Page 111 of Corrado

His walk slowed until he came to a stop altogether. People blew by him on the sidewalk, but Alessio simply stared up at the cloudy July sky. In Nevada, the heat would be dry, which he liked. Here, it was fucking humid.

Which he hated.

And still, here he was looking for answers because he couldn’t not seek them out. When it came to Corrado, Alessio didn’t know how to leave things alone, but especially not when something just felt off.

This favor?

Andino Marcello?

Yeah.

It all felt off to Alessio. Like something was going on, or whatever was happening might bring Corrado a world of trouble, and Alessio wouldn’t even be able to help him because he didn’t know what it was. For two weeks, he’d practically crawled out of his skin with the feeling that something was up here, and it was going to end badly.

So, here he was.

In New York.

Alessio was going to get those fucking answers one way or the other. He knew where to go, and how to go about doing it, too. If Corrado couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell him, then he would go to another source to get the details.

Simple as that.

Because God.

What in the fuck would Alessio do without Corrado? That, more than anything else, was what had been keeping him awake these past two weeks. He didn’t like not knowing things, but especially when it meant something could be wrong.

Add Corrado into that mix?

People were begging to feel pain.

Alessio didn’t fuck around.

“Les—”

“I just have business to handle,” he said, stopping Dare before the man could ask more. “That’s it, and that’s all.”

“Business dealing with him, no?”

“Even if it is, that’s for me to take care of.”

Dare sighed. “I wish you would learn the difference between something healthy and something that … turns you into someone you don’t recognize when you look into the mirror at the reflection staring back, Alessio.”

Funny.

“I don’t even remember who I was before him.”

“I can tell.”

Alessio smirked, though Dare couldn’t see it. “And I’m fine with that.”

If it were possible for the ground to combust simply from Alessio glaring at it, then the pavement would be ashes under his feet currently. No doubt, it was his mood and current surly expression that allowed him a wide berth of space on the New York sidewalk as he headed down the busy block. People avoided him, parting the crowd for him to walk straight through.

He wasn’t going to complain.

This city was not Vegas. Of that, he was most sure. Even in the bright light of day, New York still had a dreary, dark quality to it. Now, that would typically be Alessio’s style. He liked all things moody and black—it reflected himself, after all.

Not when he was in this mood, though.

Alessio came to a stop in front of a Brooklyn restaurant. The gold lettering on the windows spelling out the name, and the satin curtains pulled back to expose the lavish décor let him know he was not dressed appropriately for the place in his black jeans, combat boots, and leather jacket.