I can’t help myself as I listen to her order. She’s always had a loud mouth. Though both her parents are Russian, Sasha doesn’t have the same accent being born and raised in the States her whole life. She sounds like a New Yorker like the rest of us.
“I called in a large Hawaiian Sea on sourdough.” The cashier nods, but her request catches me off guard, my head tilting to the side. That’s my twin’s favorite pizza, which is every bit as disgusting as it sounds. Not only does it have pineapple on it, but it also has anchovies—neither of which go together. Even the thought of anchovies has me gagging and my barely-there appetite is gone in a flash.
Pizza should be savory, not fishy and sweet. Pineapples destroy everything that a pizza should be.
“Here’s your order, Si,” Kevin, the owner, says as he places the pizza pie down in front of us and I watch in fascination as Brooklyn’s eyes grow in size and her lips curve up on both sides. “One large, half pepperoni and half pepperoni and Italian sausage. You both enjoy.”
“Thanks, Kev,” I reply, glancing up and forcing my lips to give him a warm smile.
As I’m plating Brooklyn the slice she requested, my gaze catches sight of Matteo as he jogs across the street, heading our way. The plain white T-shirt he’s wearing hugs his biceps, and it must be windy outside, because I can see the indentions of his abdominal muscles through the window. His black basketball shorts hang to his knees, but when my eyes continue downward, I can’t control the laugh that breaks free.
“What’s funny?” Brooklyn asks. Her hands reach forward, taking the plate from me.
“Your dad,” I tell her, my eyes still on Matteo’s as he steps inside the pizza joint.
“My daddy is hilarious. Is your daddy funny? He doesn’t seem very funny at all,” she remarks, scrunching up her nose, her eyes on the slice in front of her instead of me.
Matteo looks right, scanning the booths on the other side.
“Funny isn’t a term I’d used to describe him,” I admit to her, at least, not anymore. We used to have funny moments—him and my brothers—back before my mother was killed. I caught him making her laugh all the time. “But he used to be,” I whisper.
Matteo’s head swivels, his eyes stopping when they connect with mine. For a few seconds, I’m caught in a stare and can’t look away—neither does he. Matteo is the first to break the connection when a couple from behind him tries to enter, but his large frame is blocking the entrance. He mumbles something to them, but his words are inaudible.
Brooklyn takes a huge bite, getting pizza sauce on both corners of her mouth.
“Pizza just arrived if you want some,” I offer, looking up as he stops next to his daughter’s side of the booth. “We have plenty.” Matteo eyes the pizza and then Brooklyn, as if he isn’t sure he wants to join us. Perhaps he thought she’d be done eating and he could bail. “Or not,” I say, feigning disinterest as I pick up my tall glass of ice water, the condensation coating my palm as I bring it to my lips, my eyes back on Brooklyn.
The pizza sauce now covers even more of her face, but she doesn’t seem to be fazed by it. Her head turns up to her dad. “We got our favorite. Eat with us, Daddy.”
Bending down, he slides into the booth, scooting his kid over to the other end. She reaches for her plate and Matteo pushes her kid-sized drink with a lid and straw closer to her food.
“I was supposed to have you over to your moms”—he flicks his wrist, glancing at his watch—“five minutes ago.” A sigh slips from his lips, then Matteo’s gaze snaps to mine as he pulls a slice of pizza off the stand. “We’re already late. What’s another half an hour going to make a difference?” He tears into the slice, taking damn near half of it into his mouth, and for some reason, the creeper that I am when it comes to him, I can’t take my eyes off his mouth. Like Brooklyn, remnants of the pizza sauce gathers on his lower lip. “See something you want to taste?”
Forcing my eyes up, I meet the sexiest eyes I’ve ever seen staring at me like I’ve been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. “Nope,” I comment.
“Liar.” A smirk forms on his full lips and I see he licked the sauce from them. Bummer. He was right. I’d love a little taste, but that isn’t something I’ll admit to him of all people.
I don’t respond. Instead, I reach across the table and pick up a slice of my pepperoni. It’s rare that I indulge in greasy food, but when I do, I enjoy the very best. The inside of my mouth salivates at the anticipation.
“Just pepperoni?” he asks but doesn’t wait for a response. “How boring.”
“I don’t like Italian sausage.” I take a normal size bite and moan, my eyes closing of their own accord.
“What do you have against Italian sausage?” When I open my eyelids, it’s not me that’s eyeing a mouth this time. Matteo’s dark stare looks hungry for something other than pizza.
“It has fennel seeds in it. I hate fennel,” I answer honestly, and then take another bite. I haven’t eaten today. I didn’t realize just how hungry I was until that first bite. With my dad not talking to me, the thought of food was unappealing.
“What’s fennel?” Brooklyn asks.
I’m about to answer her when someone steps up next to our booth. Her voice alone makes the muscles in my shoulders tense. “Hey, De Salvo, what’s kickin’? Saw your fight a few months back,” she adds.
A few months back? I repeat in my head. Matteo’s last fight was seven months ago. I know, because I was there. What the fuck is this bitch going on about?
“Hey, what’s up?” Sasha switches the pizza box to her other hip and then proceeds to lean down, giving Matteo a hug like they’re pals. She’s a whore, so she either wants in his pants or she’s already been in them. That sends a cold ripple down my spine.
I will massacre this fucking bitch if it’s the latter, maybe even if it’s the former.
“Just grabbing dinner.” She stands back to her full five-feet-six height, her eyes solely focused on him with an easygoing smile attached to her ugly face. Okay, Sasha isn’t exactly bad looking, but I’ll never admit that out loud. She has straight, blonde hair that looks sleek and magazine perfect even in a ponytail, not to mention a set of the lightest blue eyes that seem to pull yours to hers like the goddamn siren she is.
“Well, can’t you grab it and go?” I question as I lean back against the worn vinyl and cross my arms, my voice louder than I intended.
“Wasn’t addressing you.” She arches an eyebrow in challenge, her eyes finally cutting to mine.
“Private party of three.” I motion between Matteo, Brooklyn, and me. “Mosey on to somewhere else.”
“You’re always a delight, Sienna.” She sneers at me, before turning back to Matteo. “Didn’t figure you for a man that hangs out with uptight bitches, De Salvo. Speaking of . . . How’s Kennedy?”
“In case you can’t take a hint,” Brooklyn looks up as she pulls a second slice of pizza from the tray, “she wants you to leave, lady.”
My sour mood just perked up a few notches.
“Brooklyn!” Matteo scolds. I scowl at him, but his whole body twists toward his kid. “That was rude.”
“She was rude to Si. I don’t see you getting on to her,” she sasses, and my lips curve up. This little girl has cojones. I like her. She’s a little pistol.
“I’m out,” Sasha says. She turns, stepping toward the door, and as she walks away, she throws a final comment over her shoulder. “Tell Kennedy I said hello.”
Bitch.
That’s okay. I got something coming her way not long from now anyway.
As much as I love training, I don’t have any aspirations to fight professionally. I reserve my abilities to beat the crap out of my brothers and to make sure I can defend myself should I be placed in a position to do so. I love my job and plan to remain working for the family businesses. If it hadn’t been for the opportunity to get Sasha Nikolayev in a kickboxing match, I wouldn’t have accepted the challenge. She wants this just
as bad as I do, and is likely the one that threw my name out there.
“So,” Matteo tilts his head, “neither princess likes each other.” He smirks and huffs out a laugh.
Sasha’s father, Mischa Nikolayev, is the head of the largest Russian criminal organization in the U.S. As much as Matteo’s little jab hit its mark, he’s not wrong in referring to her as a princess. But where I accept my family’s lifestyle, Sasha does not. She refuses to be part of that family and does everything in her power not to be associated with them.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Brooklyn asks. I’m so caught off guard that I halt the slice of pizza midair, my eyes cutting to where she sits beside her dad. Her elbows are on the table and her chin is resting comfortably in her palm, her big brown eyes on me. Guess she’s had her fill; though sauce is still gathered in the corners of her mouth. For some reason, it’s cute on her.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I repeat her question, only it’s redirected at her now.
“She’s five,” Matteo answers like it’s the dumbest thing anyone could ask.
“Of course, I do,” she says, her head bobbing up and down.
“Excuse me?” Matteo’s head whips around, his body swiveling in the same direction, facing Brooklyn. “You do not have a boyfriend. You’re nowhere even close to being old enough for a boyfriend.”
“Daddy,” she draws out, her tone bored. It makes me fall into a fit of giggles. Matteo only makes it worse when he scowls at me.
“What are you going to do, go find a five-year-old and threaten him if he doesn’t stay away from your daughter?” I ask, still half laughing.
“Oh, Damon is six. He’s going to first grade next year,” she chimes. The look on Matteo’s face is priceless, and it’s the highlight of my evening. I can’t contain the laugh that erupts from my lips, and the scowl I witness after only produces more cackles from my side of the table.
Chapter 14
MATTEO
The drive to Kennedy’s apartment isn’t far from the gym I sometimes go to, nor my townhouse, for that matter. The only reason I live in this part of Long Island is because it’s one of the only decent areas that Kennedy can afford to rent, so when I allow her time with our daughter, it’s easier to live close to each other.
Besides, if anything were to happen, I’m as close to Brooklyn as possible without having to live within breathing distance to her mother. To say I can’t stand my ex is an understatement, and the only reason I even consider her an ex is because after she came to me pregnant, I tried to give a real relationship a go. It didn’t last long. The woman only cares about herself and who’s able to line her pockets with cash or pour liquor down her throat.
I have full custody of our daughter; something Kennedy gladly relinquished when she realized Brooklyn wasn’t going to get her a ring put on her finger and how hard raising a baby really was. She wasn’t cut out for motherhood, but Brooklyn loves her, so I do my best to make sure my daughter gets to see her mom.
“Sienna was jealous when that girl was talking to you, Daddy.” Her statement brings me out of my negative thoughts where her mother is concerned. For a minute, there was a time where I regretted sticking my dick in that bitch, but then I held my daughter for the first time and realized what unconditional love felt like.
I snap my eyes up, capturing her stare in the rearview mirror. “How do you know what jealousy means?”
“Momma told me. So, I know that’s what Sienna was. Momma says that’s how I act when another girl talks to my boyfriend.” Her nose crunches up like she has a bad taste in her mouth.
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” I hiss as I put my eyes back on the road. “Thanks, Kennedy, for filling our kid’s head with nonsense,” I mumble under my breath.
“Yes, I do.” Her voice comes out like a taunt as I pull into an empty parking space in front of Kennedy’s apartment building, then, shutting off the engine, I shove the gear stick into park.
A text message dings on my phone, but I don’t grab it from the center console where it’s sitting in one of the empty cup holders. Instead, I look at Brooklyn through the rearview mirror again and say, “Unbuckle, kiddo. Grab your bag before you get out too.”
She’ll only be here for a day or two at the most, so there wasn’t a need to pack much of her stuff. She has clothes at her mom’s, but she still likes to sleep with the same plush tiger she’s had since she was one.
Kennedy lives in an apartment complex that was renovated three years ago. Her dumbass signed a lease before laying eyes on the condo, but by doing so, she got in before the prices doubled. The complex isn’t aesthetically pleasing with its weathered brick exterior, but the inside is updated and on the nicer side. You have to have a six-digit code to enter the lobby of the building outside of normal business hours, and to enter the residential areas of floors two through eight you need to have a key to the elevator or stairwell. I may not live here, but I made Brooklyn’s mom supply me with a key in order to allow our daughter to come over.
I’m not a complete asshole; though Kennedy would probably disagree. I gave Brooklyn’s mother a key to my townhouse as well, since our daughter mostly stays with me. Since I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend and no plans of either in the foreseeable future, it’s not a big deal. Kennedy knows not to show up out of the blue without a phone call or a text. She sticks to those rules, and as long as I don’t feel my kid is in danger, I do the same.
“Can I enter the code, Daddy?”
“Sure, baby girl. Go for it.” Like every kid, Brooklyn loves buttons. The little shit even tries to get me to let her enter the code when we checkout at the store, but I’m not dumb enough to give another person the code to my debit card.
It’s well past six in the evening, so when we walk through the lobby to the elevators, there is no one at the front desk to greet us.
“Key, Daddy,” she demands, flipping her palm up as she stops in front of the metal doors. Dropping my set in her hand, I wait, giving her time to find the correct one. Within a minute, we’re walking off the elevator and onto the third floor. Brooklyn races the length of the hallway until she stops at the last door on the left—her home away from home.
She has to knock three times before her mother greets us. When the door finally opens, Kennedy is wearing a soft pink silk robe open with a matching nightgown that barely stops below the apex of her thighs. At twenty-four, she isn’t a bad sight to look at, though I lost interest in her before I graduated high school. She still keeps her natural dirty-blonde hair bleached platinum, but now it stops at the nape of her neck instead of hanging in long strands down her back. In all honesty, this look suits her better. It brings out the bitch she doesn’t hide.
“Hey, Matty.” She grins as she leans her hip against the doorframe.
I stopped telling her not to call me that long ago. It doesn’t do any good. She just ignores my requests, so now I do the same. I act like it doesn’t faze me, when in reality, it’s like nails on a motherfucking chalkboard.
When she doesn’t acknowledge our daughter standing in front of her, I cock an eyebrow. I earn an eye roll before she finally looks down.
“Can I go play on my iPad?” Brooklyn asks.
“Sure, baby girl. Go for it. It’s in your room.”
Brooklyn tilts her head back, looking up at me. “Bye, Daddy. Love you.”
“Love you more,” I tell her, meaning it down to the core of my existence.
I continue standing in the doorway until Brooklyn is out of earshot, then I turn my attention to her mother and cross my arms. “Limit her screen time, please.”
“Why?” Kennedy’s nose scrunches up and she gives me a look like she didn’t understand the words I said.
“Because she doesn’t need to be on that damn thing all night, or all day for that matter.” Given the chance, Brooklyn will stay on her iPad for hours. I’ve caught her sneaking out of her bedroom at my house several times, trying to take it to her room to play on it when she’s supp
osed to be sleeping. Like every kid, myself included when I was younger, she thinks she’s slick, but she isn’t.
“When did you turn into such a party pooper?”
“When you popped out my kid and suddenly I had responsibilities.” I give her a pointed look. “You know, the same ones you have but choose to ignore.”
“I take care of her just fine, Matteo. When she’s with me, it’s my say what she does and for how long.”
“An hour to an hour and a half tops,” I say, ignoring the garbage that fell out of her thin lips.
“If you want to monitor her time then maybe you should stay.”
“Maybe you should learn to be a parent,” I counter. She does this every time I bring Brooklyn over without fail. I don’t know if she does it because she’s hoping one of these days I’ll give in or if she’s simply fucking with me. Either way, I’m not going to bite. The last place I care to be is in Kennedy’s presence. If we didn’t share a child together, I would have ditched her a long time ago.
“I parent just fine. If you’d hang around more often, Matty, you’d actually see that.”
“Says the mother who can’t handle her five-year-old more than a day or two at a time.” I hold up my hand, stopping her comeback when she goes to open her mouth. “I’m not having this argument with you again. I’m out. I’ll pick her up tomorrow evening at five.”
When she doesn’t reply or interject asking for more than one day, I pivot and walk back to the elevator. Once I’m back inside my Lexus, I pick up my phone before starting the vehicle, seeing a text message from one of my friends—another boxer that I’ve known for a few years.
Thomas: Wanna hit up a club tonight?
Me: Sure. When and where?
Thomas: Eleven at Club Rouge. But . . . if you want to come out early, I’m about to walk in Headliners now.
I’m not even surprised. Headliners is an upscale titty bar that’s rumored to show more than just skin. With my rigorous training schedule and having Brooklyn most nights, I haven’t seen the inside of a club in over a year. I couldn’t tell you the last time I’ve been to a strip joint.
Bad Princess: A Mafia Romance Page 9