Page 4 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

FOUR

Vitali

Given the household makeup, our basement-level gym is a popular place, so I’m not surprised to hear thuds as I approach. The intensity of the hits tells me it’s Roman, but he’s not hitting a punching bag. That would be a deeper sound. He’s hitting pads. He’s sparring with someone.

It has to be Quinn because there’s no way Sasha could handle that. Her strength lies in evasion, agility, and speed, not brute force. And Roman would never spar like that with Lucas, even if Lucas could handle it.

God, it’s powerful. My brother was always so damn strong and so fucking aggressive even before four years of hell reshaped him, inside and out. The scars on his body mark years of brutality, and his eyes still have the predatory look that shows why he survived it.

He’s been home almost two months, and I still don’t know what to do about him.

He doesn’t respond well to me. We’re doing okay, but shit gets tense way too easily between us.

Sometimes I think I’m too impatient—which, yeah, I am—and that he just needs time—which, yeah, he does.

But then I hear this, him sparring with Quinn, or I hear the low hum of his voice as he talks to Lucas in their bedroom, and I know the problem is me.

That’s why I’m stalled here in the hallway. My presence will change the dynamic, andI want to hear them both, unfiltered. So I guess I’m kind of eavesdropping too.

For a while, it’s just grunts and thuds, all of it from Roman. Then I start to hear Quinn. He huffs and grunts as the onslaught intensifies. His vocalizations get harsher and sharper until he calls, “Break!”

The thuds continue, telling me that neither of them is disengaging. Why doesn’t Quinn step out if he needs a break? The grunts from both of them get louder.

When Quinn shouts, “Fucking break !” I almost step into the room, but the impacts end abruptly.

“Fuck!” Quinn barks. I hear his breath sawing, Roman’s too. Something light gets thrown, probably the pads. I hear two sets of footsteps as they both walk it off.

There’s a huge, deep inhalation, then a moment later, Roman’s rough voice asks, “Are you okay?” When Quinn doesn’t answer, Roman growls, “ Quinn .”

“I just need a fucking second.” Quinn’s breath is still sawing but his footsteps stop.

“Did I hurt your shoulder?” As I register the concern in Roman’s voice, it strikes me that he cares about Quinn. Roman has been so strongly in survival mode that I haven’t really heard this from him except with Lucas.

“It’s not that,” Quinn snaps.

“Then what—”

“I’m losing my fucking temper, Jesus fucking Christ, just give me a goddamn second.”

“Oh,” Roman replies.

So that’s why Quinn didn’t disengage. He does have a temper. He’s got generally good control of it. I think it’s part of why he’s so reserved. He’s self-controlling all the time. But certain things trigger him.

I hear footsteps again. Quinn’s, I suspect. His breathing is loud but forced into a steady rhythm. After a minute, he says evenly, “Okay. We can restart.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You wanna hit back?” Roman offers.

Quinn huffs. “Fuck no.” I hear the rustle of him putting the blocking pads back on. “I don’t trust either of us that much, and I’ll be on the fucking floor.” The pads clap. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll try to hear you better. It just … didn’t get through at first.”

“We’re good. Come on.” The pads clap again, then the pounding starts up as they resume.

That was a lot of communication from Roman. I should be glad. I am glad, but fuck. Why can’t he interact like that with me?

I walk in like I haven’t been standing outside listening, nodding to Quinn when his eyes flick up over Roman’s shoulder. I hit the treadmill, covertly watching them as I warm up.

They’re both barefoot on the black rubber mat, both shirtless. At 6’4”, Roman has several inches on Quinn, but they both have powerful builds. Muscle flexes with every hit, and the old brick walls make a rugged backdrop.

Between Roman’s dark, skull-trimmed hair and the scars slashing his body, my brother looks very fucking dangerous—and he is.

I’ve seen him slam a human body on the ground again and again until it was as limp as a ragdoll.

It puts me on edge to see him hitting like that at Quinn, but Roman seems to be in control, and Quinn can obviously take it.

Quinn isn’t scarred as badly as Roman, but he’s pretty torn up too.

Not just the new, dark scars or the old, pale burns.

There are stab wounds and nasty cuts. He’s never said, but I think he used to street fight.

That’s what I see in his style. Well, one of the things I see.

I also see someone who knows how to take a lot of punishment.

Maybe that’s why he’s better with Roman than I am. There’s something he gets that I don’t, some way he knows how to move around my brother.

At first, I tell myself that’s what I’m studying. The two of them together. Their interaction.

And yet … my eyes aren’t lingering on Roman like they are on Quinn. The way his lats pop along his side. The v-line cutting along his hip to the waistband of his gray sweats. The way his body braces against the impacts.

Wait a second.

Is this …

Am I …

Am I attracted to him? Is that why I’ve been so fixated on him?

… no. That can’t be.

That wouldn’t make sense.

I’ve known Quinn for years and have never had a sexual reaction to him—or to any man for that matter—and that’s not exactly something I could mistake. I’d get hard. I would know. It would be obvious.

I mean, come on, appreciation of another man’s physique isn’t attraction.

Quinn looks great. He’s fucking jacked. I’m confident enough in my own body to recognize that his is incredible, that’s all.

There’s no need for a sexual identity crisis just because I looked at another man’s abs. Jesus. Chill the fuck out.

All the same, I cut my warmup short and head over to the weights.

This gym is one of the few major changes I’ve made to the house, ripping down several walls to expand it beyond the rack of free weights my father had. Now, there’s the sparring area, punching bags and treadmills, plus racks, benches, a leg press, and power cage.

I settle on the bench press because lying down means I’m not tempted to use the wall of mirrors to watch the sparring.

I get focused enough that the temptation fades.

This is what I love about working out. It’s the only thing I know that’s simultaneously easy and difficult in just the right way to make my mind quiet down.

I’m sweaty and shirtless by the time I finish my sets. Movement in the mirror catches my eye. I look up to see Quinn approaching. Roman is gone.

“Haven’t had enough?” I ask. He’s wearing shoes now, but he’s still shirtless. His upper body is sheened with sweat.

“I sat on my ass for weeks,” he reminds me as he angles toward the leg press. He starts loading it with weight.

“You’re not right in the head,” I tease him as plate after plate goes on. I always give Quinn shit about the leg press because, like a fucking psychopath, he loves it.

He adjusts the seat and plunks down. “Did you skip leg day this week?”

“No, jackass. I did legs this morning. But like a normal person, I hated every fucking second.”

He chuckles and gets his feet up on the board. He’s not looking at me, so I see his profile as he smiles.

Am I gay?

No. Jesus.

“Fucking masochist,” I mutter as he pushes the loaded sled. I don’t expect a response with him in the middle of a set, but Quinn grunts between reps, “Yeah. Kind of.”

Wait, what?

He doesn’t elaborate, so I make myself get busy at the lat pulldown. It’s not what I’m supposed to do next, but it faces the other way and stops me from looking at him. It does not, however, stop me from hearing the steady glide of the machine as he does his reps.

Kind of a masochist? He was referring to the leg press, right? Not to … other shit.

Jesus fuck, my head’s a mess. I increase the weight to make myself focus.

It works for a while, but when I switch to free weights fora seated shoulder press, I’m all too aware of Quinn finishing up at the leg press then walking over to join me.

He grabs weights off the rack and lies down on the bench next to mine.

As he starts a chest press set, muscle striates his chest and flexes in his shoulders and arms. There’s a slight catch in his right arm, but he pushes through it.

The thing is, I don’t have a problem with the idea of being attracted to a man. It just doesn’t make sense . I’m 32 years old for fuck’s sake and I have never once in my life questioned the fact that I’m straight.

As a sort of test, I let my eyes drift down Quinn’s notched abdomen to his groin, where the bulge of his cock shows against his sweatpants. I don’t have time to figure out my reaction before Quinn finishes his set and sits up—and fucking catches me.

I tear my gaze away and hike the dumbbells up to start my shoulder press. “Your shoulder looks good,” I say as though that’s what I was looking at.

“Hm,” is the only reply I get.

Shit.

I focus on my form in the mirror, grateful that my olive skin tone covers any red that might otherwise show in my face because, fucking hell, it’s hot in here. And Jesus fucking Christ, he watches me the whole time.

When I lower the weights to my thighs, Quinn’s gaze moves from me in the flesh to me in the mirror, where his eyes lock with mine.

He should say something, or I should, to dispel the tension.

Neither of us do.

What the fuck is happening?

I mean, I’ve always felt something with Quinn, but I’ve never questioned it being the fact that we get along, that I like him, that he’s a great bodyguard, even a friend, and I trust him. Why am I questioning that now? Why does it feels like more? And what is the more?

Is it sexual?

Even if it is, there’s the obvious issue that Quinn, who is gay, has never shown any interest in me. The quiet intensity of his gaze as it stays locked with mine in the mirror is the same intensity that’s always there. That’s just how he is.

We’re similar in that regard, though my intensity burns, if not hotter, at least more freely.

I’m not as reserved as Quinn, not as controlled.

I’m flashier too, more vain, and it’s obvious even when we’re both shirtless.

Quinn is well groomed, no question, but he has a very natural look.

He’s all about function. No tattoos, just scars, trimmed body hair, and muscle.

I, on the other hand, have treated my body like a canvas.

My tattoos are a complex interweaving of geometric elements and fragments of images that play across my chest and shoulders, snaking down my arms and up my neck.

Trying to break the tension, I ask, “How long have you and Roman been sparring?”

Quinn doesn’t answer at first. It’s like it takes a second for him to extract himself from whatever he was thinking about.

“A week or so,” he replies.

“He does well with you.”

Quinn shrugs. “I just let him work shit out. It’s better than a punching bag.”

“He seemed in control.” I lace a hint of question into my tone. Is he usually? is what I want to know.

Another shrug. “He has his moments. It takes practice to get your foot off the gas with them.”

Quinn lies back down with the dumbbells and starts another set, cutting off the conversation.

Frustrated, I hike up my own dumbbells and start my next set. This is why I don’t know Quinn as deeply as I feel like I should. There’s like a sequence of gates with him. It’s hard to get through.

Getting stalled sets me back to where I usually am with him. I feel my body go back to normal. It’s so abrupt that I can’t mistake it. This is how I usually feel with him, how I used to feel. Normal. Not agitated. Not … wondering.

“So what are you planning?” Quinn asks when we’re both between sets again.

I don’t have to ask what he means. I can tell from his tone. Heavier. Businesslike. He’s referring to the DiMaggios’ attack on the warehouse.

“If you had to guess, what would you say?”

“That you want to meet with Mickey.”

I snort at his accurate guess. “I should give you a raise.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

That’s true. He barely spends his money, even though I pay him well.

“So what do you want?” I’m half teasing, half serious.

His eyes flick to me again. They linger for a second, and I glimpse something vulnerable in them. It tugs at me, bringing back the feeling I’ve been struggling with around him.

But he just lowers his eyes and answers, “Nothing.”