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Marzano ran long fingers over his jaw, and he was standing close enough that Bennett could hear the rasp of rough whiskers across skin in the quiet gym. The sound sent a surge of heat into Bennett’s gut, an automatic response he couldn’t control, not even here, in the worst possible place he could feel it.
“Mr. Verreault.” The words pulled Bennett back from dangerous thoughts, thank Christ. Marzano was saying, “I will learn the name of the man responsible. If you are unable to provide it, there are others on your team who will, no? I have a list, have seen them tonight, and I will interrogate every last one of them, if necessary. I will start with your assistant captains, maybe.”
Bennett didn’t want any of his players “interrogated” by Marzano. At least Bennett didn’t have any family to miss him, if something truly bad were to go down. “Leave my players alone.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. And if you won’t help me, then you will regret it.”
“You don’t need to threaten me. I want this guy caught. It’s terrible what he’s doing and he isn’t the kind of player we want on our team.”
“This sounds like a very media-friendly answer, like maybe one you have rehearsed.”
It was hardly his fault—Bennett’s media training started in U-13 when he was twelve—but that wasn’t the case here. Anger flared, then exploded in an outburst of words. “Fuck off! I haven’t rehearsed shit and you’re really pissing me off!”
The two of them locked eyes, neither one looking away, and Bennett could feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, a drumbeat that had nothing to do with tonight’s game or the bike or the people lurking nearby. Not even the secret he was carrying. No, the reaction was because of the man currently staring at him intensely, as if peeling away Bennett’s layers, stripping away his skin to expose the raw parts underneath, the vulnerable pieces he never let anyone see.
Panic, cold and disorienting, slid through Bennett’s veins and his hands trembled on the handlebars. It was fear for his safety, yes, but also fear for his sanity. How was this man able to pierce Bennett’s armor with nothing more than a knowing look?
Deflect. Protect. Retreat.
Bennett did the only thing he could think of at that moment. He climbed off the bike and tried to keep his voice even, saying, “Don’t ever come here again.” He didn’t wait for permission before starting for the door. This was his team, his locker room. His fucking arena. Marzano had no right to be here.
“A name, Verreault,” Marzano said behind him. “Tomorrow night.”
Or else.
The words weren’t said out loud, but Bennett could hear them ringing off the walls. He ignored them, like he ignored everything else in his life that didn’t quite fit.
Nico shoved through the exit door and the cool spring air washed over him, filling his lungs with much-needed clarity. Tonight had been a series of firsts, not all of them intentional. First hockey game. First visit to the Reign arena. First time seeing Bennett Verreault attack the ice, then seeing him attack a stationary bike with the same focus. Nico understood that focus, the ability to block out everything to concentrate on one task, one job. A body was nothing more than a weapon or a tool. And Verreault wielded it with impressive precision.
Sweat and muscles weren’t usually Nico’s thing when he indulged in the rare male partner. The last one had been a waiter in Ibiza two years ago, and Nico hadn’t shared his real name or anything that might trace back to him. They had fucked in the waiter’s apartment, the young man eager to bottom, which was all Nico cared about anyway. It had scratched an itch, nothing more, then Nico promptly forgot the waiter’s name.
But Verreault was already an itch, though Nico couldn’t say why. Mozzafiato. That feeling again. It happened every time Nico saw Verreault, which hadn’t been many, but still more times than Nico liked. He couldn’t allow distractions, not now.
Not ever.
You are the family; the family is you.
His father had drilled this into Nico’s head from birth. Family included power and money, all intertwined. His responsibilities were toward the ’Ndrangheta, his people, and nothing else—an obligation he’d been living with since he took over as don at twenty-two. Eleven years he’d been doing this. More than a decade of sacrifice, blood and sweat, sleepless nights, all while expanding the kingdom. And Nico would not fail, even if it meant hiding pieces of himself.
The night was early, with many tasks ahead. He texted his guards with his location, then scrolled through email while he waited for them. Contracts, offers, ideas on how to increase his market share here . . . both legitimate and illegitimate. He was typing out answers as the car turned the corner, and he quickly opened the door and slid into the backseat. His cousins, who were also his guards, were in the front seat.
“Any problems?” Antonio asked from the passenger seat.
“None. Take me to the warehouse in Milton.”
“But Filippo said—”
“I know what Filippo said. He will wait.” Filippo had reluctantly left the arena during the third period to deal with an issue. But a visit to Milton was far more important, in Nico’s opinion.
The family owned thirty-seven warehouses in the greater Toronto area, all under shell corporations. Some were used for guns and drugs, some held untaxed goods like alcohol and cigarettes, or imports that conveniently skipped through customs. Some stored boosted cars waiting to be stripped, others contained counterfeit merchandise. One, in Milton, housed computer experts. They ran fraud schemes, and hacked into websites to steal credit card information, identities, and other confidential data—all manner of things Nico needed. Including tracking people through CCTV feeds.
And earlier they texted they might have something from the night of Sofia’s attack.
There was light traffic at this time of night, so the ride from South Core to Milton took forty minutes. Nico was used to working in the car, as he was driven to various appointments and meetings around the clock. When they stopped, he got out with Antonio. The two of them went to the entrance, where Nico punched in the security code and walked inside. The smell of greasy French fries hung in the air and Eastern European rap blared from somewhere. Nico didn’t know the language variations well enough to pinpoint a country, but he could tell the music was terrible.
He headed to the main part of the building, a cavernous room where desks and monitors formed a small village. Tall servers and extra computers were stationed on the perimeter, sentries in a digital war for information. Sergei came over immediately. He was the boss of the forty or so employees here and the person Nico dealt with the most. “Mr. Marzano,” he greeted, his voice lightly accented with the Ukrainian of his youth.
“Sergei.” Nico shook his hand. “Nice to see you. You are well? Maria and the kids?”
