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It would have been a convincing statement had Gio not downed two fingers of whiskey after saying it. And that sex scent in the air.
Someone with anosmia could smell the pussy clinging to his skin.
I muttered a curse, finally turning to face my dad. “Stop sending mafia bunnies my way, Gio. I’d rather fuck a spiked Fleshlight.”
Giovanni “Gio” Romano intimidated people.
He had to.
It came with the territory.
No one talked to a Romano caporegime like this. Ever.
Apart from me, that was.
It wasn’t like I didn’t love my dad. We had issues—a past I wanted to forgive yet couldn’t—but I did love him.
If he kept trying to rope me into the underworld, that love would dry up. He thought that if, by some stroke of luck, I fell in love with a mafia bunny, I’d follow his footsteps in the family business.
Never going to happen.
Not anymore.
That would take nothing short of a miracle, and I wasn’t exactly the type of man to inspire one of those.
Gio ran a hand along his jaw. “We’re not the plague. We’re your family.”
I grabbed the bottle from his hands, forgoing my glass and drinking straight from the rim.
“Family. Not co-workers. Not bosses. Family. Jesus Christ, Gio. It's not the end of the world if I don't work with you. I'm happy here."
Not really.
I didn’t need money.
My inheritance exceeded the GDP of some countries, and my MBA from Wharton gifted me with the know-how to multiply my investments.
I’d fired Lewis and quit my job at Launder, Inc. eight years ago. Managing Asher’s restaurant was something I did to get Gio off my back.
It wasn’t my passion. I wasn’t sure I had any passions, except getting laid, but even that got old.
Working here afforded me a little distance from the Romano family business. Technically, this wasn’t a mafia establishment, but despite him leaving the mafia, Asher was close enough to the family that Gio had left me alone for a while.
Until last month.
About the same time Asher had proposed to Lucy, Gio had started stirring this shit up again, pushing the daughters of powerful Romano men my way.
It needed to stop like Tila Tequila needed a filter.
“Well, if you're planning on spending the rest of your life managing college kids at a bar”—Gio nodded in the direction of the bartender, though we both knew I actually ran the three-time Michelin star restaurant connected to the bar by the drywall to my left—“you can at least make yourself useful.”
I didn’t take the bait, instead focusing on the last half of his sentence. “What do you want?”
He inclined his head in the direction of my office and stood, not bothering to pay for his drink or tip the bartender, not that the little shit deserved it.
We walked there, passing an employee break room shared by the bar and restaurant employees along the way.
My ex Dana winked at me from inside. I ignored her and flicked a piece of lint from my suit lapel.
