Chapter 2
Two
Massimo
Ten in the evening and I am right where I always am at this hour.
Settled deep in the leather wingback by the window, some contract spread across my lap, phone perched on one arm of the chair and my Macallan on the other.
The restless city glows through the glass beside me, but I stopped noticing years ago.
I shuffle through the papers before reaching for my drink.
I've read this contract so many times now I can quote it from memory.
The Whitmore trust restructuring has a clause on page forty-seven that doesn't belong. Harrison's trust. Harrison's money. Harrison's mess for me to untangle, same as it's been for twenty years. The man is my oldest friend and the worst judge of legal talent I have ever met.
My attention falls to page five again.
Section 12.4(b). A subordination provision buried where no one would think to look, contradicting the primary beneficiary language on page twelve.
Sloppy or deliberate. Either way, his attorneys should know better because I've trained them to know better.
I circle it in red, make my note, and move on.
I toss the red pen on the coffee table in front of me where another stack of contracts waits for my attention. I reach for the Macallan 18 and take a slow pull. Caramel, oak, and a burn that settles warm in my chest.
My only company most nights. Pathetic, but brutally fucking honest.
I drain the glass and pour another.
Like every other night, silence fills every corner of this place.
It always does. Thirty-three floors above Michigan Avenue and the only sounds are my pen on paper and the ventilation pushing warm air through rooms nobody uses.
The kitchen is spotless because I cooked for one and cleaned up after.
The second bedroom has never had a guest. The couch still holds the dent from my body because I fell asleep there last night reviewing Drake and Katriana's postnuptial amendments at two in the morning.
That is what I do at two in the morning. While other bastards are tangled up in sheets and their wives, I'm wrapped up in their amendment clauses. Guess which one pays better yet feels a fuck of a lot worse.
I have built marriages out of contract law for nearly every one of my Syndicate brothers.
Rafael and Persia. Drake and Katriana. Luca and Ilona.
Kon and Onyx. Four marriages. Four contracts.
Four ceremonies where I stood beside men I've bled with and watched them find the one thing I have never been able to put in writing for myself.
Someone to come home to.
I take another pull of whiskey and swallow my disgust. Pressure builds between my eyes and I press my thumb into the bridge of my nose.
Forty years old. Harvard Law. Fifteen years keeping this family out of prison and in power.
I have stared down federal prosecutors, rewritten custody agreements at three in the morning, and made problems vanish with a single phone call.
I am very good at solving other people's problems.
Mine sit in a pile I dread examining too closely.
I have to say, it's not the turn of events I saw for myself this late in life.
A tangled web of crime, lies and late nights has a way of killing a man's love life.
Fuck, I know my brothers made it work, but their wives were already in the life.
Or at least knew about it. I would have to find someone...
I stop my mental roll in its tracks. I'm not going down that rabbit hole.
I don't need some mafia princess because I sure as shit am not anyone's knight in shining armor and this isn't some fairytale.
The life I live is brutal. Period. Wedding vows and happily ever after are for other fools.
I'm stuck with one-night stands and empty beds come morning.
I'll just have to learn to live with it. I don't give a shit anymore.
I grab my glass and hammer back the last mouthful and refill.
My phone vibrates on the arm of the chair. It better not be Harrison. I swear to God above if he fucks up one more time...
I look over to see unknown number flash across the screen. I mentally run through names of possible callers. The list is endless, really. Just about everyone I know dumps burners for new ones all the time. A lot of shady fuckers have my number locked into their memories.
It's a Chicago area code. That narrows the list to a handful.
I glance at the preview and my hand stops halfway to Harrison's contract.
Never mind the number. I grab the phone instead and flick the message open.
I sit up and blink a few times, forcing my eyes to focus. "This is a first." I reach for my drink and swallow back a mouthful, then read it again.
I'm tired of spending my birthday alone.
I'm tired of pretending I don't want to be touched and taken so hard I forget my name.
I'm tired of being good when being good hasn't gotten me anything except an empty apartment and a cold bed.
I want one unforgettable night where someone makes me feel like I'm worth worshipping.
I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball. That's it. That's my birthday wish.
I read the last line again and my chest tightens. A dull ache spreads through me. I swear it feels like my soul recognizes the loneliness in the message and reaches for their pain.
A longing runs through me.
I read it again. Slower this time so I can digest the weight of every single word.
I'm tired of being good when being good hasn't gotten me anything.
That sentence sinks into my gut and stays.
I set the whiskey down and my grip on the phone tightens enough that my knuckles ache.
I know what that exhaustion tastes like.
I have been good my entire life. Disciplined.
Controlled. The man everyone calls because Massimo will fix it.
Massimo always fixes it. And at the end of the night Massimo goes home alone to expensive whiskey and brutal silence.
This woman just put my loneliness into words I've never had the balls to say out loud.
I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball.
Reality seeps into my thoughts. I don't know who this is. It could be anyone in the world. Do I care? I should delete the message. Wrong number. Some woman meant this for a boyfriend or an ex and I have no business reading it, let alone doing what my hands are about to do.
My fingers are already moving before I've fully made up my mind. I guess I'm letting my heart do the talking tonight. I crave the feel of flesh under my hands and the softness of a woman. Desire settles deep inside me and forces a fire into my veins so strong my hands shake with need.
Tesoro, come to my penthouse. No names. No panties. My rules. Penthouse 106, Redthorne Holdings. Let me make your darkest birthday wishes come true.
Send.
I put the phone face-down and stare at it.
"What the fuck did you just do?"
I push to my feet. The chair scrapes across the wooden floors. I drag both hands through my hair and grip the back of my neck. The empty penthouse doesn't answer. Helpful as always.
I don't do this. I have never done this.
Not in forty years of disciplined existence have I invited a stranger to my home.
And I sure as hell don't throw around the word tesoro.
That word carries weight. It's reserved for something precious, something worth protecting, and I just handed it to a woman whose name I don't even know.
I cross to the windows. Press my palms flat against the cold glass and lean into the chill, letting the bite of it cut through the heat crawling up my neck.
Chicago glitters below, full of people touching each other, laughing, doing all the ordinary human things I negotiate on paper and never get to have.
"Forty years old and acting like a teenager who just slid into a stranger's DMs." I huff a laugh at myself, but the humor doesn't stick.
The truth is, my hands haven't trembled like this in years and the ache behind my ribs feels like it's been waiting for permission to surface with how it’s clawing.
My phone screen lights up and I'm across the room in four strides.
It's not a response, only three pulsing dots dancing on the screen.
She's typing. The dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Writing and erasing. Writing and erasing.
My thumb hovers over the screen. My jaw is locked so tight my molars ache.
The dots cycle through three more rounds and I realize I've stopped breathing.
The dots vanish. Nothing comes.
Yeah, but she doesn't say no, I remind myself.
Something twists in my gut. Nerves. When was the last time I had a woman over? Never. That is what Scarlet Thorn is for. And the last time I took a night off…fuck. I can’t remember that far back.
But this doesn't feel like just a possible roll in the sheets, and someone needs to make that make sense for me. Maybe I’m just too damn horny to see through the fog, but the excitement I feel for a possible one-night stand has me rethinking my life either way.
I set the phone down. Loosen my tie, pull the silk through my collar, the fabric warm and smooth against my fingers, and toss it on the chair.
Unbutton my vest, shrug out of it, drape it over the back of the sofa.
I roll my shirtsleeves to the forearms, fabric bunching above my elbows, the tail of the red viper tattoo visible where it curls to my right wrist. I drag a finger over the old ink.
I've given a lot of myself to the brotherhood behind the symbol.
And it's cost me almost everything I wanted in this life.
And I'd do it again.
But tonight...tonight I wish things were different for just a few hours where I could focus on what I want instead of the needs of all those expecting me to protect them.