“I’m not asking for an official UFC fight. All I want is for Jacob to have the chance to rectify an injustice in a fair manner.” I push away the images of Lola until a photograph of the last time Jacob fought the Constrictor, Lola’s ex-boyfriend’s older brother, pops up. “This fight was rigged. The one you organize won’t be.”
Henry is more like his father than he cares to admit. He’s fair, unbiased, and knows not always does justice prevail without the slightest bend of the rules. He just doesn’t have an army of men ready to wage a war on his behalf. He only has himself.
After several long seconds of deliberation, Henry mutters, “If we do this, it will take time, money, and a heap of ass-kissing I have no intention to pucker up for.” When I nod without pause for thought, he reiterates certain aspects of his reply. “I said ‘we,’ Isaac. As in us. Here. Now. This very minute.” His lips furl into a shit-eating grin at the exact moment the entirety of his statement smacks into me. “So, it’s time to pick your poison, doll-face. Fix an injustice or head out for anotherhandsywater sport activity with a sexy brunette who has you acting more your age instead of my father’s.”
While hitting him with a rueful glare, wordlessly announcing I do not appreciate his tone, I use the intercom to request for Ruel to bring me a change of clothes.
“Right away, sir,” Ruel answers, forever on the ball when it comes to ensuring his guests are comfortable. “Is there something else you need?” he inquiries when I fail to latch the hook back onto the receiver. “The guest sharing my room—”
“Isabelle,” he interrupts.
I murmur in agreement. “I’m going to be held up with a business matter for the next couple of hours, so please ensure she doesn’t wait for me before eating.”
“Very well, sir. I will do that.”
“Also,” I snap out before he disconnects our connection. I wet my lips, spin away from Henry, then mutter, “If Colby happens to accompany Isabelle for lunch, send someone to fetch me from the private library in the west wing.”
“Colby?” Ruel asks, acting daft. Even whenMummo Kotiis at full capacity, he knows every guest by name—most particularly ones with Attwood/McGregor lineage.
“McGregor. If ColbyMcGregoris seen with Isabelle, I want to be immediately informed.”
“Very well, sir,” he repeats, his tone more indulged. “I will be sure to do that.”
After thanking him with a grunted huff, I return the hook to its receiver before spinning around to face Henry. “Think very wisely before you speak, Henry,” I warn upon spotting his chortling expression. Isabelle’s intoxicating scent is still lingering in the air, and my cock is aching. Now is not the time for him to mess with me.
“My lips are sealed,” Henry promises while backing away with his hands held in the air. “Although I should probably tell you your shorts aren’t.”
With the grin of a man not in fear for his life, he drops his eyes to the crotch of my shorts—my almost exposed crotch since the thread holding the Velcro material together finally relented to the pressure of my cock pressing up against it.
26
“Keep her close,” I request to the valet while tossing him the key to my sportscar.
Henry and I spent the last several hours seeking a loophole in the stringent UFC rule book for Jacob. Our plan for a charity match isn’t ideal, but unless the Constrictor’s team announces an objection, it is well within a fighter’s right to compete under the guise of a fundraiser.
When I enter a restaurant I’ve owned for the past six years, I drift my eyes to the swinging kitchen door. My patrons have no clue mafia royalty scrubs their dishes clean each night. Not even Roberto Petretti’s father is aware he’s hiding in plain sight.
When people hear the Petretti name, they think of tall, brutish men with large shoulders and murderous sneers. Roberto has the murderous sneer down pat, but the padding he wears under his uniform each night and the hair he clips every morning rarely award his mafia royalty a second glance. When viewed from afar, he appears to be an everyday man who’s down on his luck. It’s only when you look deep into his eyes do you realize he’s also void of a soul.
Roberto’s only saving grace five years ago was the discovery that he pled guilty when he blew three times over the legal limit the morning Marjorie Marshall-Hawke, Hugo’s baby sister, was struck down by his motor vehicle. Even with evidence later emerging that Marjorie stepped into oncoming traffic without first checking her surroundings, Roberto had planned to face the consequences of his actions head-on.
Marjorie and her unborn baby died shortly after the incident. No amount of remorse could wipe the image from Roberto’s head, and despite his father’s numerous dictations that the Petrettis were untouchable, Roberto knew otherwise. It’s unfortunate the DA prosecuting his case was as unethical as he was immoral. Marjorie and her unborn child’s family weren’t in his thoughts when he bartered with the judge for a previously unheard-of plea. Dollar signs were. His dishonest practices left Hugo no choice but to take matters into his own hands. I have no hesitation in saying if I hadn’t interrupted Hugo the night he kidnapped Roberto, he would have killed him. His father raised him as my father had me. We protect our own.
I thought I was protecting Hugo the night I stopped him from making a mistake he couldn’t take back. I had no inkling I was also protecting a legacy Ophelia was once a part of. She wasn’t perfect, but considering the environment she was raised in, she far exceeded the expectations placed on her as will Roberto.
I’m not saying what he did wasn’t wrong. If he hadn’t been drunk, perhaps he could have decelerated in enough time to avoid colliding with Marjorie. I merely understand what it feels like to make a mistake you can’t take back. That’s what happened the morning Marjorie lost her life. Roberto made a mistake, and he’s been fighting to rectify his lapse in judgment ever since. He donates most of the money he earns as a dishwasher to charities for victims of crime, he volunteers at the outreach program his father once recruited from, and he’s not touched a drop of alcohol since I lodged two bullets into the wall behind his skull instead of through it. He could do more, but since he’d need to uncloak himself for that, I haven’t given him permission to do that just yet.
Although I can’t hide him forever, nothing will change until the man who forced him into his miserably bleak existence is either dead or conceding his reign. Since Col would rather run his family’s name to the ground than hand the reins to one of his three sons, that will be years away. I can only hope it won’t extend to decades.
My thought process shifts from the negative to the positive when I spot Isabelle, Cormack, and Harlow at the table Cormack and I frequented into our college days. They don’t notice my approach since Cormack and Harlow are necking like teenagers, and Isabelle is conversing with a waitress Roberto vouched for three months ago. She’s a native Italian with a flair for the arts.
“E per il vostro corso principale?” the waitress questions Isabelle, unaware her dark hair has nothing to do with her ethnicity.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” Isabelle replies, her voice low like she’s embarrassed.
“She’s asking what you’d like to order for your main course.” The hairs on Isabelle’s arms stand at attention when I slot into the seat next to her. Her body’s inability to act nonchalant to my closeness sees me leaning in to press a kiss on her cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” I apologize while pulling back to take in the flutter of her pulse in her neck. “I had some business I had to take care of.” I glance at the black and gold embossed menu in her hand before asking, “Do you know what you want?”
Her body responds exactly as hoped when I drag my index finger down her arm, wordlessly announcing what I plan to have for dessert. Henry’s interruption today merely forced an intermission in our exchange. It didn’t entirely upend our plans.
