Relentless: A Bad Boy Romance (Bertoli Crime Family #1)

by Lauren Landish

  Chapter 20

  Dane

  It was a rarity in Atlanta as snowfall dotted the winter landscape. It was a rare gift to get the day after Christmas, and one that I appreciated. “You're probably one of the few people who aren't freaked out by this,” Patrick said to me as I looked out the big glass window of the rented hotel ballroom area. “Think you can get us all home without a problem?”

  “Patrick, it's less than a quarter-inch of snow,” I said with a light laugh. “I think even you Southerners could drive home in this. The most dangerous thing out there right now is the other drivers, panicking and acting like idiots.”

  “Never underestimate the ability of mankind to act like idiots,” he replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. He was looking remarkably well for a man after his second heart attack. Part of that was due to his month with Monica, I was sure. She’d imbibed a bit of Marine spirit into him, and he took up jogging, working himself up to two miles a day over the ground in the back yard. I'd even paced him once or twice, and he did pretty good for his age. “By the way, congratulations again on the first semester. You did well.”

  I turned away from the window and took a sip of my own whiskey and soda. “I'll be honest. I was scared stupid for about the first week or so. It was only because of Abs that I was able to get my head out of my ass and recognize that I actually enjoy learning.”

  “I'd say a 3.2 GPA for your first semester back after a decade off from school is more than cause for celebration,” Patrick said. “Come on, let's enjoy the rest of the party. Those from the company who showed up, at least.”

  “Hey, more for us then,” I joked. “You know, besides the bar.”

  “This is my month's ration of fried foods, so don't make me regret it too much,” Patrick joked in reply. We left the entryway and went back into the party, where the place was only about half full. We hadn't expected a big turnout. After all, the party was being held the day after Christmas, but with everything else going on in our lives, it was about the only way to fit it in.

  “So you really won't mind that I'm taking a few weeks off?” I asked as we made our way through the room. “I mean, three weeks right after the beginning of the year isn't exactly easy for the company.”

  “You know, Dane, I've watched you carefully the past six months,” Patrick said, stopping about a third of the way across, near a large cake that was shaped like an excavator and festooned with a fondant banner that read Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Rawlings Construction. “And I'll admit that I've been more than a little tough on you. I've given you enough rope to hang yourself more than once, and each time you keep busting your ass and working hard. So let me give you a little bit of advice.”

  “What's that?” I asked, curious. While I didn't think that he’d ever let me out to dry, I do know that he consciously avoided giving me the rub around the office. He wanted me to stand and become respected on my own, not because I was his daughter's fiancée. It had taken a fair bit of work, but I felt like I was fitting in around the place now and could hold my own with some of the regular workers.

  “You're getting married tomorrow,” Patrick said, pointing to the table where Brittany and Abby were chatting. Their relationship had grown closer in the past six months, and while I doubted that she would ever call her Mom, Abby had certainly come to understand and appreciate more about Brittany than I think she had in the nearly twelve years prior. “The one thing that I value most, looking at that table now, is the time that I spent not building properties. It's the time I spent playing with my little girl. I'm prouder of the fact I could make Barbie's horse whinny than the fact that I can buy a couple of real horses.”

  “So you think I should back off?” I asked, incredulous. “After all you've pushed me toward in the past half-year?”

  “I think you should work just as hard as you have every moment since they let you out of Leavenworth,” Patrick retorted, giving me a half-grin at the end. “Just make sure you're working on the right things, that's all.”

  One of the company vice presidents came up, wishing us a happy holiday, and I used it as an opportunity to part ways with them. I'd come to admire Patrick, and while our relationship got off to a rocky start, we got along well enough. There was, of course, the unstated but obvious tension as his daughter let him go and became closer to me, but I think every man goes through that when he gets engaged.

  I headed over to Abby and Brittany, who were laughing as Abby described in detail our new apartment. We'd moved in just after Thanksgiving, after the neighbors in the first apartment complex we'd tried had turned out to enjoy partying a bit too much for our tastes. “Yeah, I know it's still nowhere near what I had at home with you and Daddy, but it's ours,” Abby said as I approached. I figured she was telling Brittany about our upstairs neighbors, who had a slightly disturbing habit of turning their nightly yoga sessions from Iyengar to Tantric, if you know what I mean. Still, better than listening to Flo Rida all weekend long. “We figure it'll keep us going for a while though. At least until I finish my Masters.”

  “You ladies make this party a lot better looking than any decoration or band could,” I greeted them as I came within greeting distance. Abby got up and we kissed, laying her head on my shoulder. “Hey, Abs. You miss me?”

  “Not too much,” she teased me, rubbing my chest. “Just enough that I can't wait until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you can wait another few hours,” Brittany laughed, sipping at her champagne. “After all, it isn't like in my parents' day when the couple would have to spend every night apart until the wedding ceremony.”

  “Good for us, then.” Abby laughed. She reached down to the table and took a sip of her ginger ale, something I'd noticed earlier. Abby had never been a big drinker, but then again, neither was I. I used to be, but I’d seen firsthand what nastiness alcoholics could do. In the apartment, we didn't have any alcohol at all other than a bottle of Malbec that we'd been given as a gift for moving in. “Say, babe, are you sure you'll be good for picking Shawnie up from the airport tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, this is my last one,” I replied, taking the final sip and setting the glass down on the table. “I don't want to have my nuptials marred by a hangover or anything.”

  Brittany smiled in approval and finished her glass of champagne as well. “A wise decision. Well, you two enjoy yourself. I need to powder my nose, as the saying goes.”

  She left us, and I led Abby closer, away from the table, and took her out to the dance floor. The live band wasn't the best in town, but even a second-rate band in a city like Atlanta can beat the pants off anything a lot of other places can offer. We found an empty spot on the dance floor and I pulled her into my arms. “Think of it as practice for tomorrow.”

  “You know, I think Brittany is expecting at least a little bit of Viking tomorrow with all of that Norse stuff you talk about,” Abby said as we danced. “She's going to be highly disappointed.”

  “Well, I guess I could rip off my shirt, grease myself up, and try to wrestle a bear, but those are kind of hard to find this time of year,” I joked. “I guess she'll have to settle for the roasted meats and maybe a song or two. You know I just take it in stride anyway.”

  “I know. It's why I love you so much,” Abby said. “Enjoying the party?”

  “Better than listening to the Washingtons upstairs,” I replied. “Trying to watch The Charlie Brown Christmas Special while they were having sex was not the experience I was hoping for.”

  “We've kind of given them a concert or two as well,” Abby reminded me. “Or did you forget Monday night?”

  “How could I?” I chuckled. We turned on the floor, moving in gentle circles, not really following any one pattern but just moving together. “Hey, Abs, I don't want to pry, but you seem to be a bit off tonight. Worried about tomorrow?”

  “No,” Abby replied. “I'm excited, yes, but not worried. Why?”

  “I just noticed you're only hitting the ginger ale. You don't think we'll ge
t too drunk and oversleep, do you?”

  Abby leaned back, her honey blonde hair shimmering in the soft light, her blue eyes twinkling like twin sapphires, and laughed, long and loud. If it hadn't been a party, or if the music had been softer, she would have garnered a lot of attention, but as it was, she barely registered. When her laughter was over, she pulled my head down and kissed me. “I’m not worried about that at all,” she whispered in my ear after the kiss was broken. “I wanted to wait until we were alone tonight, but I have a late Christmas gift for you.”

  “Oh? What's that?” I asked, flummoxed. We hadn't exchanged too many gifts, so a late one seemed strange.

  “You get to find out in about nine months,” Abby whispered, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “Merry Christmas . . . Daddy.”

  PREVIEW: Reckless

  Bertoli Crime Family Book 2

  **Subject to change before publication**

  Chapter 1

  Tomasso

  From ten thousand feet, circling SeaTac in our landing pattern, I was disappointed in seeing Seattle again. I should have driven. Up there, it was too pristine, too clean, too . . . quiet. I'd spent the past four years, more or less, being quiet. I was ready to get back into the pulse of life.

  Not that the quiet hadn't helped. Four years prior, when I was eighteen, the last thing I wanted to be was Tomasso Bertoli, heir apparent of Carlo Bertoli, Godfather of all of Seattle and Tacoma. I wanted to be a normal guy, with normal dreams and the expectation that I wouldn't have to risk my life either from getting shot like my uncle Johnny, or going to jail like my cousin Vince. Spending ten years in jail worried about dropping the soap? No thanks, not for me, even if I was protected.

  So I took the opportunity to get the hell out of Seattle. In fact, I went country, although my family never really knew to what extent. Going by the name of Tom Bertoli, I couldn't hide my heritage, but I hid just about everything else. Gone were the suits, the designer clothes, and the slick looks that had gotten me plenty of attention and plenty of ass in high school. Instead, I'd worn off-the-shelf jeans and t-shirts. My Alfa Romeo was replaced with a Chevy, and I tried to act like a normal college student.

  Well, a normal college student in most ways. I was about fifty miles from the Gulf Coast in Alabama, in a little town that was just outside Mobile, and I grew to appreciate a few things. Fried catfish for one. Dusted in corn flower and then deep fried, I had to work hard to keep the weight off during my first year in college. I'm not one of those skinny poof types -- I took after my uncle Johnny and have loved the weights and the powerful look since about the first time I picked up a weight in the house gym. So as good as it was, I had to watch the Southern food.

  But the second and best part about being in the South? Southern girls. Say what you want -- there's a lot of dirt poor areas -- but the women are something else. Southern girls, they know how to treat their man right. They know how to talk, how to move, and just how to be feminine in ways that the girls I knew in Seattle didn't. Some of them liked to put on a front about being good girls, but once you got past it, they were down to fuck like it was nobody's business. The hardest part was getting the snaps on their shorts undone.

  But starting in my junior year, things just went weird for me. Maybe it was that I got bored. Classes were easy, and finding new challenges in the women department was getting harder and harder. I mean, I'd picked up a pretty good list of accomplishments, but it was just too easy and I stopped wanting to be in the South any longer.

  Whatever the reason, my last semester in college, I felt an itch inside me, a desire to go back to Seattle. I'd left because I didn't want to be Tomasso Bertoli, crown prince of the Bertoli family, and I knew I still didn't . . . at least to a degree. I didn't want to be handed a position merely due to my last name. What I wanted was to earn my place, to work my way up. If I was to take over when my father was ready to retire, then I'd do it because I was ready to handle the position. If I couldn't, then I'd happily pass it on to Adriana or Daniel if they wanted it, or to my little brother Angelo.

  My thoughts raced in my mind as the Delta 737 circled SeaTac. The city was just too damn sleepy and sterile up in the air. I should have driven.

  Thankfully, I was met at the gate by one of my favorite members of the Bertoli family, Pietro Marconi's son Jake. Instead of going to college, Jake signed up for a three year hitch with the Army, figuring that he'd pick up all the training he needed to become better at following in his father's footsteps by working a little bit for the government. He'd gotten out a few months before I graduated, and looked healthy and happy. "Tommy, it's good to see you."

  "Actually Jake, if you can make it Tomasso now," I said with a smile, exchanging brotherly hugs with my friend. "I think I got all the Tommy out of me down South. You ever get to Alabama?"

  "Can't say that I did," Jake replied. Unlike his father, who looked like he was Italian, Jake always had a bit of a California surfer vibe to him, but who knew where in his DNA the dark dirty blond came from. His mother, Carla Marconi, had coal black hair like her husband. “The best I could manage was doing infantry school over at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Then they stuck me in fucking Korea for the rest of the time."

  "Which is probably why if I visited Korea right now, I'd find a ton of little half Korean, half Italian kids running around," I joked back. "Seoul's going to need a new Little Italy."

  Jake laughed, patting me on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Tomasso. You seem different though, more serious than you were, a more focused look about you.”

  "We can talk in the car. What did you drive?" I asked, as Jake reached for my bag. "No, I got it."

  Jake's hand stopped, a few inches from the handle. "Really?"

  I nodded. "Really. Jake, before I left I didn't want to be the prince. I still don't — I don't want that handed to me. So I'm going to earn it. That starts with little things like being able to carry my own bags."

  He nodded, and I grabbed my suitcase and duffel bag, following him out to the parking lot. "As to your question, I figured you'd be looking for a good ride, so I brought the Cali."

  The Ferrari California was one of my favorite cars in the lineup owned by my father, and I whistled as I saw the sleek lines and blue-gray paint job. "Still sexy as fuck," I said, holding my hand out. "Keys."

  Jake chuckled and held them out. "I thought you said that you wanted to earn it."

  "Hey, the car's still in my father's name," I said with a laugh. "Besides, I spent four years driving a Chevy. Just promise me one thing."

  "What's that?" Jake said, tossing me the keys and climbing into the passenger seat.

  "Tell me you have absolutely no country or Southern hip-hop on the sound system. I think I've had my fill of that over the last couple years” I said, climbing into the driver's seat. I'd forgotten how ironically luxurious a firm foam seat felt. I'd gotten too used to soft foam that just mushed out like a fucking pillow under your ass. The Ferrari though, it grabbed your legs, ass and back and told you to sit the fuck down right here. The growl of the engine as I started it up sent a shot of adrenaline down my spine, and I grinned as I flipped the switch to retract the hardtop convertible roof.

  "You drive the way I think you will, it won't matter, will it?" Jake said. "Just remember to try and keep it at ground level, okay?"

  Actually, I cruised, enjoying the feeling of the sports car as I drove north along the Interstate towards the Bertoli mansion. "So how's life for you now?"

  "Not bad," Jake said. "You know the Don's got me working at the Pizza joint?"

  "No shit?" I said with a laugh. Bertoli's Pizza was just one of my family's legitimate businesses. No Mafia family can go for long without having some legitimate business to filter all the profits of their other enterprises, and Bertoli's Pizza was a Seattle institution. We'd even catered the summer barbecue for the police union three years running for free. "What's he got you doing, deliveries?"

  Jake laughed and shook his head. "Nah, learning h
ow to actually do business. He's got me working the books, in the office and stuff. He told me that the Army took care of the violent side of things, and they taught me about how to organize. Now it was time to put the finishing touches on me, — his own words. So I've spent six months working in the back offices, doing orders for tomato sauce, cheese, flour, shit like that after I got reacquainted with Seattle. Worst part of it all is, I haven't even seen a slice of pizza the whole damn time. But what about you? You leave a bunch of heartbroken girls back in Alabama?"

  "Heartbroken? No way. Broken in? Hell yes." It wasn't the total truth, but I couldn't exactly tell Jake the truth, he wouldn't have understood.

  He laughed and we continued driving. Reaching the mansion, I stopped in front, getting out to take my bags.

  "You go say hi to your father, I'll park the car," Jake said. “And don't worry about the bags, either. You may want to do stuff on your own now, but remember, you're still part of the Bertoli family. There's people to do that sort of stuff around here. Your bags be in your room when you're done talking with the Don."

  I nodded and went inside, unconsciously checking my pants and shirt to make sure I looked okay. While Father would understand that I'd flown wearing track pants and a t-shirt, that didn't excuse if I'd shown up looking like a bum. Inside, I saw one of the maids, a nice girl named Jessie who'd been with the house for years. "Jessie?"

  "Master Bertoli, welcome home," she said, smiling shyly. Jessie was a few years older than me, and had gotten married while I was in college. Still, we'd had a few nights back when we were both single that still left pleasant memories and warmed cold nights. Tiny, trim, and with a bobbed haircut that gave her sort of a pixie vibe, she'd always been a great maid, and she'd let me rock her world once or twice. "How was your flight?"

  "Good, but you know I don't like that Master stuff. Just Tomasso."