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I keep wondering when the hell Dante Salvato will finally grow a pair and tell me the truth about his missing daughter. An alliance with him could be even more important now that he’s taken over all the businesses of the dead Russian, Petrov. He’s twice as powerful and rich as he was when we first talked about me marrying his oldest daughter.
His oldest daughter of three.
That means there are two other girls who could potentially take her place, solving my problem of avoiding a gold-digger. Salvato is a hell of a lot richer than I am, so his offspring won’t be after my money when they stand to inherit part of his.
The only question is whether or not the other two daughters are of legal age yet.
Rather than put this kind of request in writing, I call up Owen, my cousin, best friend, and second-in-command. He answers even though it’s three a.m.
“Yeah, boss?”
“I need you to find me someone in Salvato’s household staff that will cough up intel for cash.”
“Alright. Like what kind of intel?”
“I want details on his daughters. Photos. Schedules. Hobbies. Social lives. Anything and everything they can give me, and I want it within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Loch, man, that doesn’t give me much time to work with here. You know most of the staff will be too scared to give up anything about Salvato’s kids.”
“Get it done. There has to be someone who sees those girls every day. Even if Salvato has them locked in their rooms, I bet he pays someone to clean them. Find a housekeeper and pay them whatever it takes to get me details.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he agrees with a sigh. “But why exactly—”
I cut him off. “I’ll tell you when you need to know.” He may be my best friend, but I don’t answer to anyone or owe him any explanations.
Besides, I don’t want to say it, to get my hopes up, if the girls are still children. Or too ugly to fuck, even with a bag on their head.
If I have to be stuck with a woman for the rest of my life, then they need to be fucking hot. I don’t exactly have a type. All I need is a pretty face with a nice rack and enough ass for me to grab. The bigger the ass, the better it jiggles when I slap it.
Which leads me to a potential problem with an arranged marriage—if Dante Salvato finds out I only fuck women if they’re restrained and completely at my mercy, there’s no way in hell he’ll give me one of his daughters.
2
Lochlan
Five months later…
Lately, I’ve been turning down all social invitations and staying home, even on weekends, to try and improve my public image in the community as Warwick suggested. He’s not the only reason, though. There’s so much on the line right now that it’s impossible to party it up and pretend like nothing’s wrong.
I go to work, deal with the required bullshit, then come home to the sprawling family estate.
Not that we were ever a family.
My father claimed my mother only cared about his money, so he wanted nothing to do with her after I was born. She left the state before I started school. I don’t see her more than once every three or four years, whenever she needs something.
Flynn and I may only be five years apart, but our father didn’t find out he had another bastard until he was fifteen and I was twenty. We didn’t grow up together and never really got along. I was too busy trying to be the perfect son while he did everything under the sun to piss the old man off in an attempt to gain a minute of his undivided attention.
His ploy worked for the first year or so, until our father decided to throw him out on his ass. Since his mother was even less maternal than mine, I was the one who paid for his apartment and gave him spending money that he blew on drugs. He never had to spend a penny on women since he’s a Dunne and could visit any brothel he wanted. And since he always had drugs, the ladies love him.
Since our father died and left me everything, I’ve tried to make up for our old man’s favoritism by giving Flynn whatever money and shit he wanted. After all, there was plenty of it to go around. I haven’t told him much about the upcoming trial yet, or that the well may be drying up soon. I keep hoping he’ll straighten up, stop fucking off, but lately he keeps doing shit to land his ass in a jail cell.
I’m the one he calls whenever he’s in trouble, which is why I’m not surprised to see a younger, slimmer version of myself strolling up beside the pool in baggy jeans and an oversized rock tee. The drug use has always made him thinner, sickly looking, which is why he wears loose clothing. I’ve paid for ninety-days of rehab twice, which obviously didn’t take.
I finish out my lap before acknowledging him. The physical activity has been good for burning off nervous energy lately, even if I sometimes push myself so hard for so long I can barely pull myself out of the pool at the end of the night.
“What have you done now?” I mutter. After wiping the water from my face, I clutch the side of the wall, waiting to hear about his latest disaster and how it’s someone else’s fault.
“Nothing,” he grumbles, coming to a stop above me.
