Page 1

Chapter 1

Dante

Ihate it here.

Well, nothere, but here with my family. Celebrating my brother’s new engagement. Listening to my father toast his precious baby boy. Pretending I’m interested in seeing more pictures of my nieces. Sure, they’re cute, but there’s only so much a person can hear about a toddler’s pooping habits without a shot of whiskey or two.

Yet I makeoneinnuendo about sex, and I’m the “jackass” ruining dinner. Not my older brother and sister-in-law practically drawing a diagram of their kid’s shit. And definitely not my younger brother feeling up his fiancée under the table. Like we all can’t tell what he’s doing with his hand.

“To Johnny and Emily. Salute,” my father finally says, finishing up his long-winded speech. He lifts his glass of wine, and we all follow. “Salute.”

The quiet little blonde has no idea what she’s getting into with my family. Like the Corleones but with less murder.

Supposedly.

My grandfather told me stories. As the personal handymanfor one of the five families, working late nights, being picked up in the custom Rolls-Royce and taken to houses to spackle holes and unclog fingers from toilets. You know…the usual.

I set my still nearly full glass of Pinot on the table and sling my arm on the back of my mother’s chair. She smiles at me, patting my knee as if I’m a fifth grader in need of a pep talk. “Your time’ll come. Don’t worry.”

“Not worried, Ma,” I reply, and she winks at me like we’re sharing some sarcastic joke. “I’m not.”

She merely winks again and sips from her drink. I roll my head back on my shoulders, sighing up at the ceiling, tiled with beveled tin, the color of a penny. It’s nice. Well-done.

The Tabby Cat is a bistro and wine bar with warm lighting, comfy seating, exposed brick walls, and a few plants placed around to make it feel almost like somebody’s living room. I knew a couple of the guys who worked on the crew, and they said the owners were great people, so I’m happy to support a new business. Especially one that treats its workers with respect.

As our server comes around to take our plates away, offering us the dessert menu, the ladies excuse themselves to use the bathroom, which of course gives Dad the opportunity to pull out his phone.

“How’s next week looking?”

Being Friday, our work week just ended, and I’d prefer not to have to think about the next job for at least twenty-four hours, but I’m the odd man out.

“Good. Got the final inspection for the medical center scheduled for Tuesday, and I’ve got meetings with three equipment vendors about the clean room specs,” Robbie says.

Johnny goes on about shaving off eight percent from the bottom line. None of them ever looks to me or asks my opinion.

My family—my father and brothers—think I don’t careabout the business. They assume I’m not as driven as Robbie or as dutiful as Johnny, but I’m the one who has Moretti Construction in my blood. Literally. I’ve got the calluses and scars to prove it.

While my brothers went off to college, I started working right out of high school. No fancy finance or business degrees for me. I learned everything I know out on the jobsite, like my old man and his old man before him. And I’m damn good at what I do.

But try telling that to my father. Or Robbie. Or Johnny, the golden child who can do no wrong. To them, I’ll always be the screwup. The middle son who barely graduated high school, parties too much, and doesn’t take life seriously enough.

They’re not completely wrong. I like to have a good time, but when it comes to work, I’m as dedicated as they come. I’m the one up at six a.m., on-site by seven, and coordinating work with dozens of employees and subcontractors. I’m the one with a scar on my forearm from a circular saw kickback. I’ve got a permanent groove across my right knuckles from a slipped hammer. And let’s not forget the chunk taken out of my calf from a falling pipe.

But none of that means anything because I’m the idiot who can’t read. I’m merely the grunt.

Though I’d rather be a grunt than an asswipe, like Johnny with his wandering gaze. When he shoots a smile at a group of girls at the bar, I kick him under the table. “What the fuck, man?”

“What?” he asks. As if he doesn’t know.

“Are we or are we not here because you put a ring on your girl’s finger?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m not blind.”

“Also not husbandmaterial either.”

“Hey.” Dad sets down his phone to protect his favorite. “Leave the kid alone.”

I roll my eyes, ready to leave it alone until Johnny comes back with, “More husband material than you are. Least I’m engaged and not living at home.”