Page 8 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

SEVEN

Vitali

“So what happened last night with you and Quinn?”

I look up from my phone, glancing at Sasha in the driver’s seat. The city lights flood in through the windshield, illuminating the lower half of her face.

“Nothing.”

“Hm,” she hums in reply, telling me that she doesn’t believe me. That’s fine as long as she understands that we’re not going to discuss it.

If I was ready to discuss it, I’d be discussing it with Quinn. But I’m not ready to talk to him yet or even see him because I’m confused as fuck.

He was trying to get me out of his space long before he shoved me. I’ll admit I’m not the most respectful about that, especially with him, especially lately. I’ve been invading his space because I’ve been trying to figure out why I want to be there in the first place.

If nothing else, I did figure that out last night. Turns out, I am attracted to him.

What’s less clear is whether he’s attracted to me. I’m pretty fucking sure he almost kissed me. But instead of actually kissing me, or giving me half a goddamn second to get my brain working while my dick hardened for a man for first time in my life, he shoved me like he fucking hated me.

What am I supposed to make of that?

Then he avoided me all goddamn day.

To be fair, I avoided him too. I’m confused and pissed off and really don’t know what to do with myself.

I’m almost tempted to talk to Sasha. I think that’s what she’s offering, for me to talk to her. She knows Quinn pretty well—as well as anyone does considering how closed off he is—so she might have some insight, but my head is way too fucked up to talk about any of it.

That’s probably why, when we get to Eclipse, I decide to play bartender again tonight. I’m getting way behind on the books, but I don’t think I can sit at my computer right now. Besides, I kind of like bartending. It’s easy but busy.

Maybe that’s why Quinn likes cooking. God knows he can’t handle actually relaxing, but cooking is a busy, low intensity activity. I don’t think he likes bartending though, even though he’s good at it. He’s such an introvert.

I, however, am not, and my mind relaxes a little as I make drinks, a few of them for myself. Maybe it’s more than a few, given the way Sasha keeps checking on me. Definitely more than a few because by midnight I’m half drunk and really wishing Quinn was here.

I feel suddenly quite sober, however, when Gavino DiMaggio, dressed in a black suit with a dark red shirt, looking every inch the Italian mobster, cuts through the crowd. I send Sasha a quick text.

I’m sure he has at least one bodyguard here somewhere, but he approaches the bar alone. He goes for the narrow side.

He’s not exactly handsome with that strong Roman nose and narrow face, but he is distinguished looking. His side-parted silver hair is thick and glossy. He puts his hands on the bar, fingers interlacing to show that he’s here peacefully.

“What do you want, DiMaggio?”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t like my brusque tone. He wants to play the mobster game, go through the motions of artificial cordiality. I don’t give a fuck.

“What Alesso did wasn’t authorized,” he tells me.

I toss down a cocktail napkin. “I meant to drink.”

He doesn’t like that either. God, these old men. My uncle was the same. I was sick of him even before I knew what a rat he was, and I’m sick of Gavino. Stuffy and plodding, drawing shit out forever. Gavino must be pushing eighty, and he looks tired as hell. Pale, thin. Done.

I wish he’d step back and let one of his kids take over. I’d rather deal with Alesso or his sister. But these greedy old men can never give up power. When I’m his age, I want to be out of this business, lying on a beach along the Aegean.

But there are a few people who need to die for me to win that future.

“Negroni?” I suggest, thinking how perfectly the red color will complement the garnish that I have in mind.

At Gavino’s gesture of acquiescence, I snag the gin. “So Alesso was a bad boy and you’re sorry? Is that really what you’re here to say?” We both know it’s not.

Gavino watches me pour the gin into a mixing glass. I grab the sweet vermouth and add it before he deigns to speak.

“You should yield,” he advises. “I’m in the stronger position.”

At the moment he is, but shit can change. And what he wants isn’t something I could ever accept. He wants me under his protection racket, paying him to keep my territory secure. Secure from him, obviously, and he would eventually use the leverage to finish me off.

I add Campari to the glass. The drink turns ruby red.

“Your uncle was going to,” Gavino prods when I don’t reply.

I add ice and stir. “Anton would’ve betrayed you in the end.”

“Like he did you? He may have been a traitor, but he played you for a fool. He made you break the truce that your father and I had negotiated.”

On a certain level, he’s correct. There was a shaky truce between our families. When Roman vanished, my uncle pointed a finger at the DiMaggios. I went after them, shattering the truce. I’ll admit, I lost my mind a bit. I did some ugly things.

When I learned of my uncle’s part in Roman’s disappearance, I did some more ugly things.

My uncle was already dead, killed by Roman, but I extracted a good deal of information from my uncle’s bodyguard before I let the man die.

The DiMaggios were involved in Roman’s disappearance.

Gavino colluded with my uncle. The two of them were playing a complicated game, using each other, using me.

I don’t know what their endgame was and I don’t care. It’s no longer relevant.

All that matters now is destroying the DiMaggios, both for my family’s security and for revenge.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the manpower at the moment, and I have to be very careful because of Agent Cohen’s involvement. I can’t end this fight if I’m in prison, and I don’t want to imagine what Roman might do if that happened.

Sasha arrives with what I asked her to retrieve from my office freezer. She sets the tin by my hand then starts washing glasses, busying herself to stay nearby just in case.

I add ice to a new glass then pour the cocktail through a strainer into it.

Working behind the bar, I open the tin and pluck the finger from inside, dropping it into the cocktail glass.

Orange is the traditional garnish, but I must say the effect of the tattooed finger with its gold ring is perfect in the ruby red drink.

I slide the cocktail to Gavino. “One of your men dropped that in my warehouse.”

His eyes lift from the glass to me. “You could’ve made a deal with me, Vitali. This war serves no one.”

“I’d have to trust you to make a deal with you.”

“Your father and I didn’t trust each other. But we still managed to settle things.”

“And then you helped my uncle sell Roman into slavery.”

“That was just—”

“If you fucking say it was just business, I’ll kill you here and now. Get the fuck out of my club.”

***

By one a.m., my mood has deteriorated enough that when Sasha suggests we go home, I don’t argue about the early hour.

I’m not sure why I’m in such a bad mood.

At the time, I didn’t feel like Gavino was getting under my skin that much, but now …

I don’t know. I’m just pissed off. About him having the upper hand.

About my uncle. About what happened to Roman. About Quinn.

When we part ways in the garage, Sasha looks like she wants to say something to me but decides against it.

I make my way through the dark house to the kitchen. I’m not ready to shut myself in my room.

I’m so deeply in my head that the soft glow of the kitchen’s above-sink light doesn’t register as significant until I walk through the wide doorway. I halt.

Quinn, who obviously heard me coming, has his back to the counter and his eyes on me. He sets his glass aside and crosses his arms. His white t-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders and chest. His gray sweats hang low on his hips.

My dick starts getting hard as I look at him. It’s weird. It’s like as soon as I let in the knowledge that I’m attracted to him, a floodgate opened.

He says, “You’re home early.”

“Were you going to avoid me? Disappear into your room before you expected me back?”

He doesn’t reply, which I take as a yes.

When I start walking across the kitchen toward him, he tenses but doesn’t move. I crowd into him, my polished shoes inches from his bare toes. I pick up his glass from the counter and drain it. My arm brushes his elbow as I set it down. He shivers.

I step closer, one foot between his. He sucks in a breath. His arms are still crossed.

“Not gonna shove me this time?” I ask.

“What are you doing?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” His voice is sharp.

“I’m crowding you.”

“ Why? ”

“To see what you do.”

“I’m not going to do anything.”

I put my hand on his side at his waistband. His muscles contract under my hand, not quite a flinch but almost.

“Why do you hate when I touch you?” I ask.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” I insist. “You always react badly.”

He’s starting to tremble, but I’m not letting him off the hook. He needs to answer me. But he sidetracks.

“About last night.” His crossed arms tighten. “I shouldn’t have …”

“Shoved me?” I prompt when he trails off. “Or … what?”

“Jesus, Vitali just do it. Get it over with.”

“Get what over with?”

“You’re obviously going to fire me. Just fucking—”

“ Fire you? You think I would fire you for shoving me?” I’m really being a dick now, but I think he kind of deserves it.

“Vitali, just—”

“Answer the question, Quinn.”

His eyes have been avoiding mine, but he meets my gaze now. “No, I don’t think you would fire me for shoving you.”

“God, you can’t say it, can you? But it did happen. You kissed me. Almost. Sort of. That’s what you think I would fire you for.”

He’s silent for a second, waiting for more, for clarity, but I don’t give it to him. So he says, “You’re not gay.”

I still have my hand on his hip, but I reach my other up to the back of his head.

I curl my fingers in his short brown hair and take a tight hold at his scalp.

A sound breaks from him. His eyes close and a shudder goes through his whole body.

I pull his hair, tilting his head back, baring his throat.

“Stop,” he begs. His arms uncross and he grabs the edge of the counter on either side of himself.

“If I kissed you now, would you want it?”

“You’re drunk.”

I pull his head back further. “Answer my question.”

I watch his pulse fluttering, watch him swallow. I watch him fight himself. He doesn’t want to answer me.

I drag my hand from his hip to his abs. His stomach contracts sharply. I glide my hand up to his chest, wrinkling his shirt and brushing over one of his taut nipples. I curl my hand lightly around his throat. He shudders so hard that his knee knocks against mine.

I bring my face close to his and let my lips graze his jaw as I repeat, “If I kissed you now, would you want it?”

“ Yes ,” he confesses.

I tilt his head upright. I move my hands to either side of his face and pull him toward me.

I press my lips to his. He twitches at the initial contact—then he melts.

His whole body softens. I step closer and deepen the kiss, invading him with my tongue.

When he moans, the vibration seems to travel all the way to my dick.

I press my body against his. Through my dress pants and his sweats, I feel the hard ridge of his cock. Mine throbs in response. I’ve never felt another man’s erection against mine, but it feels … good.

Fuck, it feels really good.

Quinn breaks the kiss. “This isn’t a good idea,” he says.

My hands drop to the sides of his neck. “Why?”

“You’re drunk. You’re upset too. Something happened.”

How the hell does he know that?

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Yes, you are.”

“So what if I am?”

“Plenty of men are gay when they’re drunk but straight when they’re sober. And this … it’s not a good idea.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“Are you saving me from myself?” I sneer.

“Yes. And I’m saving myself from you. Go to bed, Vitali.”