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“Dai, Nico. You have a woman I don’t know about?”
“I would not tell you, if I did.”
“True, but the boys will. They always know when you’re fucking someone new.”
Not this time, because no one would suspect that his visits to Verreault’s apartment building were both business and pleasure. The idea of their boss, their leader and family member, liking men was so improbable they would never dream of it. “Except I’m not, so you and the boys can fuck off.”
“Okay, okay. Then we can go to a club tonight.”
“No.”
The word was out of Nico’s mouth swiftly, instantly, before he could even process or prevent it, as if picking up women in a club was an agonizing venture, a torment to be endured. Yet it did feel like torment, if the revulsion creeping through him like battery acid was any indication. Right now, he wanted only one person.
“Why not?” Filippo sounded genuinely confused. “We’ve done this before. Easier on the weekends when the clubs are full.”
This was not a lie and there wasn’t a good reason to refuse. Except for that sensation washing through him, the one that said absolutely not. Because it wasn’t the person his body was craving, the one person he should not be thinking about. He knew this in the logical part of his brain, with the self-preservation that had kept him alive for thirty-three years. So why wasn’t he saying yes? Why was his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth? Why was the metaphorical acid still stripping his skin?
Nico liked women. This was not the problem. The problem was a tall, built hockey player, one who was starved for it, and with the tightest ass Nico had ever felt wrapped around his dick. How could anyone else compare at the moment?
This was unusual for Nico, but nothing to panic over. I will be fine once I have my fill. He would fuck Bennett Verreault as many times as needed to get the man out of his system, then return to women. Maybe another mistress. Something easy, uncomplicated.
Nonno’s voice echoed through Nico’s head. Chi troppo vuole nulla stringe—a saying meaning, He who wants too much ends up with nothing. How many times had Nonno uttered these words during their chess matches? Countless. And Nico knew the advice was about more than chess—it was about life, about business, about greed and excess. This was why Nico had learned to be measured, to think through every possibility before acting rashly.
Except for Verreault, apparently, who triggered such recklessness, such pure selfishness that Nico was temporarily incapable of fucking anyone else. It would be humiliating if Nico wasn’t so confident in this new plan: overindulgence to dull the craving, thereby gaining his freedom.
He cleared his throat and returned to the matter at hand. “I’m focused on business, Po. I don’t have time for fucking random women in clubs.” Out of the corner of his eye, Nico saw Filippo exchange a look with Antonio, who was standing off to the side of the room. A bolt of anger shot through him. “Either of you have something to fucking say?”
“No,” Antonio mumbled, at the same time that Filippo said, “Of course not.”
“Then stop fucking glancing at each other like two old women with nothing better to do than gossip.”
The silence in the small room turned weighted, like so much was being said without being said. It pissed Nico off. Still, he wouldn’t explain himself or apologize. Those were two things a boss never did, a lesson passed down from his father, his grandfather. From generations of men who’d held the title of Don Marzano.
“Just curious,” Filippo said. “Is there anyone new after you cut Heather loose?”
His last mistress, who hadn’t lasted long. Incredibly smart and ambitious, Heather worked for a PR company but their schedules hadn’t lined up, and he got tired of trying to schedule time with her. They parted on good terms, though. None of this lessened his aggravation at his cousin. “You already asked me if I had a new woman and I already answered. Do not make me repeat myself.”
Filippo shrugged as if none of this bothered him. As if annoying Nico had been the point all along. “Antonio, you will go to a club with me tonight, no?”
“Sure, Po,” Antonio answered.
“Va bene. We will have drinks and fun and leave Nico with his right hand and his texts.”
Nico didn’t rise to the bait. He motioned the waiter for more espresso and thought about Monday night and all the dirty things he planned to do to Bennett Verreault.
Practice was brutal.
It was late Saturday morning and though they were flying to Buffalo this afternoon, the team had played like shit against Carolina and needed to get back on track. So they were all at the practice rink early to work on zone entries and power play strategies, the coaches yelling when anyone messed up. A few of the guys appeared hung over and Bennett pretended not to notice.
After they finally finished, all of them dripping with sweat and skating off the ice on wobbly legs, Bennett stripped off his gear and headed to physio to get rubbed down. When he went through the door, he expected to be first in line. Instead, McPherson was already on one of the tables, getting his hip stretched out. “You hurt?” Bennett asked as he laid down on the table directly beside the rookie.
“Just a tweak, nothing serious,” Mac answered. “Old lower back injury from junior year at Boston. It flares up every now and again.”
The physio began working on Bennett’s knee, not even needing to ask what was wrong. They’d been doing this a lot lately. Bennett looked over at Mac. “Don’t try to power through, if it turns out to be more. We need you, kid.”
“I won’t, Cap. I promise.”
No one else wandered in, and he realized this could be a good opportunity to learn more about McPherson, to try to figure out if he was the one who drugged Marzano’s cousin. He had to do this carefully, though. Not only because there were others in the room, but it was hardly something Mac would outright admit. He started by asking easy questions. “I forgot you played at school. Which one, Boston College or Boston University?”
