Page 18 of Ruthless Lord

“You know me.” He smiles warmly. I don’t trust anyone who grins at a stranger like that. “I know you as well, Mr. Bianchi. I know you work for the Marino Famiglia.”

“That’s not a secret.” I slump down on a bench with a groan. “What do you need?”

“My employer wants to speak with you.”

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“Harrison Westbrook. You might not recognize the name, but I assure you, he’s very much worth your time.”

Westbrook…

I try not to show my surprise. That’s Charlie’s last name. And she was talking about how she’s connected and knows people…

Can’t be the same fucking family.

There’s no way I slept with the daughter of the man who runs these underground fights.

But knowing my luck, that’s exactly what happened.

The way Albert’s looking at me, I get the feeling this isn’t exactly a request. Men like Westbrook, men who have resources and power, rarely give men like me any options.

My lower back aches. My knee’s definitely sprained.

Slowly, I push back to my feet, despite how badly I want to sit and rest a while.

“Let’s go then.”

Albert’s smile fades. “You don’t want to change?”

“No reason to.”

“You have blood—” He gestures at me. “All over.”

I grab a towel and wipe it off my chest. Then I pull a shirt on. “Better?”

Albert laughs as he turns away.

“Good enough. Follow me. He’s not far.”

Chapter 5

Charlie

One day earlier…

I findmy father in his study. He’s leaning back in a large, overstuffed Eames chair, feet up on the ottoman section, as loud jazz blares in his face. His eyes are closed and his narrow lips are pressed together. His bald head gleams in the soft overhead lighting. Speakers worth more than a small house make the walls and the thousands of records lined up in stacks vibrate ever so slightly.

Dad doesn’t look back at me, but he knows I’m here. He wants me to stand awkwardly while his favorite piece of music comes to a roaring end, and only then will he finally grace me with his attention.

Screw that. I march over to the turntable and lift the needle off the record.

I do it carefully, though.

I’m not a monster, and it isn’t the record’s fault my dad’s a prick.

His eyes open and he frowns at me. I face him, hands on my hips. A few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of high-end audio gear is stacked all around me. It’s hard not to note that my father’s study has almost nothing related to business anywhere.

“I see you’re home.” His voice is low and crinkly. I’m pretty sure it’s put on for effect, but I really don’t know.