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Andre

M y phone buzzes in my suit pocket right before Tristan and I reach the booth in the back of the upscale bar. Vintage black-and-white photographs adorn the dark wood-paneled walls, and the place smells faintly of sweat and whiskey. A single light above the booth casts sharp shadows on the face of a wiry man in his late fifties with a receding hairline and slightly rumpled suit, waiting for us at a polished table.

Since the person calling me is likely much more important than him, I pause before sitting down to pull out the device.

Tristan glances over, and seeing Creed’s name on the screen, my cousin raises his eyebrows.

“Hey, boss,” I answer.

“Are you busy tonight?” he asks curtly without any preemptive greeting, never one to waste time.

“Tristan and I are getting ready to sit down for the last appointment of the day. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. What’s up?”

“I need you to come by Omerta when you’re done.” He ends the call without providing any other details.

I hate when he does that shit, but Creed is a busy man. I’m still just one of his grunts, even if I’m his second.

A grunt with connections and a law degree, at least for the time being. While the criminal gun possession charges against me are still pending, my law firm won’t let me work any cases but aren’t brave enough to fire me. All that remains for me to do in the office, and out of it, is handle Ferraro family business.

While I’m what Creed refers to as the brains of his operation, in charge of most of the bribes and blackmail, Tristan is the brawn, an enforcer. Just because the three of us are all well over six feet tall, and nearly two hundred pounds of solid weight, Creed and I lack Tristan’s enthusiasm for doling out violence.

“Does he want me there too?” Tristan takes his phone from his suit pocket to check for calls or messages since he could obviously hear Creed’s order.

“He didn’t say either way,” I tell him before turning my attention to the waiting man, who fidgets with the coasters on the table while he waits. A bead of sweat slides down his temple because he already knows how this is going to go.

“You know why we’re here, don’t you, Frank?” I unbutton my suit jacket and slide into the booth first to make room for Tristan. I reach for one of the three glasses of top shelf whiskey and take a sip, figuring I’ll need it for whatever business Creed has for me tonight.

“It’s been three months. Three months of excuses,” Tristan says before he chugs every drop of his whiskey. “The boss is tired of excuses, Frank.”

Frank Stanley clears his throat, then clasps his shaking hands in front of him. “Look, I told you. I’m working on it. The deal fell through, but I’m lining up another shipment. Just give me a little more time.”

Tristan slams his glass down on the table with a deliberate thud and leans forward on his elbows. “Time’s up, Frank. You’ve had ninety days to get our…specialty products in with your imports. Either you’re a pussy who’s too scared to transport it or you’re a fraud, taking what doesn’t belong to you. Which is it, Frank?”

In this case, the specialty products are big ass fucking guns, several cases of them.

“Either way, Mr. Ferraro is out half a million in goods,” I tell the man. “You have one week to come up with the cash or the delivery.”

The man’s eyes widen. “I can’t get my hands on that many in a week!”

“Then you better find the cash. That was the deal you made with us. For better or worse, you have to honor it. That was what you offered in exchange for Mr. Ferraro getting your liquor license back after the second time you lost it in a year. In seven days, Tristan will be back here for the half mil, or you’re getting shut down.”

Frank’s face pales, and he stammers, “I-I understand. But I need at least two weeks, maybe three…”

Tristan bangs his fist on the table, making Frank flinch. “No more ‘maybes’, Frank. You had your chance. Now, I’m gonna make it simple for you. You pay up or Dre and I will start taking shit to pay down your debt. And trust me, we’ll take it all — your car, your business, your grandkid’s college fund. Hell, maybe even your balls.” My psycho cousin leans back in the booth, his tone suddenly chillingly casual. “Your move, Frank.”

Frank looks at me like he thinks I can save him. When he doesn’t find any pity on my face, he glances down at his trembling hands. “I can get you a hundred K in cash," he offers. “That’s all I can pull together right now.”

Tristan looks at me, hoping I’ll refuse his offer so he can do some bodily damage.

Sighing, I tell Frank, “Give Tristan a hundred grand by Friday, and we’ll consider a week extension for the rest. Every day you’re late after that, the price you pay goes up exponentially.”

I elbow Tristan’s arm to get him out of the booth. We both stand to leave, but Tristan gets in a last word. “Oh, and one more thing, Frank. If you even think about skipping town, I’ll find you, and then your kids will be inheriting this place sooner than expected, along with your debt.”

With that, we stride out of the bar and into the busy afternoon city streets.

Another day done; another threat made.

* * *

Tristan bails after we leave the bar since he wasn’t personally summoned by Creed, and he wants to get back to stalking the local DA. I decide to walk the twenty blocks to Park Avenue rather than trying to get a ride to the Omerta club in rush hour traffic.

At the semi-circle front desk of the posh building, I hand over my cell phone and then consent to be patted down by the guard to check for wires before I’m allowed to head to Creed’s office.

“How’s it going?” I ask my cousin and boss of mob bosses as soon as I walk through his open door. Dressed in his dark, custom three-piece suit with the view of skyscrapers behind him, thanks to the floor to ceiling glass, you’d assume he’s a regular businessman if you didn’t know better.

“Does Stanley have our guns?” he asks from behind his desk without looking up from his laptop. As busy as the man is, he always seems to know every damn thing that’s going on in the whole fucking city.

“No. He pussied out.”

“Fuck. And the money?”

“He’s supposed to get a hundred grand by Friday, the rest a week later.”

Shaking his head, he mutters, “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. Now we need to find someone who has the balls to get what we need.”

“Maybe Marino can handle the import,” I suggest.

“Maybe,” Creed agrees, then closes his thin, silver laptop.

“Is that all you needed?”

“No. We’ve got a meeting with Saint Rovina in an hour,” he says.

“We do? Why?”

“Stella may be there as well,” he says, her name setting off a five-alarm fire deep in my soul. Then, he says words I never thought I would hear. “I think she’s finally agreed to the marriage.”

Holy shit!

How long have I pined for that ridiculously sexy and vicious woman? Six or seven years now? At least once a year I ask her out and she turns me down. I didn’t think she would ever agree to fucking marry me.

“Do you need to sit down? Should I find a paper bag for you to breathe into?” Creed smirks when I brace a hand on the back of a visitor chair.

“I’m good,” I lie.

I’m not good. I’m…afraid to let myself believe it. Stella Rovina is finally going to be mine. She’s going to be my wife.

“I don’t know why she changed her mind, or what Saint may demand in exchange for the wedding to take place on the date Emilio secured at the Tribeca Rooftop, but I’m willing to consider paying it to keep our ties with the Rovinas nice and tight.”

“And unsuspecting,” I add. Creed killed Izaiah Rovina for setting us up in a police raid at the Vault night club a few months back. A raid that killed his brother, Carmine, and landed the rest of us in jail on bullshit charges.

Charges that, if they hold up and we’re convicted on, will not only mean the end of my law license I spent seven years of my life to earn, but also a minimum three-and-a-half-year prison sentence.

Which means once Stella and I are married, if she actually makes it down the damn aisle, our time together will be cut short way too soon.

I have no delusions that the woman my cousins refer to as a “viper bitch” will make any visits to the prison or wait around for me to be released.

“Should we go ahead and get going?” I ask Creed. “With traffic, it might take an hour to get to Brooklyn.”

“I’ve already asked Aldo to bring a car around.” Glancing at the gold watch on his wrist, he gets to his feet. “He should be waiting for us downstairs.”

“Good.”

I’m not sure why I feel such urgency to get over to the Rovina residence. Maybe I’m just worried if we take too long, or if we’re a minute late, Stella will change her mind.

Goddammit.

We’re not even married yet and I’m already pussy-whipped by this woman.

I have no doubt she’s going to make my life a living hell.

The stunningly beautiful woman will probably walk around my apartment naked just to taunt me, to let me see her perfection that she’ll never let me touch.

And while I would usually bide my time, however long it takes, to convince her to let me have a taste of her, time is not currently on my side, or Creed’s, thanks to the criminal charges.

“How’s Zara feeling?” I ask about his pregnant wife once I’ve retrieved my cell phone and pulled my head out of my ass on the elevator heading downstairs.

“She’s great.” Creed smiles. “Thankfully, she waited to tell me after all the morning sickness was over and done, or I probably would’ve lost my mind. Now, I get to enjoy the horny hormones of the second trimester.”

The grin slips off his face, and I know he’s thinking about how he may be behind bars by the time the third trimester comes along and will likely miss the birth of his first child. Although, he’s already so protective and doting on Zara’s little girl, Oriana, like she’s his own blood. Still, I know he’d do literally anything to be there to see his son or daughter come into the world.

“Tristan will figure something out,” I assure him, even if I don’t actually believe the lie myself. Tristan can bust heads like no other, but solving a problem this big and public? I don’t know if he’ll come up with anything other than cold-blooded murder and land his ass in prison for life.

“If Tristan doesn’t handle it soon, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands,” Creed grumbles.

I don’t need any further explanation for that remark. While Creed initially opposed taking out the new DA just a matter of weeks ago, afraid of the heat it’d bring down on the five families and not knowing what her replacement might decide to do with our cases, I guess he’s now willing to risk it to see his child come into this world.

Not that I blame him.

And for the first time in my life, I actually let myself think about starting my own family.

Sure, Stella hates me now, but there’s still a chance, however small, that she’ll let me fuck her one of these days. Sometimes, all it takes is one time to make a baby…

If Stella’s the mother of my child, well, she’ll be stuck with me in her life forever.

I like the idea of her belly rounded with my baby so damn much, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to let it go.