While scrubbing at the scruffy beard I haven’t trimmed in almost a week, I recall the reason for the extra heat in my veins. It has nothing to do with a hotheaded Russian and everything to do with a mixed-bred American who pushes my buttons like no one else.
Roxanne hasn’t eaten in days. If she doesn’t soon, there won’t be anything left of her. Usually, I don’t give a fuck about anyone but Fien and myself. This, however, is rubbing me the wrong way. Roxanne is tiny. Her body isn’t built to withstand a weeklong hunger strike. She’s already looking sick, and it has me taking drastic measures—measures I usually wouldn’t hesitate to use.
“Threaten her.”
Rocco’s eyes snap to the camera before he shakes his head. He wouldn’t be standing outside Roxanne’s room unattended if I weren’t desperate, so I don’t know why he’s acting surprised by my request.
“Do you want her to eat?”
He makes a ‘duh’ face before rolling his eyes like he isn’t tatted to the hilt.
“Then threaten her.”
“I’m not fucking threatening her, D. That shit is above my paygrade.” I’m about to remind him exactly how well-off he is because of me. Sadly, I don’t just recall he doesn’t give a fuck about money, he reminds me that he isn’t here solely for his hip pocket. “If you want to hold a woman captivelike your daughter, you gonna need to do that shit yourself.”
Stealing my chance to reply, he tosses Roxanne’s breakfast into the camera before hot-footing it down the corridor. I could let his temper tantrum slide, but as I said earlier, I’ve got too much anger bubbling in my veins. If I don’t release some of it soon, I’m going to explode.
“Smith…”
His instant reply reveals he witnessed the exchange between Rocco and me. “You know he wouldn’t be so hard on you if you told him the truth.”
I scoff like I don’t have a dick between my legs. “If you believe that, you don’t know Rocco.”
Air whizzes out of his nose, but he fails to cite an objection, proving I’m right. Rocco might back down for a second or two, but the instant his head is screwed back on straight, he’d be right back up in my face causing trouble like he always does.
With that in mind, I say to Smith, “I need you to send Clover on an errand for me…”
My words trail off when a disturbance in the main part of the restaurant captures my attention. Considering we’re still a few hours from the lunch rush, I’m shocked when it sounds like someone getting into a scuffle. The clientele get feisty when someone takes the last dish of risotto, but it’s never had this edge of excitement attached to it before.
“I’ll send you the deets. Make it quick. This is a matter of utmost importance.” Smith gasps like he’s insulted I insinuated he’d ever slack off, but before he can voice his annoyance, I add, “Buzz me when Clover is ready. I want to be in charge of comms.”
He hums out an agreeing noise before disconnecting our feed. Just as quickly, I punch out the details on the errand I want Clover to run.
I’ve only just hit send on my email app when the raised voice of one of my father’s goons booms into my ears, “I’m his exterminator.”
I make it to the entrance of the kitchen in just enough time to see a fool make a costly mistake. Brandon James, one of Tobias’s highest-ranked foot soldiers, mutters out a string of unintelligible words before he jabs the edge of his palm into Don’s throat.
His maneuverer is effective, but it would have been more impressive if he disarmed Don’s sidekick first. He’s up in Brandon’s business in an instant, aiming his gun at the crease between his blond brows as if Brandon doesn’t have a direct kill lined up.
With my mitts needing to remain off Roxanne, and my every move monitored by my father, my wish to kill is the strongest it’s been. I should step back and watch the carnage unfold with a smile. Regrettably, I owe Tobias a heap of favors he can never cash in, so it sees me offering leniency—just.
“Standdown.” Disappointment echoes in my low tone. I don’t know Brandon, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate him. He and his gun-toting law enforcement friends are what’s wrong with society these days. Rules make everything worse—starting at my inability to kill my father because that pathetic, insolent man is the rule-maker of my realm.
When my direct order is ignored, I get inventive. “Should I remind you what happened to the last man who ignored me? Or would you like me to show you, instead?”
Since my threat was delivered in Italian, Brandon does nothing but smile when my father’s goons immediately lower their guns. After assisting a third passed-out man off the floor, they race for the safety of the parking lot.
While watching their dash for freedom, Brandon unclips the magazine from the gun he yanked out of the back of Don’s pants, unloads the bullets onto the floor, places the disarmed weapon onto the hostess’s podium, then wipes it clean. Although I’m impressed he’s distrusting enough to remove his fingerprints from a gun the Feds would love to get their hands on, the brainless blonde manning the hostess section of the restaurant reveals why blondes are given so much shit.
She stares at the gun Brandon placed down, too feared to touch it, yet somehow turned on by the thought. Her mixed emotions have my thoughts immediately shifting to Roxanne. I want to say it’s a good shift, but like anything the past few days, I couldn’t be so lucky.
“Go!” My shouted word scarcely reaches the other side of the restaurant when the blonde sprints for the exit even quicker than her big, burly counterparts.
Once she’s out of eyesight, I drift my eyes to Brandon. He looks smug. Shows how fucking stupid he is. “You’re an idiot showing up like this unannounced. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“By whom?” He follows me into the kitchen, his strut way too haughty for my liking. I discover the reason behind his peacock walk when he jabs me with a below-the-belt hit. “By you? Or the man you’re sheltering after sending every one of your siblings to their deaths?”
Fighting the urge not to slit his throat with the ladle in my hand, I spoon a helping of Malloreddus into the bowl on my left before gesturing with my head for him to sit in the chair across from me. Although my father has returned from New York, I’m not worried about him walking in on our conversation. He uses the Feds to his advantage—just like me.
