by Faye Byrd
Snorting at my twisted actions, I get up, heading straight for the bathroom, my hard-on leading the way. I glare at that motherfucker because any attention he might’ve gotten is now off the fucking table. No woman is going to dictate my self-love action, and this particular woman has already done it once.
The first thing I do is take a long overdue piss, which releases a little of the pressure, before moving to the sink to brush my teeth—twice. After that, I get into the shower and turn the water on cold; the motherfucker deflates like a balloon.
“Take that,” I say, rolling my goddamn eyes when I realize I just spoke to my fucking cock.
I shake my fucking head and twist the hot knob before grabbing my shampoo. The familiar scent catches in the steam and wafts upward, helping to clear my foggy mind. The water beats against my body, invigorating my achy muscles, and my mind starts looking ahead instead of behind to the lingering fucked-up-ness that was yesterday.
As I cleanse my body, I go through the things I want to accomplish before seeing Piper—yes, no matter how pussyish I feel this morning, it’s not enough to fucking deter me from going to her. A few phone calls make the list, and so does a trip to visit Anna, but when I think of Ivan, fucking thoughts of Madeline barge in and ruin that shit. I close that box right back up and store it for another day—I’m still too fucking pissed to consider her bullshit right now.
I place my loofah on its drying rack and step under the rainfall shower to rinse my body, allowing the water to wash away my growing anger. I won’t let this shit affect me two days in a row. I twist the knobs, a little more forcefully than is warranted, and step out, wrapping one towel around my waist and grabbing another for my hair.
As I’m scrubbing the towel through my hair, a loud ding echoes through the sound system. Company. Whoever it is has used their print to let themselves in, which means it can only be one of two people. Ivan or my father.
Why the fuck did I give them unlimited access to my penthouse?
I shake my head and toss the extra towel aside, heading for my bedroom door. By the time I’m halfway up the hall, the giggle coming from Mimi gives me my answer, and I roll my goddamn eyes. This fucking better be a social visit with her along. I can tolerate their relationship, but business in front of her pisses me the hell off. It’s like she’s fucked all the sense from his old ass.
As I enter the living room, the sight that greets me brings my feet to a halt. Pop is sprawled on my cum-stained sofa with Mimi straddling his lap. One of her hands is clenched in his hair, snatching his head to the side so she can access his neck.
From here, I can see her tongue as it runs along the skin, but she pauses when she realizes I’m in the room. Her eyes flick to me—well, to my fucking chest. I smirk and flex my pecs. Her gaze jumps upward, and my eyes narrow. She licks her lips in invitation, and though I know once a whore, always a whore, this is about more than that.
It’s about loyalty.
Her fucking loyalty to the Boss—I’m seriously beginning to question it.
“Have a little fucking respect,” I snap, motioning for her to move her ass off his lap. “This is my fucking house, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“Dante,” Pop says, flicking his eyes between my towel and my face. “Did someone break in and steal your clothes?”
“Nah,” I say as I flop into my chair. “Is my hotness too much for you”—my eyes go to Mimi—“or are you worried your goomah will be overly impressed?”
She huffs, but I ignore her and focus back on Stefano, who just throws his head back in a booming laugh. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be impressed. Like father, like son after all.”
Jesus fuck! He’s trying to shove mental images into my head. I cover my ears and shake my head. “Stop. No talking.”
Pop holds up his hands, and I uncover my ears but keep my hands close, just in fucking case. “No worries, son. We have a look but don’t touch policy.”
I cut my eyes to Mimi, who’s sitting with her tits mashed into his side and a smug ass look on her face. “Whatever, Boss,” I say, lowering my hands. “Just save the macking for when you’re alone.”
“We were alone,” Mimi pipes up with her smartass mouth.
“In your own fucking home,” I snap, definitely not in the mood to hear her cocky bullshit. “Ho le palle piene!” I grumble, eying Pop.
“Sick of what shit?” he asks with a chuckle, pulling Mimi tighter against him—if that’s even fucking possible.
I fucking sigh, already foreseeing another shitty day. “Fuhgeddaboudit,” I say and wave him off since I’m only wasting my fucking breath.
He sits forward then, elbows propped on his knees. “We have business to discuss anyway. It isn’t going to make you happy either.”
I have two thoughts in quick succession. The first is about making sure business is discussed in private, but it’s the second that’s the scary one. Does he already know about Piper, and if so, what’s his response going to be?
As much as I’d like to keep him in a decent fucking mood, I can’t help but be wary of his side piece. I shake my head. “Boss, I respect your choices”—my eyes flick to Mimi—“but maybe your plus one should go do her morning exercises or some shit.”
Mimi rubs her hand up my father’s chest and twists his face to hers. “Children these days,” she says with an eye roll as she puckers her lips. After a kiss that makes me want to fucking puke, she scoots back and stands, cutting her eyes to me. “I would never betray Stefano.” She turns and sways her ass toward the elevator without another word.
And while that’s just goddamn great, I don’t miss the fucking fact that she only said Stefano, not me or even the Outfit. My acceptance of Mimi has always been a contentious issue. It’s not so much that he has a goomah. I don’t begrudge him that one fucking bit—especially considering my mother. But when your pop, who’s almost sixty, waltzes in with a twenty-year-old on his arm, you can’t take it very seriously. Yet we fast forward over two years later, and she’s become an extension of him. With each new interaction, though, the closer I fucking look, the less sure I am that her dumb nymphomaniac persona isn’t just an act.
By this point, there’s only one exit she can make from this life—fucking death, though I’m not sure the Boss would agree.
“You know that was unnecessary,” the man himself says, breaking into my thoughts. “Mimi doesn’t have loose lips. Unless, of course, I request them.”
I bury my head in my hands while he just chuckles. “What the fuck?” I mumble as I rub my face vigorously before giving him an incredulous stare.
“Oh, Dante, don’t be such a sourpuss. You’re sitting here barely covered, yet it kills you if I make one itty-bitty joke.” He spreads his thumb and pointer a centimeter or so apart as he rolls his eyes.
“No son wants to hear about his father’s cock in a broad’s mouth, even when the fucking woman isn’t your mother. Got me?” I jab my finger in his direction to make my point and stand. “Now, want some breakfast or something?”
Pop leans back and rubs his stomach. “I could eat.”
“Come on.” I tilt my head to the bar. “I’ll make omelets, and we can chat.”
He stands to follow. “Talk about cock. Why don’t you go throw on some clothes first? I can see yours bobbing under that damn towel.”
I turn and walk backward a few steps, smirking and giving a little hip-shake. “Bobbing would imply I’m turned on. This is au naturel, Pop.”
He snorts and makes a shooing motion. “I know all about it, son. Good genes.”
I shake my head and turn back toward the hall as he moves to the bar. I don’t know why I bother trying to one-up his ass. The Boss may be slowly passing the reins over to me, business-wise, but his mind is far from depleted. He can still hang with the best of them, as that little verbal sparring match just proved.
Instead of dressing in my suit, because that might take a fucking minute, I grab some basketball shorts and a tee, slipping t
hem on and heading back to the kitchen. Pop is perched at the bar with a glass of OJ sitting in front of him. At my Sub-Zero refrigerator, I grab eggs, ham, tomato, bell pepper, butter, and cheese, depositing it all on the counter and reaching to my hanging rack for a couple of nonstick frying pans.
As I work to dice the vegetables and get the pepper in the pan to sweat, I glance at the Boss. “So, what brings you here this fine morning?”
I catch him while he’s taking a sip of his juice, and he pauses, setting it down with extra force. “Mexico,” he snarls, and fuck, that earlier feeling of my day going down the drain reemerges with a quickness. “Our last batch of coke was cut.”
“Fuck!” I snap as I add the tomatoes and ham to the bell pepper. “Did you test it yourself?”
“Of fucking course I did, son,” the Boss says, annoyed that I’d dare question him. But I know how this works, and it’s generally Carlos who tests our stuff—he’s on my shit list. “I’ve already called Pedro too, and I didn’t like his response.”
I tense, not liking the direction this fucking conversation is going, but I continue my work, cracking eggs into a bowl. My focus is entirely on breakfast as I wait for the rest of the details. I don’t want to give him any ideas, though I suspect I already know where this is headed. But just in case it’s not, I keep my fucking mouth shut.
Just as I pour the eggs into the second pan, I hear the telltale sound of his fingers tapping on the bar just before he heaves a heavy sigh. “I think we both know what has to happen.”
“I told you we needed a new supplier,” I respond casually, using the skimmer to collect the filling and add it to the eggs along with a healthy serving of cheese. I lift the pan, and with a fancy flick of my wrist, the omelet is folded.
“I’d always hoped …” He trails off, and I know what the fuck he hoped, but people are goddamn idiots. Just because the Boss was able to depend on Pedro’s father, it doesn’t mean he can depend on him.
I remove the pan from the burner and slice the omelet, slipping each half onto its own plate. Grabbing them up, I move to the bar. “More juice?” I ask, putting off the inevitable.
He fucking knows it, too. “Sit, Dante.” He points to my stool with his fork. “I should’ve let you handle this months ago, but I was too stubborn to listen. Well, no more. Your flight leaves at eleven.” He takes the first bite of his omelet, humming at the taste, while I just stare at him in goddamn shock.
“Eleven?” I croak, choked by the anger that surges to the surface for one specific reason.
Piper.
And I can’t even show my ass over it.
His eyes narrow as he chews his food thoughtfully. “I suspected you’d be pissed that I didn’t listen before, but you seem overly so. Is there a problem you need to discuss?” His eyes zero in on my fingers that are gripping my fork like a fucking lifeline.
I work hard to release my death grip, which results in the fork clattering to the marble, the sound echoing through the quiet. Swallowing, I choke back every goddamn word I wish I could spew and stand. “No problem,” I say, shaking my head. “You could’ve led with this bit of info, though, so I could actually make my fucking flight instead of spending my morning serving you goddamn breakfast.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes.” He chuckles and shoves the last bite of his omelet into his mouth before standing and approaching me, gripping my tense shoulder. “You’re traveling as Antonio Mancini, and of course I’ve booked you a private jet. Now get packed. Lorenzo is standing by to drive you to the airport.”
I clench my fucking jaw, afraid that if I open my mouth, everything I can’t fucking say will come rushing out. Instead, I give him a terse fucking nod and walk the fuck away, leaving him to see his own way out.
When I make it to my room, I’m goddamned relieved that I didn’t waste my time on a suit earlier. I run into the bathroom and grab my travel case of toiletries—there are just some niceties a man can’t fucking live without. From there I step into my closet, slipping on a casual pair of loafers. With just these meager items, I make my way back through the penthouse and toward the elevator.
While I travel to the twelfth floor, I access the system and set my prints as the only acceptable method of entry into the penthouse via the control panel. Lorenzo still holds override power for emergency entrance, but that requires going to him for access.
I smile to my fucking self the rest of the way down.
Antonio Mancini, while still affluent, is no-fucking-where near my level of riches—or taste. He’s the epitome of a single, successful businessman who purchases nice things, but they’re straight from a goddamn rack instead of custom-tailored from the finest materials. My fucking silk boxers cost more than his average suit.
I sigh as I discard my clothes and pull on a pair of less than stellar Calvin Kleins. The rest of my casual outfit, which consists of Dockers and a Polo, is just as unappealing. I step into the bathroom where I insert Antonio’s blue contacts, and then I give the bottle of hair gel sitting on the shelf the fucking stink-eye.
By the time I’m dressed and packed, there’s absolutely no time for anything else—not that I’d know what to do at ten-thirty in the morning any-fucking-way. If I hadn’t been such a drunken idiot, I would’ve gotten Piper’s fucking number last night—and I can get it within minutes now, don’t get me wrong. I’m just not ready to admit to myself—or her—just how far I’ve already encroached into her privacy.
Nor am I ready to stop.
I growl as I snatch Antonio’s H&M Weekend Bag from the bed—boring, just like him.
As the Boss promised, Lorenzo’s expecting me with the trunk of the Mercedes already open, awaiting my bag. I don’t speak as I toss it inside and move to the driver’s seat before he can fucking blink. He settles into the passenger side with only a smug-ass side glance. I want to knock that look off his fucking face, but I refrain, as I actually like Lorenzo—most days.
Instead, I use driving as an outlet for my frustration. The car zips through the streets, running through yellow lights and rolling through stop signs. It isn’t until I floor it under a red that Lorenzo has finally had enough.
“Whoa, Boss.” He grips the dash. “How about letting up a little? I’ve lived a lot of years in this life, and I’d like for that to continue. Besides, getting pulled over right now might not be a good idea.”
My leg, which has been tensed against the gas pedal, loosens slightly as he subtly reminds me I’m Antonio Mancini. The speedometer slowly ticks downward. Begrudgingly, I say, “I suppose.”
“Last night go bad or something?” he asks, and the fucking fatherly concern I hear in his question sends a spike of irritation surging through me before the fucking resignation sets in.
I sigh and ease off the gas a little more. “I told ya last night, she was just seeing me home.”
“Right,” he says, and he drags it out like he doesn’t fucking believe me, but why should he? I don’t believe myself.
Last night, though sloppy as fuck on my part, was the first step in a very complicated acquisition. There are so many outlying factors still to be determined, especially considering her fucking father and his parting words. But also, her thoughts themselves. We can only move forward if we’re in the same frame of mind, and we haven’t spoken enough to make that determination.
And now we won’t—for a few days at least.
“It’s complicated,” I finally answer with a sigh. “She was just seeing me home, but this trip puts off any further contact until I’m back in the US.”
“I see.” He nods. “That’s what has you in such a pissy mood? You live for assignments like these. Think about what’s to come, not what you’re missing, and you’ll be just fine.”
I tilt my head as I consider his words, and deliciously evil images take over my mind. I smirk and cut my eyes to Lorenzo. “That actually fucking helped,” I say, already feeling a little of the rush that comes with the urge to kill. “Thanks.”
“A
ny time,” he replies with a strong grip on my shoulder.
Before I know it, we’re on the tarmac and Lorenzo is handing me my bag from the trunk, along with a hefty file folder. “Here’s a dossier of useful information,” he says before shutting the trunk and pinning me with serious eyes. “Just come home safely, son.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I smirk before heading for the steps.
It isn’t until I’m comfortably seated with a drink in my hand that I realize I have company for this trip. Though it makes sense on the most basic fucking level, it still irks the fuck out of me. Goddamn Carlos—aka Carter, Antonio’s flavor of the month—comes from the back of the plane and takes the seat directly across the aisle from me.
“’Sup, Boss,” he says with a chin tilt toward the file in my lap. “What’s the plan?”
NINE
BLOODTHIRSTY
By the time the plane touches down in Puerto Vallarta, Carlos and I have poured over the dossier the Boss collected ahead of this trip. As I said, his mind is still top-notch, and the Outfit’s influence is far-reaching. This information holds access to reliable resources—our cover, manpower, weaponry, and transportation assistance, along with a detailed layout of the compound where Pedro is located.
He’s too stupid to know who he’s fucking with.
Antonio and Carter are booked into a quiet bungalow nestled on the outer edges of a mid-level luxury resort, just a stone’s throw from the beach. Antonio, tired of the daily grind of his fast-paced position, decided a weekend away would do him some good, but he’s never one to relax alone. Enter Carter, his preferred company—this fucking trip anyway.
I chuckle a little at the goddamn irony of it all. But that’s what makes this cover so perfect—he’s the complete and total opposite of who I am. If Dante Simone rolls into town, you can bet your sweet ass every criminal within a hundred-mile radius is aware. Antonio Mancini never even gets a second look—and we’re fucking identical—aside from his blue contacts and greasy, slicked-back hair. I shiver just thinking about it and refrain from lifting my hand to scrub through the hard mass on top of my fucking head.