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“Do you really need to ask?” I reached over the bar top, selected an opened bottle, and poured myself my own goddamn drink.
“Hey! You can’t—” The bartender finally turned to face me.
His words caught in his throat when we made eye contact. He looked torn between averting his eyes and sending puppy dog eyes my way in the off chance I’d show him mercy.
Fat chance.
He took a step toward me. “S-sorry.”
Too. Late.
It wasn’t my job to teach others how unforgiving the world could be, but I liked the taste of chewing people up and spitting out their hope.
Also, my tolerance for incompetence was a whopping zero when it came to my employees. I ran a business not a charity.
“Mr. Romano, sir…” He faltered for words like a husband caught with his pants down.
I stared at him for a moment, drawing out the tension, amused by the trail of sweat dripping from his forehead to his collar. This was his last shift here, and he knew it.
Almost nine million people called New York City their home. I could find someone more competent to replace him within the week.
At the very least, it would give me something to do while Asher played doting sap to his fiancée Lucy and Elsa continued to keep Everett away from me.
Gio grabbed the bottle from me after I finished pouring myself three fingers’ worth. He took a long swig straight from the rim that would have made a frat boy proud.
“What’s wrong with Benny’s girl? She’s a good-looking gal. Sweet, too, if I remember correctly.”
“You fuck her then.” I paused, my glass inches from my lips. “Or have you already?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, son. I love your mother.” His jaw ticked at my obvious amusement.
It tempted me to list the affairs I knew about, but I didn't for civility’s sake.
I wasn’t even sure if I loved my mother.
I almost forgot what she looked like with how little we saw one another. Looking in the mirror wouldn’t help. I didn’t get any of my features from her.
I had my dad’s high cheekbones. His strong jawline. The full lips and fawn-brown eyes. All of his strong Italian features.
Whereas Mom’s stature veered on the short and slim side, my dad and I towered several inches over six feet, built like Navy SEALs moonlighting for the WWE.
I slid a glance to Gio. “Sure.”
“I do,” he insisted.
He and Mom shared an arranged marriage of sorts. A total farce, if I’d ever seen one.
Back when none of the five American families had gotten along, both of my great-grandfathers thought it would be a good idea to start the first alliance between syndicates, beginning with an arranged marriage between my parents.
It didn’t really work.
The Rossi and Romano syndicates weren’t any closer than they had been before the marriage. Not until I came along, bonding the families with something thicker than half-assed marital vows.
Still, it wasn’t like a Rossi would come up here for a few drinks and a Knicks game, but say one did. He’d no longer find himself floating face down in the Hudson River for it.
Progress, I’d say.
“She’s my wife. I love her.”
