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19
RICARDO
Two hours later, Isabella is back in her coop, ready to roost for the day while she grapples with the mental intricacies of having to bend her morals. It’s survival versus morality, and she's going to learn quickly there is no such thing as scruples in this business.
Still, I’m the asshole here for giving it to her straight rather than sugar-coated.
It’s long past time to introduce her to cold, cruel reality. There can be no more spoonfuls of sugar to make the medicine go down easier.
She’d walked into her house with her shoulders hunched forward and the fight gone out of her. Pale-faced, hollow-eyed, and neither one of us issuing empty goodbyes to the other.
In the world of underground crime, you do whatever it takes to protect the people you love, even if it means stabbing them in the back with a dagger to save them from the ax heading toward their belly at their front.
It means doing whatever it takes for you to make sure they are safe in the long run, and if you’re not thinking five, ten, or twenty years in the future, then you are asking for trouble.
Had it been shortsighted to take out the Accardis the way we had? To settle for retribution in the moment rather than seeing the future? Perhaps.
Leaving the lackluster family in place might have saved us from this newest round of devils.
Once I know Isabella is safely tucked inside the house, I give the driver his orders. Dissociation takes care of the rest.
The car pulls up in front of The Painted Hippo and despite it nearing noon, there is already a sizable crowd on the floor. Several of the tables have been cordoned off for what looks to be a rather sedate bachelor party, and a handful of stools are already warmed by bodies.
My guards trail after me as I head toward the VIP corner, kept separated from the rest of the room by red velvet rope. It’s got the perfect view of the stage and one I’m sure Vincent Accardi used on multiple occasions when he owned the club.
Little prick.
His lust and ignorance got him a letter opener in the gut, and I couldn’t say I was sorry to see him go. Only sorry for how the others and I handled his death.
What’s the saying? Hindsight is fucking 20/20?
Vincent had almost run this place into the ground with his negligence. Too busy trying to stick his dick in anything that moves to take a real interest in business, I figured. Nothing beyond wanting the padded bank account and the power brought to him by his family name and his father’s backbreaking work.
Good riddance. To both of them, if I’m being honest, but Hector had been a decent man. Probably too decent for this lifestyle.
I hold up a finger, and one of the serving girls hustles over, a tray balanced on her palm and her face slicked with layers of carefully painted makeup. “Mr. Assante?” she asks in a breathy tone.
“The usual.” It’s too early to drink, and I can’t muster up a shit to give, not after last night, after being completely and utterly…compromised.
To the point where I acted as a detriment to myself and to Isabella. Instead of worrying about keeping her safe, I’d gotten lost. In the contours of her body, in the sweet heat between her legs, and the sensation of her exhales on my overheated skin.
Too much. We’d gone too far and the only thing I would have done differently is keep my leash of control tighter rather than allowing my walls to lower even a small amount.
The server scuttles off as well as any woman can in heels that size, and I settle back in the chair, the phone clenched in one hand as I scroll through the string of encrypted texts with Moran.
The wheels are in motion.
The plans I’ve had in place have always been a backup in case literally everything goes to hell. Or in case the Balestras decided to fuck over the Vittorios. Not that Carter ever wanted to consider such a possibility as rational. His entire heart was physically squeezed into each beat by Mia’s delicate palm.
But there is always a possibility, as slim as he wanted to be believed—or as impossible, as he’s insisted before—that we will be fucked over. That another offer will come along down the line, something beneficial to the Balestra clan. I hadn’t thought about the backup since the wedding, of course, our connection cemented as our family is brought underneath the iron wing of the others.
Still, I’ve got things ready to go.
The server returns a moment later and hands off a glass of amber-colored liquid. I stop her before she runs off, my grip on her wrist loose before she stills.
“Bring me Willow,” I say in a low voice. “She’s on the schedule today, isn't she?” I need a distraction.
The server bobs her head. This isn’t Sarah, but another girl, one with a slight twitch whenever she approaches the tables, a tremble belying her nerves. She’s not used to working the crowd yet, which means she’s miles away from ever gracing the stage or one of the private back rooms.
