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Fifteen

ANTONIO

Never in my twenty-five years of existence have I woken up in a pool of my own cum, and I would have preferred to go another twenty-five without experiencing the humiliation of it.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling with my jaw clenched, the sheets damp and sticking uncomfortably to my skin. I push them aside with a scowl before sitting up and running a hand through my hair as I remember the exact fucking dream responsible for it.

I was back at The Bloodrot, and my little stripper was onstage for his audition, only after he was done dancing, I didn't let him escape to the back room. I cleared the room and bent him over a table. It's the first time I've had such a vivid dream about fucking someone.

Most of the men I've fucked in the past were ones I hunted, men who caught my attention for a night and ceased to interest me the moment I was finished with them. None of them were remarkable enough for me to bother remembering their names or what they looked like. That's how sex should be, a means to an end that requires no emotional investment and leaves me free to go about my business without giving the other person a second thought.

But then I saw Alexander’s gaping hole yesterday during his punishment, looking inviting and shit, and my body got out of control. I came in my pants like some fucking green boy with no experience, without even having the excuse of being drunk.

I get out of bed and strip off the soiled sheets, dropping them on the floor for the housekeeper to collect before picking up my phone from the nightstand. After sending Davide a brief message instructing him to take Alexander home, I head into the bathroom, leaving the phone on the marble counter while I run a bath.

I finish soaking and step out of the tub. My phone begins ringing just as I'm drying myself, so I wrap the towel around my waist and pick up the call before it can go to voicemail.

“Dad,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear as I step out of the bathroom.

“Antonio, what is this I’m hearing about you buying a club?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. While Father has never been the type to micromanage my affairs, he’s occasionally interested in some of the decisions I make. It doesn't matter that he's spent years preparing me to take over the Scalera empire or that I've already proven myself capable of handling our businesses. If he believes I've made a stupid investment, he expects me to explain, down to the smallest detail, exactly how it benefits the family and why the money couldn't have been put to better use elsewhere.

“It’s actually smart for us to have the club now that the Falcos can make a move anytime.”

I move into my bedroom and open the closet, taking out a fresh pair of trousers while I wait for his response. Father remains silent for almost a minute before speaking again.

“I guess so. Do you and your cousins have a plan in case they do make a move?”

“We discussed it yesterday. We are going to put surveillance measures in place and cut them down if they try anything.”

“That’s proactive,” Dad says, and I can hear the pride in his voice. “It’s good that you and your cousins can work together.”

What he isn't saying is that he fucking loves it, because if there's one thing Father has always valued above everything else, it's the loyalty that exists between members of our family.

He and his siblings have maintained a close relationship for as long as I can remember, and despite the nature of our business and the occasional disagreements that come with running an organization of this size, they've never allowed their differences to divide them. They made a conscious effort to raise my cousins and me with that same understanding, ensuring that we grew up together, trained together, and learned early on that the family would always come before our individual interests.

“We are only trying to retire you old goons early.”

He laughs. “I’m calling because Romero and Liam have to go. Now that I think of it, maybe your club can come in handy since work is ongoing at the warehouse.”

The warehouse is an abandoned property in Red Hook, sitting on a desolate, fenced-off stretch of land that juts into the water. The building itself is an ugly concrete structure with rusted metal doors, boarded-up windows, and enough years of neglect to make it uninviting to anyone who doesn't have a reason to be there.

We've owned the property for years, and while it might not look like much from the outside, it serves an important purpose in the family business.

It's where we take employees who develop the habit of putting their hands where they don't belong, along with anyone else who needs to be taught a lesson in why crossing the Scaleras is a terrible idea. The proximity to the water makes disposing of bodies easier, and the isolated location means we can conduct our business without attracting unnecessary attention. Unfortunately, part of the structure collapsed a few weeks ago, leaving one entire side of the building unusable and forcing us to begin extensive repairs..

I finish buttoning my trousers and remove a shirt from its hanger. “What did they do?”

“They’ve been diverting some packages and writing them off as missing, which we’d have to refund or replace. Ezra just found out after checking the books for the upcoming audit,” he explains.

I pause with my shirt in my hands, my expression hardening as I consider the implications. Diverting packages is one thing, but deliberately falsifying records to make the missing shipments look like an ordinary business loss requires a level of planning that tells me this isn't something they decided to do on a whim.

Ezra is our senior accountant and one of the few people Father trusts implicitly when it comes to the family's finances. He's been with us for years, and there isn't a single dollar moving through our legitimate businesses that he doesn't know about, which is precisely why Father insists on having him personally review the books whenever an audit is approaching.

We have connections throughout the country to ensure that an audit rarely amounts to anything more than a formality, but Father has always been particular about maintaining the appearance of a respectable businessman. He enjoys pretending that he follows the law, and as far as he's concerned, having accurate financial records is part of maintaining that illusion.

Personally, I think it's a little ridiculous that we spend so much time making sure our paperwork is in order when half the people reviewing it are already on our payroll.