I really need you to come home.
Elise’s words reverberated until his brain hurt.
He stared at the dark screen of his phone. The device sat on the table in front of him, taunting.
Gio had ended their call about ten minutes before, and he’d been sitting on the edge of his couch since, elbows on knees, rocking like a fucking psycho. Wished with all his might he could take back the promise she’d dragged out of him.
Unlike his father, he didn’t break his word.
Thank God for small favors.
If he smoked, he would’ve lit up a bunch of the motherfuckers, imitating a smokestack. If he still drank, he would’ve downed a twelve—no, a twenty-four pack. Maybe a keg. Of course, he’d always liked the hard stuff better. Maybe two or three bottles of Lag?
Home.
Shouldn’t be a volatile word, right?
His little sister hadn’t meant the house the four of them had been raised in, in the suburbs of Sin City.
She’d meant the monstrosity on the Vegas strip. The building his father cared about more than his damn family.
The Giovanni.
“Piece of shit.” Gio couldn’t confirm whether he meant the glowing lights of the huge edifice or the man it was named after.
He’d never wished for a murder case before, but right then, he would’ve taken a dozen bodies. A bloody messy massacre scene—a good dismemberment even, Dexter Morgan style. He’d rather that than get on his Ducati and take his ass to the casino.
Or the hospital.
Elise hadn’t asked that of him. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t, look into the dark eyes that matched hers.
Just get off your ass. You promised.
The pep talk wasn’t cutting it.
Gio dragged his hand down his face, then scratched the stubble on his cheek. He’d lose a damn bet at work if the phone didn’t ring. The guys had wagered he’d go through his required on-call period without catching a case, and he never had before.
He’d slapped fifty bucks down, insisting he wasn’t that lucky.
“First time for fucking everything.”
He growled and knocked his fist into his forehead. Then did it a few more times. Could he knock his own brain loose until he passed out?
Excuses, excuses.
Elise rarely asked anything of him. However, this was too much. Even if he was grateful his sister had been the glue of their family after their mother had died, eight long years ago.
Same amount of time since he’d spoken to his father. At least a real conversation without shouting and cursing in Italian.
Gio spoke to his siblings regularly. Even Dom. Yet, he refused to be in the same room as Big Tony, and after tricking him one Christmas a few years ago, Elise had given up on chiding him about it, most of the time.
He wanted to puke, but managed to stand. He was no desire to experience pizza 2.0.
He made his muscles haul his ass off the couch. Stretched, but not because he needed to. He was stalling. Wanted to roll his eyes at himself, but that wouldn’t help his stupid fucking promise, either.
She wanted him at the casino—said she’d meet him in their father’s office. What else she’d expected of him, Elise hadn’t said, but it didn’t matter.
Going into that place was stepping into a past he didn’t want anything to do with. He’d never gotten over the hurt and rejection from Big Tony, but there was more to it than that.
Inside The Giovanni was the last time he’d seen his mother alive.
Then, also inside that monstrosity was where he’d lost the other female who’d been most important to him—a US Marshal he never should’ve had in his bed.
The one who’d gotten away. Had never contacted him after a drunken night that’d ended with a huge fight and her fleeing.
It’d been his wake up call to quit drinking. It hadn’t brought her back.
He’d never had the balls to track her down, either.
Gio snatched his keys from the hook on the wall right inside his front door and growled.
Let’s get this the fuck over with.
It was cool outside, but his forehead was like a faucet; sweat rolled down his temple even before he jogged up the ramp into his complex’s parking garage. He probably should take his GTO instead of the bike, since he was so rattled, but it was the Ducati, his second pride and joy, he went to first.
Motorcycles were another thing Big Tony didn’t approve of, so maybe that was the real reason he swung his leg over and planted his ass on his favorite toy.
The drive was agonizing even though it was short, and he parked on the private level of the garage for the casino higher-ups, half-shocked his fob still worked. Probably due to his sister.
Gio made his way inside, strolling through the bling, and the lights and the sounds, electronic beeps and bops, and even the occasional siren when someone hit it big.
He winced at the cigarette smoke clouding the atmosphere, scowled at the alcohol, and disregarded the little waitresses in their scant uniforms.
Eventually he went through hallways that weren’t open to the public. His chest was tight, and breathing hurt. Like a vise was gripping his lungs. No shocker there.
This wasn’t a puppies and rainbows homecoming.
The pressure was stifling, and his dad wasn’t even on the premises.
Dark walls surrounded him, a soft glow from dim sconces every few feet didn’t offer more than the exact light needed to navigate the corridors. Why spend money on electricity here?
Only a fraction of the people coming into the place—employees—would see the back alleys of the huge place.
He started honest-to-God shaking before he made the turn that would take him to the executive offices.
Fuck this.
Gio couldn’t leave. He’d promised his sister.
Hell, The Giovanni was still better than the hospital.
He missed the first time he reached for the ornate handle on the glass door leading to the lobby where his dad’s receptionist would be sitting at the huge dark wood desk. The gigantic thing was curved and made whoever sat behind it seem like a hobbit, or a gnome. The computer monitor wasn’t visible until one got closer.
He cleared his throat. Twice.
To the right there was a hallway that lead to a few back offices; Elise had one there, but hell if he knew who held the other casino execs were these days. To the left was a set of double glass doors that led to the throne room—his father’s office.
Gio cursed some more and ordered his feet to take him to the left, as opposed to whirling him around and running.
He’d never been a coward. Had he?
Suddenly it was eight years ago, where the argument of his life had occurred with Big Tony in that very office.
Then he’d gone down to the bar, where he’d had another fight.
A different fight that’d resulted in too many shots to count, a shattered heart and shrunken balls.
“Fuck. Me.” He ran his hand through his hair. Still shaking his head, Gio tugged himself from the past and pushed his way toward his father’s office.
Big Tony wasn’t in there. He could go in and wait for Elise with no risk of adding to his already huge headfuck.
There was a dark-haired man in an expensive-looking dove gray suit slightly bent over the desk. He closed a drawer and straightened when Gio rested his hand on the handle and pushed.
Had the door not made a slight noise, he could’ve watched the stranger longer, because the dude hadn’t spotted him.
“Who’re you?” The demand fell out when he was only one or two steps inside. He held back his alarm, and bit back the instinct to insert ‘the fuck’ in his inquiry. No need to be rude to a guy he didn’t know. Maybe he had a reason to be in Big Tony’s office.
Maybe things had changed since the time he’d been away; maybe his dad wasn’t as protective of the place as he’d always been. The office was his private inner space at the casino.
Invite only.
He’d never even taken meetings in it; there was a private conference room for those.
“I could ask the same of you.” The guy flashed a slimy smile that raised Gio’s hackles.
Something was off about this man. He’d never seen him before, and he appeared to be around his age.
They sized each other up, but he didn’t answer the dude’s statement.
The suit was Armani, if he hadn’t lost his eye for such things. Dark loafers were equally as expensive—looked like Ferragamos—and the glint from the gold watch-face shouted Rolex.
Gio couldn’t name the cologne off hand, maybe the scent was a la sleaze ball?
With as expensive as the asshat looked, it was probably Clive No. 1.
Couldn’t name a reason, but an instant dislike hit his tongue like he’d sucked on a lemon. Or, his cop-instinct was telling him to be wary.
Who’s this loser?
The door opening again caught their collective attention, and the man looked away, his expression relaxing, but it went unreadable.
“Gio!”
His sister’s pretty face was made of relief when their eyes met, and his peripherals caught the douche-canoe rounding the desk to come stand beside him.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I said I’d come.”
She wrapped her arms around him and her familiar scent of women’s Dior wiggled its way over his senses, almost like coming home was the right thing to do after all.
He held her for as long as she allowed.
Gio had missed Elise. They’d always been close. Best friends in a lot of ways. Generally united in their mutual ire aimed at their father, among other things.
“I know,” she whispered, and he heard the smile in her voice.
Their eyes met when he released her. She appeared tired, and he didn’t like it. Her naturally blonde hair was shorter than when he’d last seen her, dancing over her shoulders, and she had dark circles under her deep brown eyes, but her face was still young and pretty, despite her obvious exhaustion. His sister had always been tall, slender and lovely.
He could do without the tight red dress she was wearing, but at least the little number went past her knees and he didn’t have the insta-need to cover her up. Some of the getup in her wardrobe was in his hell no category. She was his younger sister, after all.
Big Tony agreed with him on that one, too.
Naturally.
“You’ve met Marco?” Her eyes lit up, wiping some of the fatigue away.
She moved to the douchebag’s side, and the asshole threw his arm around her, pulling her tight to him.
Much too close to his Armani-covered ass.
He narrowed his eyes. “Marco?” Gio practically growled. Again, his logical side popped up that he had no reason to dislike this man.
“My fiancé.”
His world spun and he had to remind himself he could not shoot someone he didn’t know, no matter how his trigger finger itched to grab the Sig at his waist. “Your what?” he blurted. He hollered at himself to not show his abject horror at her revelation. Just because the guy’s clothes bled yuppie didn’t mean he really was cocktwit.
Right?
His eyes landed the guy again. He couldn’t form words right away.
Marco wasn’t as tall as Gio, and he was definitely Italian. No doubt Big Tony was on board with that.
He looked back at Elise.
She gazed at her fiancé like this loser hung the moon.
“Marco Fratelli.” Armani shoved his hand out for a shake. His smile was pleasant enough. “You must be the older brother. Nico, right?”
Gio frowned. How did this man know of him, but Elise had never said a word in reverse? Especially…engaged?
His eyes zoned in on Elise’s left hand. Sure enough, that third finger sported a gleaming rock the size of Texas.
He shot a glance at his sister’s face, and she shrugged. Offered a half-smile. She wasn’t going to explain now.
Gio didn’t like it. At. All.
His eyes landed back on Marco.
Why don’t I like him?
He had no basis for his first impression, given the guy hadn’t been anything but polite when he’d been—admittedly—prickly.
Gio forced his arm to move, to meet the dude’s gesture. He grunted when Armani returned quite a strong grip. Was stating he wasn’t a pussy.
That was good, too, right?
“Fratelli, huh?” He told himself to be nice, congenial, and relax. Didn’t bother confirming his identity. If Armani wasn’t a fidiot, he’d assume he was correct.
He immediately preferred his own moniker for the douche.
The guy smiled wider, but something still wasn’t right. “Yeah, I guess our dads were friends back in the day.”
That was the second time something felt off about the guy.
His sister intended to marry this twatwaffle?
Gio narrowed his eyes, but failed to discern anything. He studied Elise again. In the almost ten years he’d been a cop, he’d learned not to question his kneejerk instincts. His gut was shouting there was something off…wrong…about Marco Fratelli.
He couldn’t pin it down, and he couldn’t put his 40 cal to the guy’s head. Not only because the subject may or may not be banging his sister.
Nope. Not going there.
If he did, Armani would definitely have a messed up suit…not to mention a face to match the rips and holes in fine fabric.
“Gio…” Elise chewed on her bottom lip. “We have to talk about Dad.”