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“Your advice might work with other men but not with my marriage and the little demon you handed over to me.”
He cracks a smile. “And how is the club running?”
My father and I co-own Seven Seconds. I came to him with the proposal. I’d run the club, and he’d put up the funds to start it. He remains behind the scenes—how he likes it—and I handle everything on-site. The club is easy to launder money through, and we pay our men through the company, making them appear as tax-paying, law-abiding citizens.
I allowed him to choose the name, and he went with Seven Seconds. Only a few people know the meaning behind it. Seven Seconds is my father’s favorite game. He came up with it when he became bored with torturing and killing men. So, before he takes their last breath, he allows them to run.
They get seven seconds to dodge his bullet.
He’s never lost a round.
It’s pretty morbid, naming the club after a murderous game.
I learned everything I know about business and life from my father. He’s ruthless but a good man to his family. Since my grandfather passed, he has dedicated his life to this family and our businesses.
My father was only in his midtwenties when the weight of controlling the city, companies, and our enemies fell onto his shoulders.
Cristian Marchetti will go down as one of the most successful crime bosses in history. He’s ruled the family and lived a life of crime for decades without being charged with a single felony.
The same goes for me. I have plenty of arrests under my belt, but no charges. Much of that is thanks to my aunt Celine’s husband, Santos. Santos is one of the top defense attorneys on the East Coast and handles all our legal problems.
A knock on the door interrupts our conversation.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door swings open, and Raul steps inside the office.
“We have a problem.” His gaze lands on me. “Well,youmight have a problem.”
I rise from my chair. “If I have a problem, we all have a problem.”
“Then, you’ll probably want to see this.”
He waves us forward, and we follow him down the hallway to the security room. Everyone turns in their chair, all eyes on us when we enter. The monitors show how packed the club is. Night after night—whether it’s in the middle of the week or on holidays—patrons fill the club.
It’s New York’s hotspot.
I worked my ass off to earn that title.
Raul points at the middle monitor. “I think she belongs to you, boss.”
I step in closer, squinting as I stare at the screen, and Diesel, one of our security men, hits a button to zoom in.
Motherfucker.
Sure enough, my pain-in-the-ass wife is enjoying a drink with Bria in the bar. She laughs at something Bria said while sucking on the straw inside her glass.
I see red as anger sears through me.
“Beat the shit out of the bouncer,” I snarl to Raul. “Then, fire his ass and make sure he never gets another job in this city.”
Raul gives me a thumbs-up, and his face brightens, as if I’d informed him of a raise. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m still waiting for theit gets betterpart,” I tell my father, brushing past him on my way out of the room.
“I was attempting to lighten your mood,” he says before checking his Rolex. “I have a wife to get home to. You need to go collect yours.”
We turn in opposite directions.
