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Franco leans back in the booth. His left arm—the one in the sling—rests on the tabletop while he grabs his drink with his right.
Even though my back is to the bar and the entrance is to our right, I already know there’s no one else here. The door makes a distinctive sound when the wood scrapes against the frame, and a slight breeze dusts in from outside, making the tablecloths dance softly in its wake. The chairs creak under the weight of a body when someone takes their seat, and the sound of footsteps when someone walks across the wooden floor is unmistakable. Thanks to years of practice and inexplicable skill, I don’t have to look around to know we’re still alone. Franco has the same skill, but he’s not the one with a secret to tell.
My eyes meet his. “I’m taking over.” No need to tiptoe around the reason I called him here.
“It’s about damn time,” he says with little emotion, then lifts his drink and drains the contents. “Does Makenna know?”
I didn’t think he’d argue, considering my father’s condition, but I didn’t think this was something he’d been waiting for.
A different woman shows up with my drink, robbing me of any chance I had at getting a better look at the first waitress.
I take a sip, letting the liquor coat my throat before I answer. “Not yet.”
“Well, I trust you know what you’re doing.”
I’m not my father. I don’t need Franco’s approval of my decisions. I need his wisdom and loyalty. I’ll tell Makenna. I just need time.
I set the glass on the table. “I want you by my side.”
“That’s an honor I don’t take lightly.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The new waitress walks back over. “Another whiskey?”
The sound of Franco’s ringtone bounces off the solid wood tabletop. With a single glance at the screen and an apologetic look, he stands. “I need to go.”
He waits for the redhead to walk away. Then, his eyes meet mine as he leans forward, bracing his weight on the table’s edge. “I’ll serve you with the same loyalty I served your father with. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
I hold up my hand to stop him from throwing two twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
His face lights up when he smiles. “I trust that you do.”
I won’t fuck this up. I want to make my father proud. I owe it to my mother to maintain as much dignity in our name as I can. Dad is right. I don’t have to wave a weapon in the air like a barbarian. The way he handled Morano is proof of that.
Any chickenshit with a gun can bring someone to their knees. But silencing a room with nothing more than the whisper of your name? That is power.
31
Makenna
Callisto and I have an understanding. I only ask the questions that need to be asked. His mind is a vault. Once a job is done, all the memories associated with it are locked away. It’s how he stays human. It’s where he hides his demons. I can’t imagine walking around every day with all those secrets stashed away, no matter how deep they’re hidden. But he does it. He somehow puts those demons to rest and manages to be one of the kindest and caring men I’ve ever known. This time is different, though. This time there’s a battle going on between his heart and his mind. I feel it in his heartbeat when I lay my head on his chest. I see it in his eyes every time he looks at me. I feel it in the way he fucks. One minute he’s forceful and full of rage and the next, tender and gentle.
We both have truths that need to be spoken. But I can’t turn his world upside down until I know he’s okay.
It’s a little after midnight, and he just got home. He’s been working the closing shift at Suppato’s while Carlos is in the hospital. Afterwards, he works in the shadows, but never for long.
The water stops. The butterflies swarm. He does this to me every time. My heart races just knowing he’s near, waiting for his touch. He walks past the bed and out of the room, not bothering to get dressed.
I throw the covers back and follow him into the living room, coming to a full stop the moment I see him fully. It’s dark. Only slivers of moonlight fill the room. He’s standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with one hand braced on the glass. I’m captivated by hard edges and divots. Veins and sculpted lines. His cock, heavy and thick. He thinks of his body as a simple place to store his thoughts and feelings—a vessel. He walks around like he’s just another average man. I see a temple.
There’s a drink in his other hand. Bourbon, probably. He brings it to his lips.
I walk over, stopping beside him. “Wanna talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, his deep voice heavy with regret.
I can think of plenty to talk about.But I need him to go first. This is new territory for me, but I would imagine there’s a certain headspace necessary for things like this. And right now, it feels more like a mine field.
