Page 7

6

ADRIANO

D om’s messenger looks at me with a blank stare.

Like he happened upon us by chance.

Fucking. Unreal.

Something inside me snaps in the moment, flaring a temper that I rarely let out. But I’ve had it lately, getting strung along, kept out of the loop. And now this? Being followed?

“What are you doing here?”

“Delivering orders, sir.” He’s not your everyday average thug. He’s keen. Sharp. And something else that I can’t put my finger on. Familiar somehow.

“Not what I mean. How did you know how to find us? Are you following your boss around? Because I am, you know?”

He suddenly looks a lot less calm.

“Um. No, sir. I was just instructed to find Ciro and Fiero Diamante. It’s my job. I’m good at finding people.”

“Oh yeah? You’re going to need to get good at finding your way out of a fucking coffin or concrete shoes at the bottom of the Hudson if I catch you tailing us again, do you understand me?”

Even Ciro’s eyes bulge a little at this, at my outburst. No matter how outrageous it sounds, when I get like this…

But my brothers also have my back, posting up at my shoulders and glaring the son of a bitch down.

“Now, do you want to tell me why you needed to find us while we’re grieving?” I gesture back toward the wreckage. He likely knows as most of the underworld in NY does, who we are, who we were.

“S-sorry, sir. I was instructed to deliver their new orders.”

“Fuck.” Ciro cracks his neck. “Already?”

The slim guy steps forward and in the streetlight, I can see his suit better. It’s hand stitched. Not exactly cheap, but not nice either. Like it was homemade.

And the only people I know who dress like that are the Lysi. Greek assassins. An organization as secretive as our own, if not more. Our family was at war with them for centuries until Uncle Giancarlo achieved a truce. A very tenuous truce.

What the fuck is Dom doing with one of them playing messenger on his payroll? They’re unpredictable at best.

My paranoia doubles.

Not that there’s anything I can do about it.

So I stay in that sweet spot of rigid calm, trying to act like everything is normal. But how can I keep from looking over my shoulder if my boss has hired killers waiting in the wings, watching our every move?

And it sends my mind into paranoid rabbit holes about Gloria too. Is she working for Dom? Is he holding her ransom somehow?

Not exactly conversations I can just have with her.

“Well?” I snap back to the present, tilting my head and holding out my hand.

The man hesitates for only a moment before reluctantly handing me the packets. I’m definitely going to go head-to-head with Dom about this.

Standing my ground as his second, I have every right to be pissed about underlings defying my orders.

The guy bows his head in deference to my stormy expression. Then he’s back in his car and zooming off down the dark road.

“Damn. I’m off to Macau. More Triad fun for me.”

“What’s the mark?”

“Banker contact. No way it’s clean, so…”

“Be careful Ciro,” I grumble, heading back to the car. “And don’t steal anything from the Triad, please.”

“Hey, I’m the embodiment of careful! And there’s good gambling in Macau, at least. Something to do.”

“Don’t blow all of your money.”

“I’ll just blow all of Dom’s allowance for the trip, promise,” he quips, kicking his feet up. “Where are you headed, Ero?”

“Morocco.”

“For …”

“Doesn’t say. Orders forthcoming.”

“Wow. Must be something extra sneaky.”

Ciro continues chattering as we drive back to the warehouse, but I can tell he’s tense. We all are.

Back at our cars, we linger for a moment, eyeing each other. It’s awkward sometimes, the sentimental stuff.

Mostly just for me.

But there’s a chance that every time they head off on these missions for Dom that they might not make it back. Or if they do, that I’ll be gone. We hug it out, never speaking those thoughts, but sharing the burden nonetheless.

“You want me to take you to the airport?” I offer.

“Um. No. Orders say we need to make one stop before we head out. A stop off at the Diamond Lounge.”

“Ah. Right.” Of course, they have to meet with Dom privately to fill him in on their latest findings. Mission reports. And he’ll probably question them about anything off-script that went on.

So, we part ways and I’m left with nothing to do in the middle of the night. I should go home. Sleep.

Yeah. Right.

After everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I feel amped up. Tightly wound.

I take a drive, heading nowhere.

The time alone gives me an opportunity to lay out everything I know so far. To let ideas and brainstorms flow freely. One that’s been coalescing in the back of my head for weeks.

Patterns. Inconsistencies.

It hits me as I’m turning onto the 278. What I really need to do.

It’s risky. And impossible for me to keep up with.

But I head toward the airport anyway. At least to start with.

JFK is still pretty busy, even in the wee hours.

A change of car and clothes has me looking a lot less like myself. I sit and watch for a bit, taking notes.

Sure enough, I spot one of our guys after a few minutes.

He’s almost as obvious to me as an undercover cop looks to most experienced criminals. Outfit is too new. Too much fidgeting with a hat they’re not used to wearing. Little things.

And they always play it too casual.

It’s an art acting like you belong somewhere without arousing suspicion. People aren’t super perceptive by and large, but they feel it.

When something’s out of place.

Funny, not a single one of our guys notices me. Three of them, one on watch, one covering the exit.

And one checks the lockers, going through my brothers’ stashes. They keep these ready at all times for drop-of-a-hat missions. They probably do it every time they leave, every time they come back and reset the bags.

Too bad Ero and Ciro have backups that these clowns clearly know nothing about. The real stashes where they keep anything sensitive.

I mean, come on.

We’ve been doing this our entire lives.

A lot of Dom’s new crew are green by comparison. Small-time.

Wannabe gangsters who came from peddling weed on the street corner. Problem is, he’s got an army of them.

Ciro and Ero arrive separately, one by private car, the other in a yellow cab.

I know they see the watchers too, but they don’t let on. If they notice me, they also don’t show a hint of reaction, either.

I’m not here for them, though.

I’m here because of the idea that has been forming in the back of my head for the past few weeks. It started as a loose documenting of activities, notes on troop movement and money changing hands.

The more time I spent on the ground level, though, it grew.

A web of connecting pieces, scales tipped carefully and debts held ransom over key players. Gang leaders indebted to Dom. It’s not just promises. It’s leverage.

A picture of what he’s really up to has started to form, but I need more information to complete the mosaic. I’ve gathered the key players and movers.

I know who to follow.

I spend the rest of the night doing exactly that, zipping around this side of town and staking out a bar, a parking garage, an old tenement block under a bridge. They’re all added to the list.

The sun’s just peaking over the horizon when I realize I’ve been out all night. None of the pieces of the puzzle I found add any clarity to the branching, rootlike picture I’m drawing of the world around me, Dom’s world and my old family.

But it’s a step in the right direction.

Another step in the right direction is for me not to burn myself out.

“Get home and sleep, you jackass,” I mutter, imagining my older brother resting his hand on my shoulder and giving me that look he always gave when he was giving me an absolute order but being really nice about it.

Fortunately, I’m already a lot closer to my side of town by the time I head home.

Not that I expect to sleep much.

Mind’s racing.

Not just about this shit.

I’ve got other things to do today, even though it’s a Sunday. Dom’s got some big shindig planned for us tonight. Monday’s a holiday and there’s another get-together at the club in the morning.

He wants to show us off.

Gives him an excuse to have meetings with people without worrying about a reason.

Pulling into my building’s garage, I’ve got thoughts of a nice hot shower on my mind. I take the stairs to bleed out the excess energy, huffing my way to the eighth floor.

Gives me a chance to check for unwanted guests in the building too. Even though we have a doorman, security.

Can’t be too careful.

Especially when I pop out into the hallway and skid to a stop before I pitch over the piles of boxes and furniture blocking the way to my door.

“What the shit is this?” I murmur, trying to step around the chaos.

It only gets worse as a big bald guy in a green jumpsuit opens my door and steps out into the hall to grab another box.

“Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“My job, what’s it to ya?”

“What’s it—to me ?! I’m the fucking guy who lives here!” On occasion I hate to admit how much of a New Yorker I really am underneath. It comes out from time to time. “You know, the guy you should have had to get the key from!”

“Don’t look at me, man. Take it up with your lady.”

“My—”

And right then the elevator dings, opening across from me and revealing shimmering red locks, a cutoff shirt, and jeans on a figure that makes me instantly stand up straight. And I do not mean my posture.

“Gloria.”

“Adi!” she says warmly, but there’s a tension to her, like she didn’t expect to see me here. Like she just got caught in the act.

“Uh—”

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while.”

“Why would I not be home for a while?”

“Because your car wasn’t in your spot, and Hernando said he hadn’t seen you come home all night.” It’s all said innocently, almost hopeful. Like maybe I won’t explode?

Frankly, I’m too sleep-deprived and addled to get truly angry.

I also still have no clue what’s going on despite the clues.

“Gloria. Whose stuff is all of this?”

“Mine!”

I take a step closer, trying to get my brain to work.

“That’s…an answer.” I give her a look, willing her to elaborate.

“It is, and, oh! Tom, that goes in the bedroom, the chair can go in the living area, just move one of the other chairs to the balcony or something.” Gloria grins at the moving guy and he winks, hopping to it.

“Gloria.”

“Yes?” She preens under my gaze, staring me down and being fucking impossibly pretty. And difficult.

“Why are your things here?” And how the fuck is there so much stuff?! She had a bedroom and sitting area at Dom’s house if I remember correctly. Not dozens of boxes worth of things.

“Because I’m moving in.”

My eyes bug out at the statement. Of course she is.

It’s obvious.

But it still doesn’t register as something that could possibly be true and rational.

No one just shows up and invades my space. No one who knows me or what’s good for them. It’s like Isabella, before she was with Aless, staying with us at the lodge in the snowstorm. Sneaking into my wing, looking though my things.

She had no clue how it messed with me for days, checking that everything was in its place, that nothing had been taken.

I might or might not be a little OCD when it comes to my living space.

Gloria watches me closely as she edges away, looking through a few boxes and confirming their contents.

This is …

Absurd.

A rushing sound picks up in my ears as I look around at the mess, following me into the apartment where even more things are piled up, kitchenware dragged out of half-unpacked boxes, blankets on the couch and her chair where mine used to be and…

Red.

I see fucking red.

I’ve had panic attacks before.

This is a lot like one. Only it’s a lot more like the time Ciro got into a giving phase and donated everything in my room to charity at Christmas when I was seventeen.

“Gloria.” My voice sounds echoey in my head. Soft. Quiet.

She’s scooting things around, opening cabinets.

“Gloria.” It’s louder.

But she ignores me.

“Gloria!” It snaps out like a thunderclap, and she spins on me, her eyes wide.

Just for a second, I see fear in her gaze.

And just like that, the anger’s gone, the raging rush of my blood is fading into exhaustion.

I sounded so much like Aless, that anger. And worse, like Dom when we were kids.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She smiles, shrugging.

“For yelling. That’s not…” Looking around, the reality of the situation actually sinks in. Shaking my head laughter starts low in my gut, swelling through my chest.

“What’s so funny?” Gloria squints at me.

“I’ve really gotta stop staying out all night. Apparently crazy shit happens when I’m not around to stop it.”

“You really do, especially since now you’ll have me to come home to.”

“I have a job, you know. It requires me to be out at odd hours.”

“And that’s no business of mine, clearly.” She rolls her eyes at my tone. “But we may need to establish some ground rules for communication if I’m going to be living here.”

Off the cuff. Glib.

Like she’s always lived here, and we’ve been together for years instead of days.

The part of me that wants to protest, make her get out and take all of her clutter out of my neat and tidy house fades as she circles the bar, approaching me with a little sway of her hips. Her eyes never leave mine and all the arguments and reasons I had a second ago take a dive right off the balcony.

Why was I mad?

She tips the movers, closing the doors after them while I stand there like an idiot.

Her lips press together as she turns back, hiding a smile as she catches me sighing. “Can you really tell me no?”

One finger traces down my chest and I realize how close she is, the tight fitting T-shirt showing her midriff. Unbelievable.

“Axiom.”

“Bless you.”

“No. What you did. Reminds me of an axiom.”

“Oh? Did it have anything to do with shooting first and asking questions later ?”

“I was tempted to. Still am.”

She’s a step closer, her body inches from mine. “Fire away…”

“Is this your way of asking for forgiveness instead of permission?”

“Or maybe I’m giving permission…” Her voice is a whisper as I feel my head dip, our breath intermingling as our lips inch closer…

Her chest presses up against me, the sensation of her full, perky tits pressing into my chest shocking me like lightning. And triggering a sudden realization.

Pulling back I narrow my eyes. “Is this because I?—?”

“Karma is a bitch.”

Heat floods my face and I’m about to snap back when the door bangs open, a raspy, arrogant, spine-shivering voice interrupting us.

“Gloria! What in the name of Santa Maria is going on here?!”