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ADRIANO

“ Y ou know the drill.” Stefano taps the counter with one finger, always antagonistic. His face is a constant sneer, twisting harder at the graying old man behind the counter. Stereotypical mob thug.

The store owner, Pablo, looks exhausted. He’s shaky.

But he’s used to this.

The monthly pay up. Protection.

Another stereotype.

And a time-honored tradition in New York. Even if the family in charge has recently changed and the rates and the threats have gone up to quash any bold ideas of resisting.

I get it Pablo, this sucks.

Then there’s me, standing there like a fucking small-time robber, holding up gas stations, convenience stores, markets. We just hit the nail salon next door, and I swear the old lady wanted to pull a gun on us.

They know better, but I can’t blame them. I hate every second of this too.

I haven’t done this sort of grunt work since I was a teenager, sent on errands by Alessandro, Domenico, or sometimes even Don Giancarlo himself.

The main difference is that now, I’m being sent out on these runs by Don Domenico Vipera, the same guy who stole the throne from my brother. Who vanished years ago, then reappeared with an army and funding and cut our knees out from under us.

It was fast. Calculated.

And the elders in our own family turned on us out of fear.

Leaving us little option but to fake Aless’s death and hide him and his pregnant wife. Then allowing me the honor of coming back to Dom, to prevent a manhunt of my younger brothers and I.

“Hey, nice curtains you got there, Pablo, they Persian or something?” Stefano fingers the fabric.

I shake my head as the store owner inhales, practically shaking with rage as Stef spits his gum out into the corner of the curtain and smashes it in. “Fucking ugly, if you ask me. Get new ones.”

“Stefano, cut that shit out.” Don’t shoot him. It’ll just cause more problems.

“What?” He grins, resting his hand on his pistol tucked into his pants. Always with the gun, this guy, like it’s an extension of his cock and what little brains he has.

Stef never did grow up.

“Go wait outside.” I snip, jerking my head toward the door.

“What the fuck, Adri? We ain’t kids no more.”

“This is why I make you wait in the car, you fuckwit. Learn how to act and I won’t have to treat you like one.” Funny how I wind up talking like him when he pushes my buttons.

“Fuckin’ bullshit…” he grumbles, slouching out through the door with a ding of the digital bell.

Stefano looks ten years older than me even though we’re the same age. Grew up in the same circles.

The only reason I can tolerate him at all is the fact that I’ve known him my entire life.

And most of the time, he’s not that bad.

He’s a cutup, witty. When he’s not given an ounce of authority to abuse.

I get the feeling that he’s been tasked with shadowing me since I’ve been back. Not that I mind the company most of the time, but he’s always popping in unannounced.

Going to need to stifle that soon.

“Hey, Pablo, I’m sorry about that. I’ll replace the curtains. Take how much you need out of the cut.”

“You know I cannot do that, Mister Diamante. I am already two months behind.”

“Why is that?”

“Money is tight. Ever since…”

“Ah. Right.” I can see he wants to say more, complain.

Since Domenico took over. People are scared of change.

So, they shore up their walls, stop spending. They don’t go out on the street as much. And they know better than to speak up or fight back. That’s how you survive.

But it hasn’t been this hard. Not for a long time.

“You know, things didn’t used to be this way when your brother was in charge,” Pablo mutters, catching my gaze.

“Yeah, well.” Way to instill confidence.

But I can’t say much. Can’t make promises.

Even if I miss the days when Alessandro was in charge just as much. He was fair. He was a solid leader. He didn’t threaten people. He made promises and he kept them.

So, when people paid for our protection, we gave it. Backed them up.

Dom is pushing the envelope. Increasing the taxes to fill his coffers.

And so far, I can’t see what for.

Not to mention the fact that he has me out doing grunt work when I absolutely shouldn’t be. Not as his supposed right-hand man.

But that’s the ticket. The key to all of this since I’ve been back.

Domenico pulled me in close, then locked me up. Tied me up in petty tasks and menial management.

And his excuse?

He says he wants me checking the ins and outs on the ground, the low-level soldiers on the street. Says he needs to make sure things are running like they always have, and I’m the only one he can trust to do these “inspections.”

Honestly, I’d be fine with doing grunt work if it wasn’t keeping me from watching Dom and trying to figure out what he’s doing with our organization.

Street work is easy. Simple.

Unlike my job of trying to play consigliere to a conniving madman who doesn’t want my advice. One who is insanely smart, unpredictable, and who seems to anticipate my every move.

Shouldering the door, I tuck the meager pack of cash into my coat and step out. It’s a windy late spring afternoon in Queens.

“You got it?” Stefano flicks his cigarette butt.

“Yep.”

“You never make any of this fun, you know that? Like I’m a comedian and you never let me deliver the punchlines of my jokes!”

“Stef, your punch lines are all punches below the belt. Or worse, you pistol-whip somebody like you did last week.”

“He had it coming.”

“Right. They all do, huh?”

“A guy’s gotta take respect if they don’t give it.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.” Respect earned, respect given. That’s what Uncle Gio taught us.

“You’re a sad sack of shit since you got back, you know?”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment, Stefo.”

“Fuck off! I’m gonna grab some lunch, you coming?”

“No, I gotta head back to the office.”

“Lapdog,” Stefano snickers.

“Crony.” I smirk, slinking off down the street. Despite my nerves, the bustle of the city always settles my racing brain, my busy mind.

Ever since I’ve been back, it’s all that’s kept me sane. Getting out, taking a drive, walking the streets. This will always be home, even if I barely recognize it under Dom’s new order.

I’m still debating whether to catch a cab back to the office in Brooklyn or to head straight to my apartment to change when my phone buzzes.

Gloria.

My fiancée.

A tingle runs up my spine as I see her name on my phone screen. Followed by a zip of irritation as I read her text.

Engagement dinner starts at seven…

Like I don’t already know?!

And have been actively trying to ignore all day.

That’s what I want to say, and a thousand other snarky, smart-assed responses. And on the other side of that coin, I want to talk to her, ask her a million questions.

Like why the hell she came here to work for her father?

Or why I haven’t had a real, honest conversation with her since she got here and Dom announced that he picked her to be my wife. A situation I haven’t begun to reconcile or understand.

Wear the shirt I sent over and make sure to come on time!

All I can do is go along with it, on the threat of my little brothers’ lives.

Fortunately, or maybe not, we haven’t gotten a lot of opportunities to chat or spend time together since Gloria arrived a few weeks back. Dom’s kept both of us unbelievably busy, like he’s trying to keep me from asking why she would go along with it too.

Because that’s the real clusterfuck.

Gloria, the red-haired bombshell with the honey-colored eyes I met on a train to Paris is Domenico Vipera’s daughter. A woman who set me into a mental tailspin the moment I met her. She’s clever, funny, intelligent.

And every time I see her my mouth starts saying words that someone else implanted in my thoughts.

Case in point as my thumb hits send before I can process what I wrote in response.

For you, I’ll come early.

My palm smacks my face a second later.

Too bad she’s my nemesis’s daughter and I have no clue if I can trust her. Doesn’t make the sensation of floating when she’s near me any less confusing.

The feeling that I’ve been hijacked follows me home, through my shower, and into the sleek, deep-green shirt and dark-gray suit she picked out. Pulling up to the event center. I toss my keys to the valet.

I’m halfway to the door when I see her.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Head to toe, she’s glowing like a beacon guiding me to shore.

Copper locks curled and cascading down her shoulders, that alabaster skin, glittering under the lights, wrapped in the most stunning green gown I’ve ever seen. A hint of her perfect leg peaks out from the slit along the side as she shifts, turning back and forth slightly as she nibbles one nail, her eyes on her phone.

Instantly my skin prickles, my heart races, my brain shuts off, reboots, shorts out, and that stranger takes the wheel again. Fingers run back through my hair and I feel a grin pull at my lips.

“Am I early enough?”

“Just in time. I was not going in there alone.” She smiles and I’m spiraling. “Ten til, should we wait, or…”

“Ten? No you’re definitely an eleven, and we should get a drink to take the edge off of your dad’s inevitable cringy speech.”

“Couldn’t possibly be worse than your jokes,” she teases, prodding me in the ribs and looping her hand through my arm. Instantly I’m soaring to her touch, laughing at her jab. Thank God my brother Ciro isn’t here to hear me act the fool.

A silence falls between us as we enter, her body pressed against me, her touch setting me on fire. I can’t tell if she’s holding her breath, but I have to remind myself to breathe.

It’s comfortable, though, pleasant.

And when she glances at me and smirks, I swear that we’ve done this before. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Minus the pounding drum beat in my chest.

How does she manage to behave as if we’ve known each other for longer than a few weeks, and even more so, how does she manage to make me believe it?

I’m a damned fool. I’m so screwed if she’s playing me.

One foot, then the other.

Drinks in the lounge start the night, with Dom announcing our engagement to his guests. “This is a momentous event, the joining of my dearest daughter and one of my closest allies. It’s a tie that will bind our family back together, as it should have been all along.”

Unlike Gloria’s act, if it is that, I have a much harder time believing his sentiments and words. Although from his standpoint, it’s a valid way of solidifying and legitimizing his rule over the family.

Usher me into the fold, endear himself to the prominent members of the Diamante syndicate through his role as a father and wipe the slate clean of the blood he spilled to take his place. It makes sense from a strategic stance. And I hate it.

Delicate fingers squeeze my arm and I realize I’m tense, flexed and gritting my teeth.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Fine. Just a little…”

“Yeah. me too,” Gloria mutters, pressing her lips together slightly. “Did someone say shots?”

“Shots. Yes. Please.”

The whiskey is top-shelf, and her eyes never leave mine as we pound back our second, then a third. That grating edge scraping at my nerves slides off my shoulders, the warmth of the alcohol loosening me up.

“What now?”

“We could go socialize…” she offers, making a face.

“Or get root canals.”

“Dancing then. Unless…” She narrows her eyes at my instinctive reaction.

“Unless what?” I try to unclench my shoulders at the thought.

“You look like you’d rather throw yourself into oncoming traffic.”

“No. I’m just not usually one to take center stage.”

“But it is our show, technically.” She shrugs, eyeing her father chatting with a half-dozen businessmen and their wives. “We don’t have to.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to dance with you.” Still, hesitance laces my words. I’m used to staying on the sidelines while Ciro and Fiero dance with every girl in the club. Gloria’s gaze softens, seeing through me.

“Grab that and come with me,” she whispers, nodding to the bottle of wine and grabbing my other hand, leading the way with a couple of glasses hanging from her fingers.

Double swinging doors take us into the back halls, past the kitchen, and to a service elevator. Punching the button for the roof, she leans back against the railing inside, looking down at her expensive heels, biting her lip.

“You know, we haven’t spent this much time together since we met.” Gloria huffs an incredulous, or maybe nervous, little laugh.

“Whose fault is that, exactly?” I muse.

“Webber, Strennick, and Grant, mostly.”

“Your side guys? I thought we’d wait until we were married to take on mistresses and the like.”

“Haha. Sure. If you think I like white-haired old lawyers and accountants. And they are certainly interested in my dad’s assets and dealings. I have the distinct pleasure of managing our financials and legal interactions.”

“I knew you had terrible taste in men when you chose to talk to me on the train in Paris.”

“We haven’t tasted anything yet.” Her eyes lock onto mine, a heat smoldering there that makes me swallow. Hard.

The elevator dings, opening to the night lights and starry vista of the New York skyline.

This time it’s my hand grasping hers, pulling her along as we head to the railing, looking out over the bustle of the city below. Just the pressure of her next to me, the warmth of her, is enough as we lean into one another, savoring the pause.

I pour us each a glass, sipping the full-bodied red, feeling the heady aroma go straight to my head. Gloria inhales, humming a little sound of approval as she drinks hers.

“So, you like Italian wine. Finally get to know something about you,” I say.

“You just need to ask, you know.”

“Right, with all the time we’ve had to talk.”

“It’s called texting or calling. With your phone.”

“Two-way street?”

“Touché.”

Despite the fact that I have her here and could ask all the questions that have plagued me and driven me mad for the past few weeks, I can’t bring any of them to mind. And the moment isn’t right for that, as much as the logical voice fading back into the haze of the booze calls for me to focus.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the event, the lights.

But I feel bold. Cocky.

Turning toward her, my arm encircling her waist, tugging her just hard enough, insistently enough to be clear. It still leaves her enough of an out, the ability to resist without pulling away hard.

But she doesn’t.

Gloria leans in, her lips parting slightly, her eyes half-closed.

And my dumb ass knocks her glass out of her hand, right toward me and all over the crotch of my pants.

“Oh shit!” She coughs, catching her glass at the last second and pulling away to set it down. I follow suit.

Classic Adriano.

“Here, let me, uh…” She fumbles, realizing where the wine is and the lack of any means of cleaning me off. “We should?—”

“Right, sorry?—”

“No, I mean, it happens?—”

“I’ll just?—”

“Stop!” She laughs, the sound cutting me off, stopping my heart and shattering my frustration with myself. “Let’s go inside.”

So I let her lead me back inside, down to the hallway, content to still have her near me as she tests a few doors before finding one that lets us into a laundering area, linens lining the shelves around us.

“Aha! Jackpot.”

“Thank you, Gloria, I can?—”

Her finger brushes my lips as she cuts me off, pulling a towel off the rack and pushing me up against the wall of the suddenly very small room. My eyes widen lightly as she leans in, the towel in her hand hanging between us.

She’s right there, inches away from my face.

“Take off your pants,” she whispers.

And fuck me if I even hesitate, unbuttoning my dress pants and dropping them to the floor. Kicking them and my shoes off, I reach for the towel, but she jerks it away, her eyes never leaving mine.

The look on her face, the proximity of her body to mine, the spinning euphoria of the wine and shots, have me completely turned on and rock-hard instantly. If that wasn’t enough, she drags the towel against me pressing her hand and body against my bulge.

Without another thought, I tilt forward, aching to feel her lips on mine.

Gloria falls forward as I do, her hand gripping me through the towel and my wine-soaked boxer briefs, and I close my eyes, waiting for that kiss.

But her face brushes against mine, cheek to cheek, her hot breath on my ear as our bodies collide chest to breast. A flick of her tongue along my earlobe has me dropping my head back against the wall, and my heart stops as I feel her fingers slip over the waistband of my underwear, grazing along the shaft of my achingly hard cock.

“Gloria …”

“Mm-hmm?” she moans into my ear, sending goosebumps rippling all over my body.

Her grip tightens around me, stroking once, twice.

“I want?—”

“Yes?” she hisses, so softly, my body involuntarily flexing in her grasp.

My eyes snap open at the sound of a door slamming right outside the laundry room and she’s a foot away, tense, eyes wide, and suddenly nervous. “Um…we should…”

And before I can stop her, or make a move, Gloria lunges for the door, something clutched in her hands.

“Wait!” I protest, my voice a strangled gasp.

But Gloria slips out, locking gazes with me right before she vanishes through the door, a tiny, evil grin on her face. For a split second, I almost forget the fact that she took my pants with her.