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I can’t even wait until he gets out of earshot before I burst into tears. I’m embarrassed, humiliated and hurt. This was supposed to be the best day ever and instead it’s already becoming one of the worst. I don’t care what he said at the coffee shop when he was acting all nice and gentlemanly—Vari isn’t a man, he’s a monster.
6
VARI
I feel terrible that I made Dahlia cry. It wasn’t my intention, but it was either act like an ass or admit I still care about her, and I’m sure as hell not going to admit that. As it is already, I’m toeing dangerously too close to the line with her. The more I’m around her, the more I find it hard not to want to be around her. I need to constantly remind myself that I’m here to keep her safe, not to go back on my past decision to cut her from my life.
The black leather bustier and jacket I sent to her were carefully made to look like trendy costuming for the show. But really, they’re made of the most high-quality Kevlar money can buy. That gesture was simply a means to keep her protected in case all hell breaks loose. Considering she wore it into rehearsal today, I assume she thinks it came from Hector or the costuming department, so we’ll just keep it that way. The only thing I wasn’t prepared for was how hot Dahlia would look in it. I guessed at her measurements when I put in a rush order for the two pieces, and damn did I guess right. The bustier fits her like a second skin, one I want to peel off to get at the ripe fruit lying beneath.
I suppose I deserve the masochistic retribution for how much seeing her in it turns me on, and how right she is about my jealousy as I’m forced to sit and watch that himbo put his hands all over the soft leather I clothed her in. It’s what I get for having broken her heart.
Over the course of the past forty-eight hours, I seem to keep making things harder on myself instead of easier. I’ve had to put some of my own business dealings in the hands of my brothers so I can take the time to attend to this show, and both Alessio and Petre think I’ve gone nuts for giving this so much of my time and attention. But a few months out of my usual schedule won’t kill anything, I hope. And besides, I do love the theatre. As long as no one dies, this could be fun. And if Dahlia ends up hating me for disrupting her life, then so be it. It’s not like she was a fan of me after I broke her heart anyways.
On my way walking back out from the backstage area, where I left Dahlia crying in the wings like the asshole I’m trying to portray myself as, I overhear someone talking. It sounds like Hector talking on the phone with someone, and it sounds an awful lot like he’s discussing mob business with whoever’s on the other end of the call. I can’t make out much, but I do hear a few key catchphrases the Irish Mob tends to favor. I stand in the shadowy corner of the hallway and listen, and I begin to wonder if Brutus could possibly have been on to something. Is Hector really trying to use the Broadway stage to take a direct hit at the Italian-American mafia in the city? It’s hard to believe, considering how very blatant and risky it’d be for a man who doesn’t really have a lot of muscle to support him here in the city. But it sure does sound an awful lot like mob business instead of theatre business he’s discussing on the phone.
I wait until he’s done, and then confront him. “What was that about?” I ask gruffly. “Something about the Irish Mob?”
Hector doesn’t miss a step as he brushes off my implied accusation and laughs. “No, not at all,” he says. “I was simply bouncing a bit of role-playing fodder off my boyfriend over the phone. You must have misheard me.”
“I’m pretty sure I heard you correctly,” I press. Honestly, I’m not sure what I heard, only that it sounded like mob business. But I’d prefer to keep Hector thinking I heard every word of it. “Why would you be role-playing mob shit with your boyfriend over a coffee break?”
He reaches his hand down and rubs the front of his pants, as if he’s either trying to make his dick come alive or calm it down. Either way, I’m disgusted by his unprofessionalism on the set. “My boyfriend and I find this whole mafia production ratherenticing, shall we say? And since you called for a coffee break, I figured I’d take advantage of a few extra minutes to spend some quality phone time with my partner. All these rehearsals can start getting pretty long, and it takes a toll on the sex life. I’m just doing what I can to head it off.”
“While at work?” I ask with a look of distaste.
“Hey, I was alone in a dark hallway on a break. You’re the one who was sneaking about in the shadows.”
“It didn’t sound sexual to me,” I say, still not buying his story. “It sounded like business.”
“That’s the way my boyfriend and I always start it out. It makes it more dangerous and exciting. Sorry if it offended you, but you seriously need to loosen up a bit.” Hector walks away casually as if nothing questionable at all has happened. For the moment, I let myself buy his story, but I’m still going to be keeping my guard up. Brutus wasn’t entirely wrong—once a mobster, always a mobster.
Later, after rehearsals have wrapped for the day, I look around for Dahlia backstage. She must’ve darted out of the theatre as soon as she finished, because it looks like she’s already gone. It’s probably better that I don’t see her again today. I’m not even sure what I would’ve said to her. I head home, walking into my heavily guarded apartment building and riding the elevator up to the top three floors which I’ve converted into my penthouse, dismissing the nanny. “How was he today?” I ask as I hand her a sizable wad of cash.
“Perfect as always,” the nanny smiles. She has a lot to smile about, considering she’s one of the highest paid nannies in the entirety of New York City. It’s worth it, though, because I know I can trust her discretion, and Lucas adores her.
“I’ll have my men see you home,” I say as I always do. I protect my people.
After I see her out, I walk into my son’s bedroom and see Lucas playing action figures on the floor. “Hi, Dad!” He beams as he gets up, showing me the Batman with the broken arm. “I think I played too hard with it and he broke.” He walks over and hands me his toy to inspect, and frowns when Batman’s arm goes limp instead of staying up over his head in a fighting position.
“No problem,” I smile at him. “I’ll get you a new one. Anything else you want while I’m at it?”
“Can you play with me?” he asks with big saucers for eyes. Lucas gets his dark brown hair from me but his unusually blue eyes from his mother. He’s always asking me to play and I’m usually always too busy. Tonight, I make a point to spend the rest of the evening having quality time with my son.
“Why do you always like to be the bad guy when we play?” he asks as his Batman limps around with a dangling arm.
“Because they’re powerful.”
“Aren’t the good guys powerful too?” he asks with all the innocence of a five-year-old boy.
“Sure, but the good guys are sometimes stifled by rules and morals.”
“What’s a moral?”
“Hmm, it means that you want to do the right thing most of the time,” I answer in simplified terms he can hopefully understand. “But the bad guys don’t care about doing the right thing usually, so they can be more powerful because they don’t care about hurting anyone.”
“But you care about hurting people, don’t you?”
That’s a loaded question. “I care about protecting the people I love, like you.”
