by L E Franks
“It’s understandable.”
“So he was gone. Four years—four. Really, he was my best friend. I missed him.”
“When you threatened to send me back to California, was that an empty threat?”
Joey laughed, “Not sure.”
“You really missed him?”
“More that you’ll know.”
He’d been left behind, forced to stay in South Carolina to complete his education. Sure, he’d had friends, but Carlo hadn’t been with him. When Carlo called to tell him he was coming back, Joey had been ecstatic; so excited he didn’t ask questions, but not everything was adding up now that Carlo was home. Ted. The man didn’t fit into the equation—any equation.
“Carlo is good. He’s a real friend. He’s back now, just enjoy it.”
Joey nodded, and opened the door to the Jeep, stepping out into the half empty lot. He should be thrilled that his friend was back. They could enjoy the town, snacking on tourists. He smiled to himself, thinking about summer. When season hit, the selection of guys to choose from would increase tenfold. Carlo would insist they be careful, no shifting in the house, instead waiting until they were in one of the more secluded areas of the island, but it would be worth it—all those men just waiting to play with him while they enjoyed their vacation.
“So what else do we need to pick up?” Ted asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Let’s get some beef and pork along with corn and a few bags of chips.”
Ted grabbed a cart and steered over to the bakery. “Did you order a cake?”
“Nope, Jeanette’s got that covered, but maybe we should have another dessert handy, just in case. Carlo is going to be stoked tomorrow when he sees the bash we’re throwing.”
Ted snorted and mutter something that sounded like “when pigs fly” under his breath, before wandering over to the produce section to fondle the apples. Joey just shook his head and followed behind with the cart.
CHAPTER FIVE
The occasion called for something more than jeans. Carlo ran his fingers across a rack of suits and sport coats. He’d managed to avoid this part of his wardrobe for years. It was doubtful that many of these still fit—he hadn’t bothered dragging them across country during his banishment. He’d grown both up and out since leaving for college.
He reached the last zippered suit bag; the seams were stretched, the hanger opening slightly torn at the corners. Hesitating before finally unzipping it, he pulled out a classic black Armani suit—the silk and cashmere blend so soft the rough pads of his fingers snagged the fabric slightly. He pulled the jacket off its hanger. One more quick breath and he shrugged it on.
“Wow, you really look like him.” Joey leaned against the doorjamb, twisting the knife deeper.
“I should, this is his suit.” Carlo stared into the full length mirror hanging on the back of his closet door. He’d had the mirror installed along with the custom cabinetry and the cedar rods while he was away his junior year at Pepperdine. The kitchen had been updated his senior year, the rest of the house in bits and pieces as he spent his banishment trying to figure out if he would ever fit back into life in the Beaufort compound.
“It’s okay you know… to be like him. It’s okay.” Joey just wouldn’t shut up.
The suit, like the Beaufort compound seemed oppressive. “I’m nothing like him. I never wanted to be him, to have what he had. I never asked to be in his position.”
“You have a right to be mad. He died on you, but it doesn’t change the fact that the Montefiore blood runs true. When I was up at the compound, I saw a picture of him and your aunt on Angelo’s desk; for a minute I thought it was you.”
“I may look like him, but I’m not him. I can’t seem to get Angelo to accept that. I’m perfectly happy with my life here. Angelo gets what he’s always wanted and I have time to keep you and Ted out of trouble.” He stepped close and cupped Joey’s cheek. “Why would I willingly step back into pack politics and give this up?” Carlo dropped his hand from his friend’s face.
“Thanks, I think.” Joey crossed his arms and adjusted himself into a more comfortable slouch. “What’s the deal anyway? He was pretty pissed when Ted and I showed up instead of you. You conveniently forgot to mention that little fact, by the way—that he wanted you, not me, to pick up the package.”
“He just wants to see me bend my neck in front of the pack.”
Carlo jerked his arm away from his face to keep from sniffing the sleeve, seeking the lingering scent of his Alpha. His only Alpha—no matter what Angelo thought.
“Well, he had all the troops there waiting. I thought we weren’t going to make it out alive; it was a complete freak out. Francesca didn’t want to give us the package. Angelo had to intervene. Not that that wasn’t fun to watch. She’s a hella-Beta. Even your dad’s old Beta, Charles, was there—and he’s been retired in Florida for years. So what gives?” A low growl came from Carlo, sending shivers up Joey’s back. He adjusted his stance, and tried to shake off the eerie feeling.
“Dinner.” Carlo’s teeth were clenched and his eyes narrowed. “I have to meet them for dinner.”
“At the compound?” Joey worried about Carlo going there without protection. He didn’t want his friend to get hurt, but would he be overstepping his bounds if he insisted he come along. He wasn’t Carlo’s official Beta, but he wouldn’t stand idly by.
“No. Angelo arranged a private room at the winery here on the island.” Carlo looked sheepish as he tugged on his cuffs. The similarities were screaming at Joey—Carlo looked exactly like Constantine. If he showed up at the dinner dressed like this, he’d wow the pack.
Joey cocked a brow. “Threatened to come here did he?”
“Charles asked. I could give a rat’s ass about Angelo. But Charles…”
Joey nodded. “Wear the suit.” He moved past Carlo to the bed, gently tugging the trousers out of the bag. “Try these. I have time to get them adjusted.” He watched critically as Carlo kicked his jeans aside and slipped the pants over his long tanned leg. Joey glanced up, catching a look in Carlo’s eyes. His friend was about to lose it, the slide of the zipper the only sound in the bedroom. The man stood frozen, a hand on his stomach, eyes closed—pain etched in the lines around his mouth.
“It fits.”
“It does. Perfectly.” Joey moved to the door to give his friend some privacy. “It has for a long time Carlo,” he whispered, before shutting the bedroom door behind him.
Joey hesitated at the door, warring within about going back to talk to his friend or heading downstairs. He wasn’t in the mood to party now and work called. After swinging by his room to grab his computer, he plopped down on the sofa, opened his laptop and scrolled through his email while he watched Gearhead with the volume turned off. He popped over to a game, his email boring the shit out of him. The skin on the back of Joey’s neck prickled. Glancing up, he was startled to find Carlo standing behind him, his expression tense. Carlo tugged on Joey’s ear buds, cutting off Eddie Vedder, mid note.Grabbing for the wires Joey protested, “Dammit, Carlo I hate when you sneak up on me.”
“Four minutes, yes, four minutes and you didn’t even notice,” Carlo said.
“Really? You timed it?” Joey couldn’t stop his tongue any more than Carlo stopped the slap upside his head in response. It was an old pattern and Joey hoped it was still done with affection. It was harder to tell with Carlo these days. Rubbing his stinging ear Joey tried again.
“Sorry, I was working.”
“Looked to me like you were playing World of Warcraft. Be more aware, that’s all I ask. You’re a wolf for fuck’s sake.”
Joey hunkered down and had he been in wolf form he would have tucked his tail between his legs. “Sorry.” The quirk of Carlo’s mouth was enough to let Joey know all was forgiven—at least for now.
“I’m leaving. I left a pile of old suits on the bed. Can you get rid of them please? Donate them or toss them—whatever.”
Joey popped up and
turned to look at Carlo. “What is that?” He waggled his finger up and down. Carlo had changed and was wearing a fine wool pullover in turquoise, which did great things for his eyes, and a pair of tight black jeans which did great things for the rest of him. Definitely not a suit.
Carlo smirked. “Angelo Dante can kiss my ass if he thinks I’ll jump when he calls. Ties are for weddings and funerals, and while the latter has a nice ring to it if we’re talking about Angelo’s—I can’t see a wedding in anyone’s future any time soon. So. No. No suit. Charles is retired, if he needs me in a jacket in order to see me as an adult then he can go fuck himself, too.”
“I dunno, Carlo, you know what they say—there’s a thin line between love and hate… I can see it… you and Angelo… could totally make sense together…” He snickered and ducked the cushion launched at his head, laughing as the front door slammed. But truth be told, he could see it, and more. Carlo would never admit it though—fuck, it was nice having him back on the right side of the country. Joey settled in, grabbing his beer off the coffee table and taking a swig. He replaced his ear buds and cranked the music, then his conscience took over and he pulled out his headphones and glanced around. Finally he sighed and pulled the jack out of his computer, letting the music play from the tiny speakers in his laptop. “Fucking killjoy,” he mumbled and worked for another hour before hunger got the better of him. Thank god for speed dial delivery.
He searched for his phone, finding it under the couch cushion, and ordered a pizza from Bravo. Before cracking open another beer, he wandered upstairs to check on the mess Carlo had left for him. The walk-in closet was open and Joey could see that the entire back wall had been emptied onto the bed. Not a single suit remained.
He sighed, thinking about how good Carlo had looked in his father’s suit. Joey dug through the pile until he found the Armani wadded up at the bottom. Carefully, he smoothed lapels and trouser creases, hanging it back on the cedar rod before tucking it into its garment bag.
Too soon, Joey thought, before hanging the suit in the back of his own closet for safekeeping.
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
Following the bleached blonde hostess teetering on six-inch heels, flagstone floor catching her toe every few steps, Carlo could only think Thank God, I’m gay. By the time they reached the cellar room his shoulders were tense from watching all her near misses and potential ankle breaks as she tried to flirt with him over her shoulder. Women. She threw him a saucy smile and flung open the door to the private dining room before stepping aside with a little wink.
Crap. Nine pairs of eyes swung his way, and all conversation stopped. Carlo’s skin crawled and he prayed he could make a quick escape. If it wasn’t the promise made to Charles, he would turn around and race to the nearest bar.
Carlo stepped through the door, taking in the scene. The space was cavernous. Carlo half expected his footsteps to echo as he moved into a room lined with wine casks and bottle racks, the beams were carefully hewn to mimic the lowered ceilings and rusticity of an actual wine cellar. There was a single round table in the center of the room, ample space for the ten place settings. At one end was a large granite fireplace, gas flames fighting a losing battle against the chill creeping along the stone floor.
The restaurant was new, one of the haut monde chefs hawking their talent on cable television had opened it a few years ago and the Islanders claimed it to be the restaurant of restaurants. He was mildly impressed. It was the one thing he missed the most about California—there were great restaurants everywhere on the coast. For a truly sublime meal, a short drive inland, a dropped name and carefully selected bill could get him a table at most any restaurant in Los Angeles. He’d have to come back another time to try this place properly, since tonight he wasn’t about to give Angelo the satisfaction of enjoying the food or the atmosphere.
At the opposite end of the room, Angelo leaned casually against a mahogany and zinc bar. Behind him, a stoic waiter, opening the bottles arrayed before him. It appeared that all three men at the bar were drinking scotch.
Carlo didn’t recognize the two men standing with Angelo. One, tall with thick silver hair and patrician features, stood next to a younger man with red hair and a goatee. They’d been joined in both conversation and scotch by Bella Tabrizi—current pack elder and pain-in-the-ass. Her personality hidden behind the carefully constructed image of a tiny Italian matriarch, though instead of black widow’s weeds she preferred Gucci suits—her smile as false as the jet-black tresses she wore swept back from a powdered brow. Carlo made it a point to leave any room he found her in. It still seemed like a sound plan.
A quick glance behind found him meeting the smirking face of Sebastian Suarez; the man was all caramel skin and smoky eyes, leaning against the only exit. Sebastian was a pack enforcer, answerable only to Angelo or his Beta. Obviously some thought had gone into the arrangements preventing Carlo from fleeing.
Sweet Francesca—He could happily wrap his hands around her neck. This night had her signature and scent dripping all over it. She had the mind for strategy and this dinner had the stink of her; there was no way he was getting around Sebastian.
Carlo calmed, no need to allow the pack elders see him sweat. They really weren’t of any mind to him anyway. He wasn’t the Beta, held no position of significance and remained quiet, or tried to remain quiet, in his little—actually big—beach house.
His gaze drifted around the room at the rest of the cast of characters, recognizing Giorgio D’Amico, the current pack lawyer and recorder. He looked for Giorgio’s wife Sylva, without success. Ah, pack business indeed. He hadn’t bothered to open the package from Angelo. It didn’t matter, whatever it was had nothing to do with him now. Carlo sniffed, noticing there was only one human in the room, and not the waiter. He lifted a brow, impressed that they’d thought well enough ahead to staff the room with one of their own.
Francesca waved from her casual perch next to the fire. She was seated with Sophia Malik, which meant that her husband Charles was around somewhere.
“Ah, Carlo!” As if summoned by magic, Charles strode across the room and swept him into his arms. Charles still had the height and strength of a man three decades younger. His hair as thick as ever, was now more salt than pepper, but the scent was the same. It soothed Carlo, like a forgotten lullaby.
Charles had been his father’s Pack Beta—stepping in to provide security and calm in the aftermath of his father’s tragic death. He’d held the pack together through Carlo’s adolescence, through Angelo’s stewardship while Carlo came of age, and most importantly he stood behind Carlo himself when he took over the reins at eighteen when Angelo was called by the Marines to serve his tour overseas.
Carlo hadn’t seen or spoken to the man since he’d sided with Angelo’s hostile takeover of the pack. Carlo pulled back abruptly pretending not to see the flash of pain in Charles’ eyes. That day had never left him, nothing would ever wipe it from his mind. Angelo hadn’t even been back home for one measly day; just a few hours before the bombshell dropped and Carlo was out for good.
Charles had stood next to Carlo’s father’s desk, the two of them trying to put the best spin on things. His deferred acceptance to Pepperdine—his father’s alma mater—was set to expire. Pepperdine was hardly the only choice around and he’d voiced his desires. It hadn’t mattered.
Sending him to California felt like the punishment it was meant to be. Four years for Angelo to solidify his position as Alpha. Four years for Carlo to be away from everything he knew and everyone he loved. The knife twisted deeper in his heart, cutting off any feelings of familial attachment. He would never, ever, forgive them.
“Charles.” Carlo narrowed his eyes as the older man gripped his arm, preventing any further retreat.
“Figli—”
“Don’t! I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son anymore. I understand that you think you did what was best for the pack but you betrayed me. You made your choice when you ambushed me that day in my office!�
�� Carlo hadn’t bothered to lower his voice. The sound echoed in the room and everyone had preternatural hearing. A quick glance around confirmed that no one was bothering with the social niceties. Fuck them all.
Charles’ lips thinned out before he opened his mouth, the words sharp. “I’d hoped you’d grown up a little, Carlo.” Charles tightened his grip to make his point. “I can’t help think that your father would be disappointed. I never thought you’d turn your back on your pack and your family.”
“I have my own life. The pack doesn’t need me and I have my own family to take care of.”
“Bah, family? Who? You have a handful of beach bums, sucking on your tit? What kind of life is that? You should be married by now, leading the pack alongside Angelo. Carrying on the family legacy,” Charles rumbled.