chain. And then it was straightening out a dealer who cooked the books to take a bigger cut. By the time my kills reached double figures, the rumors were impossible to deny.
Whatever the fuck up, whatever the mistake, I would be there to clean up the mess.
Which makes me wonder, who the fuck messed up this time if Papa’s solution is Nastasya becoming my bride?
Guess I don’t care if she’s the reward.