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Instead of replying no, I took a pull of my drink.
I’d missed Everett’s seventh birthday party, too.
“Hey, Bastiano.” The mafia bunny’s low voice rasped. She probably meant for it to be seductive, but she sounded like a pack-a-day smoker with double lung implants. “Wanna get out of here?”
Her acrylic-tipped finger trailed across my back before she took a seat to my right.
A condom filled with Icy Hot.
The vise grip of a pissed-off orangutan.
Two things I’d rather have on my dick than her.
“Leave,” I replied, not bothering to see who it was or what she wanted.
Wasn’t it obvious, though?
People had a tendency to get distracted by exteriors.
I had a nice one. One that, had I not already been born with a gold-coated spoon dangling from my lips, would have afforded me opportunities I hadn’t earned.
A body layered with muscles. Intense dark eyes. Sharp jawline. Thick, coffee-colored hair. A gentleman’s cut that could cover your car payment and then some.
Look past that, and I was a thirty-year-old—almost thirty-one—who didn’t know what he wanted in life.
If there were a female version of me, I sure as hell wouldn't date her.
Still, women fawned over me like my cock was made of gold and they were looking to strike rich.
Their mistake.
I downed the rest of my scotch as my dad sidled next to me at the bar. I knew it was him without looking.
I could count on him to always carry around a god-awful scent of pussy and alcohol—two things a son should never have to smell on his father, but it wasn’t like I was any better.
He rapped his knuckles on the bar table. “I didn’t raise you to be an asshole.”
I snorted and picked my brain for something that would provoke him. “I know five nannies that would argue you didn’t raise me at all.”
Not that I minded.
As a kid, I’d seen him often, lived a cushy life, had everything I needed. We’d never had problems until he paid Elsa off.
My dad ignored me. I could count on him to do that, too.
I lifted a finger, signaling for the bartender to send another scotch my way. He didn’t even glance in my direction. Fuck.
When did the service get to be so bad at L’Oscurità?
I made a mental note to handle it myself or tell Asher, who had opened the bar I managed when he’d left the mafia. I’d decide later when I wasn’t two-thirds of the way to getting shit-faced.
My dad turned to face me, but I didn’t bother returning the favor. “That was Benny’s girl. Good kid.”
“Benny know his daughter’s whoring around, Gio?”
His eyes flared. He hated when I called him Gio, but he hadn’t regained the right to be called Dad.
“Was that what she was doing? Offering herself up to you?”
