Page 24 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

“A complaint?” I repeat as the word curdles on my tongue. “On me? You got a complaint about me? Who?”

Carmine shifts uncomfortably in his chair, unable to meet my eyes.

This man was once one of the most feared underbosses the Outfit had ever seen, and yet, under my scrutinizing gaze, he cowers, wishing he could be anywhere else than have to deal with me and my anger.

Funny how a disgruntled woman can rattle a guy who’s stared down guns and blood feuds without flinching.

“Does it matter?” he asks, pretending to be busy with paperwork and dodging my question.

“Yes, Carmine, it does,” I rebuke, slamming my palms flat on his desk to grab his attention. Once he has no excuse but to look me in the eye, I continue with my rant. “How would you feel if someone made a complaint against you and your work? You’d want names too.”

In fact, during Carmine’s heyday, he would have likely put two bullets in the back of the head of anyone who dared to tarnish his reputation.

My gaze never leaves his, but when he still gives me nothing, I continue badgering him, unwilling to let the matter go.

“How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even know who I’m defending myself against?” I ask, but as soon as the words spill through my lips, it hits me.

There’s only one person in this entire gym who has a problem with me. One person who would love nothing more than to stir the pot until either Carmine fired me, or I quit on my own accord. His grandson—Marcello.

I stand upright and cross my arms over my chest while leveling Carmine with a hard stare.

“Okay. Don’t tell me. But at least give me the courtesy of explaining what they’re complaining about.”

Carmine winces like he’d rather have a vasectomy than talk about Marcello’s grievances with me.

“It’s… about how you present yourself,” he mutters ambiguously.

“Could you be any vaguer, Carmine? Just give it to me straight. Just tell me what their problem is. What did I do that was so wrong that they thought a formal complaint was the only way to solve the issue?”

He cracks his neck from left to right, still looking uncomfortable with this whole topic.

The hell did Marcello say to this man?

“Ma… I mean… the disgruntled party implied that your attire… well… he said that he feels…”

“Carmine, please? Just come out with it already,” I demand, getting even more annoyed as he drags this out.

“He thinks that what you wear isn’t appropriate for the gym. That it can be distracting to some members,” he explains at last, his face going beet red.

“Distracting?” My voice goes cold. “Is he seriously slut-shaming me right now?”

“No, no, no,” Carmine says quickly backpaddling, though we both know that’s exactly what this is about.

“You’re entitled to wear whatever you want. It’s your prerogative and your God-given right. I mean, this is the twenty-first century after all. He can’t expect me to demand otherwise,” he trails off as if the complaint confused him as much as me. “I said as much to him.”

“I should hope so.” I grit my teeth, pissed that Marcello would sink so low just to cause me problems with my new boss.

That asshole.

Marcello couldn’t care less about what I wear to work.

He’s just trying to stir shit up. Just like I did yesterday by showing up at the same café he took his baby sister to.

It was risky for me to show up like that, but I wanted to push his buttons.

Ever since I fought Stella at the gym, he’s been acting like I’m radioactive.

Always keeping his distance and making sure that our paths never cross.

If it hadn’t been for bumping into Stella and him earlier in the week at UChicago, I wouldn’t have anything to report to Haynes later tonight.

And for all his flaws, Haynes is an even bigger asshole than Marcello.

In all the files I received from the Bureau concerning Marcello and his family, there was nothing there stating that Stella was a senior at the same college where I was supposed to be taking my master’s degree.

Not only did it come as a complete shock, but it would have been a useful detail, as I could have buddied up to Stella sooner.

After all, he was the one who chose the school I’d attend, so he must have done it on purpose.

In other words, Haynes was testing me yet again.

Trying to see if I was as good as Director Rodrick thinks I am.

And if he hid that information from me, who knows what else he’s hiding.

Aside from Carmine, the men in my life are more trouble than what they’re worth.

Well, fuck him. Fuck both of them. I’ll have words with Haynes tonight when we meet for my weekly report.

And as for Marcello? I need to nip this in the bud before the rumor mill finds out about his complaint about me.

Even if I didn’t have my own ulterior motives to work at this gym, I still wouldn’t quit just because some insecure prick has a problem with my clothes.

Hell, half the new female members wear way more revealing stuff than I do.

And guess what? That’s their right. If it empowers them, if it makes them feel strong or beautiful or just comfortable, then screw what anyone else thinks. And that includes Marcello Romano.

“So? Where do we stand?” I ask Carmine once I’ve taken control of my anger.

“Right where we stood before,” Carmine says, with a shrug. “I didn’t take the complaint seriously, but I figured you’d want to know.”

That some pissant has a problem with my leggings? Yeah, I want to know.

I make a mental note to wear something even more revealing tomorrow just to piss Marcello off.

This isn’t how I thought my night would end, but here we are.

“Thanks. I appreciate you having my back, Carmine. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it. Please. Ever,” he groans, happy to finally put an end to this conversation.

I give him a curt nod and walk out of his office, my frustration and anger still bubbling under my skin.

Since it’s a quarter to ten, the gym is quieter now.

Most of the lights are dimmed in areas no longer in use.

There’s the low hum of old fluorescent lights, the distant thud of gloves against heavy bag leather, and the faint metallic tang of sweat and disinfectants in the air.

Aside from the cleaning crew doing their rounds, there are only maybe a handful of diehards who still remain.

And will do so until Carmine comes out of his office and shouts for them to go home.

Marcello is still in the ring, as always, ending his day by throwing punches at nothing but air and memory.

I don’t trust myself right now to look at him. I’m sure that my face says it all, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he got to me.

I’m glad I don’t have any more training sessions tonight. I can just go home, take a shower, and unwind until I meet Haynes at midnight.

“You got time for one more?” I hear someone say, and turn to see who’s stupid enough to willingly dare Marcello in the ring, only to see one of the gym’s regulars emerging from the shadows, stepping into the light, closer to the ring’s ropes.

“Aldo,” he finally offers when Marcello doesn’t give him the time of day. “Zappa’s crew,” he adds, as if it were supposed to mean something to Marcello, completely unaware of my familiarity with that name.

This guy works for Elio Zappa, one of Vincent’s most loyal capos. By the look of him, Aldo’s just muscle and nothing more. A grunt for the Outfit. And if you ask me, that’s all he’ll ever be.

Not everyone gets the privilege of taking the oath and dedicating their life to the famiglia.

Becoming a capo? Becoming a made man? That takes pedigree.

Bloodlines that trace all the way back to the old country.

Not only that, but you must have been groomed very early for the life.

Discretion is the very first rule they teach you to obey.

And judging by how loudly Aldo just broadcasted who he works for, discretion isn’t exactly his strong suit.

“I know who you are,” Marcello says evenly, not dignifying him with a look.

The disrespect pisses off Aldo.

“What? You can’t fight if there isn’t a crowd to watch you? Is that it?”

Yeah, Aldo will never say the omertà in his lifetime. Maybe not even the next. A smarter man wouldn’t bait Marcello in such a way.

To his credit, Marcello continues his training, unaffected by the taunt, which ends up infuriating Aldo even more.

“I should have known the Thorn’s bastard was too much of a pussy to get into the ring with a real man.”

This gets Marcello’s attention, and not in a good way. I swallow hard when I see him tilt his head to his opponent and smile. His eyes are vacant of any emotion, but that smile… it’s haunting.

It’s not the first time I’ve noticed that Marcello is more like a possessed machine than a man made out of flesh and bone when he’s in the ring, but this? This is different.

“What did you just call me?” he asks, his voice deeper, lower, darker than I’ve ever heard.

Aldo notices the shift, too. One second, he’s cockily leaning against the ropes, the next, he’s stepping back as if he just realized he poked something that bites.

“Get in,” Marcello says, flat and cold.

“Don’t do it,” I hear myself rasp, but it comes out too soft and far too late.

Whether it’s courage or sheer stupidity, Aldo somehow gathers enough of it to step into the ring. His hands are already wrapped, and as he lifts up both fists, Marcello’s smile is wiped clean off his face.

“Remember tonight,” he says.

It’s a warning. A warning for Aldo to never again call him that name—the Thorn’s bastard.

Having been born and raised not a stone’s throw away from this gym, I’ve heard the rumors about Ciro LaSpina, aka The Thorn, and Marcello’s mother, Selene, The Red Queen herself.