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Gabriele rolls his eyes in frustration. He never got along with French, because God forbid we have friends outside the famiglia. Even worse, if they have a sense of humor.
My brother looks at me, a smirk on his face. Well, it’s certainly not a newspaper… his stare tells me.
Agreed… I reply with a nod.
“A guy wearing a tuxedo who got shot,” I deadpan. This fuckery is so typical for French. “Open the door or I take the guns home, Mr. Comedian.”
Hoarse male laughter rings out as the steel door opens, and the man himself stands there. He’s tall, with lean muscle. His black hair is slicked back today, and he wears a navy suit. His facial hair is neatly groomed, giving him a suave appearance that has men and women alike lusting after him—which he takes full advantage of. The man is a perfect representative of the city of love he hails from.
“Bonjour, ma cherie.”
“Hello French,” I say as he crushes me in a hug. “Way to let the cat out of the bag about being in The Brigade. That’s something you’d usually tell your friends.”
“We have a need-to-know policy. As soon as we were in need of a supplier, I dropped your family’s name quicker than I’d drop my pants for Candy at Vixen.” French laughs. He cuts his razor sharp gaze to Maximo. “How is she, by the way?”
As quickly as his jaw tightens, it loosens. His nostrils flare. “Don’t know. You’d have to ask John Carlo. He manages the girls and gambling.”
Seems like there’d be a lot of information there if I choose to read between those lines. I’ll have to ask about Candy later. I’m not sure when my brother would even have time to spend with any woman, let alone a stripper. But men are dumb, even the nerdy ones. I would never presume to think my brother is above getting snatched by a snatch.
“Let’s hope you two twinny fucks hit it off with Fox so we can get a good alliance going. Scratch each other’s backs,” he says as he tickles between my shoulder blades.
Gabriele squares up, ready to forcibly remove French’s hand from me, but I wave him back. Most men would get their fingers cut off for touching me like that. If I was feeling extra ragey, their ball sack, too. But French is a friend, and I know he’s not being disrespectful.
He walks us into the giant industrial-style warehouse. It’s a wide open space, with at least two dozen people milling about. The far end seems to be a storage space with dozens of stacked wooden crates, whereas the area closest to us is more of a training zone. Knives, staffs, and other combat weapons line the wall. Two young men are sparring on a mat, and another man stands off to the side, coaching them. He’s tall and broad, maybe in his late thirties or early forties. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s stacked with muscles under his suit jacket. He meets my gaze, smiling at me before turning his attention back to the fight.
“Welcome to the Haul,” French announces, with his arms wide open.
He waves to the gentleman near the mat. As he comes closer, I can appreciate the quality of his charcoal suit. It’s made of luxurious materials that are tailored to fit his body like a glove. He has a clean, classic style, not the gaudy, flashy style that a lot of mafiosos wear these days.
His face is ruggedly handsome—high cheekbones, full lips, and a slightly crooked nose that was once straight. The scar running through his left eyebrow gives him a dangerous air. His wavy brown hair is longer on the top, with an artfully tousled look, like he just got out of bed.
The man’s gray, wolf-like eyes focus on me again, and something about them isn’t quite right. Where some men have a glint, maybe a spark, he has an inferno. They’re borderline unhinged. It’s beyond intense to have such attention on me.
“This is Garrix Cameron, second in command of The Brigade. You’ll coordinate the shipments with him,” French introduces him. “Garrix, this is Maddelena and Maximo Vettore, representatives of Don Alessandro Vettore of Nuova Notte.”
Garrix shakes my brother’s hand first, nodding at him. Then he moves onto me. He holds my hand a beat longer, and it feels… incendiary. He’s hot to the touch, and his heat seeps through my digits and palm in a deep, visceral way I did not expect. His blazing gaze magnifies a hundredfold, making me feel as if I’m pinned in place. It’s equal parts erotic and off-putting.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice.
It sounds like pure sex. This man needs to start voice narrating audiobooks, because I’d cream my panties listening to him recite something as boring as the phonebook. If he was a commentator on the news, more people would actually give a shit about what’s going on in the world.
“Thank you,” I reply evenly. He smiles at me, revealing two perfect dimples. His incisor teeth have a slight point, adding to his savage charm.
Despite how handsome he is, I learned a long time ago that men in the life never take women seriously, especially the few that are entrenched in it like I am. They think women are either trophies to be won or conquests to be forgotten.
What they don’t realize is I’m neither option. I’m the winner, the conqueror. I’ll never let a man distract me. I worked way too hard to get to where I am now.
“Let’s go see Fox and demo those beauties you brought us,” French exclaims. “I do love weapons.”
He leads us to another, smaller room. I feel Garrix’s eyes searing into the back of my head with every step I take.
“There may be a thank you gift for you in one of those crates, French,” I comment.
That piques his interest. His smile beams with an almost child-like sense of wonder.
“You got me a gift? This is why you’re my favorite mademoiselle, always thinking of me,” he flirts.
Garrix clears his throat, shooting French an admonishing glare.
