AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Joey's gaze snapped towards him—and when he saw who had called him, the anger in his expression was wiped away by surprise. "Marco!"
"Nice shiner, kid."
Joey's mouth tugged to the side in a rueful way. "Turns out that I fight about as well as I dance." But as soon as his sense of humor had come, he shoved it away again. "That asshole's mistreating the girls."
Marco stepped forward, putting himself between Joey and the thug, his imposing frame acting as both a barrier and a challenge. "All of you, get out," he said, clear and simple.
"Or what?" the thug sneered, though Marco could see the uncertainty flicker in his eyes as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Behind him, his friends looked at each other.
"Trust me, you don't want to find out," Marco replied, his voice dripping with menace and authority.
The group hesitated for a moment, each man clearly weighing his options. Finally, with a snarl of frustration, the ringleader backed away. "This place is a shithole, anyway," he sneered, shooting one last glare at Marco and Joey before shoving his way out of the club. With pointed glares and mutters, the rest of his wannabe crew skulked after him, making themselves scarce.
Someone cheered, loud and clearly very, very drunk. Slowly, the tension in the room dissipated, but the connection between Marco and Joey remained as potent as ever.
Joey's dark eyes, glistening with unshed tears of gratitude and frustration, met Marco's intense gaze. He swallowed hard, clearly struggling to find the right words to express himself. "Thanks," he whispered finally, his voice barely audible over the pulsating beat of the music that filled the club. "I... I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't stepped in."
"Got the crap beaten out of you—again?"
Joey snorted. "Yeah, probably."
Marco held Joey's face delicately in his hands, his fingers skimming over the tender bruise beneath Joey's eye. He couldn't help but feel a surge of protectiveness welling up within him, fueled by a potent mix of anger and tenderness.
How dare anyone lay a hand on what belonged to him?
His thumbs traced the contours of Joey's cheek, the rough pad of his thumb brushing gently over the discolored skin. In that fleeting moment, as their eyes locked, Joey's gaze shimmered with a whirl of emotions. He was trying to put on a tough front, but exhaustion stopped him from pulling it off. And beneath it all, there was something else: something deep and longing.
Reluctantly, Joey pulled away from Marco's touch, conflict shadowing his features. He took a step back. "I... I have to go tend to the bar," he murmured, his words tinged with a hint of disappointment.
Marco's gaze fixated on Joey, a hunger burning in his eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of Joey slipping away, even for a moment.
Keep him close. He's yours.
But he wasn't. Not really. Joey's life belonged to the Toscanos. He was just a pawn in their game, one of the many sources of income that fed their empire.
Marco let him go.
He shouldn't be getting involved with this kid. He was a Mafia man, for christ's sake. He knew better than anyone what happened to people who mixed pleasure with danger.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. His eyes drifted over the sultry dancers gyrating on stage, but he didn't see them. The club was alive with music, laughter, and the scent of sex in the air, but none of it held any appeal for him now.
All he could think about was the young man who had somehow managed to capture his attention—and stir something deep within his chest that he'd long thought dormant.
He stepped outside, enjoying the way the cold air slapped him in the face, bringing him out of the smothering heat of the club.
"Hey, King!" a voice called out, snapping him from his thoughts.
"Yeah?" Marco turned—and then paused.
His hands curled into fists.
Of all the people I shouldn't be around right now…
"What the hell are you doing here, Frank?"
Frank Moore—Joey's father.
Chapter ten
