“Are you absolutely sure?” Dad asked me.

I nodded solemnly. “One hundred percent. Raphael Esposito started the fire at the Brooklyn Armor House.”

He was the shadowy figure I’d seen staring at us from the alley across the street, right before I’d run inside the building after Lexi. He was the one who threw the Molotov cocktail through the window and set the whole place ablaze. Once I’d had time to reflect on what I’d seen outside the context of gripping panic and fear, I’d immediately recognized him.

Dad blew out a heavy breath as he fell into his chair.

We were the only two in his den present for this meeting. I’d wanted to share this information with him before we took it to everyone else, knowing how heated their reactions—especially Cris’s—were bound to be.

“Why would he do that?” Dad pondered. “He and Dimitri were supposed to be working together. Why take out the guy who helped him escape prison?”

I propped my ankle on my knee. “My guess is Dimitri knew too much and Raphael turned on him. He’d gotten what he needed and had no further use for him. Dimitri no doubt knew about Raphael’s plans, and Raphael didn’t want the man spilling his guts to anyone.”

“Which means that Raphael does have a plan. And it’s big. If he’s willing to kill his allies to protect his secrets, then he’s got something major in the works.”

I shot Dad a look. “Would you expect anything less from him? I don’t think it’s any coincidence that he waited to make his move against Dimitri until he thought there was an opportunity to take one or more of us out with him.”

Dad pursed his lips. “You’re saying he’s still coming for us.”

“He could have put a bullet between Dimitri’s eyes anytime. Yet he chooses to burn down my distillery, knowing that I would come for Lexi.” I shook my head. “He’s not through with us.”

Dad swiped a hand down his face. “Hell, I don’t think he’s even begun.”

“I don’t want you to worry about this,” I said in a low voice, taking note of his tired appearance. “I’ll handle the situation.”

His eyes darted to mine. Realization had them crinkling in the corners. “You think I’ve become weak, Niccolò?”

Never.

“Not at all. I’m just saying that I’m finally going to be here to help you take care of this family the way I should have been doing all along.”

His brow furrowed. “Do you think… Do you think I’ve been disappointed in you all these years?”

I cleared my throat, shifting around in the wingback chair. “I didn’t accept the responsibilities and duties that fell on my shoulders like I know you wanted me to. Like you expected me to. I just want you to know that everything is different now. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Appearing disturbed by my words, Dad rose from his chair and came around the desk. Facing me, he leaned against it and pierced me with the most intent look I’d ever seen from him.

“I need you to understand, Nico, that I have never been disappointed in you. When you chose your own path all those years ago, I respected you for it. I’ve always tried to raise my children to think for themselves and make their own way in this world. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t had the courage to tell me what you really wanted.”

“But I was an irresponsible jackass for over a decade,” I sputtered. “That couldn’t have made you proud.”

He chuckled. “All my children are their own people, and that makes me proud. Luka’s a smartass most of the time and can’t control his temper. Cris tends to be too rigid and controlling. Ace can be an overly-analytical know-it-all when he wants to be. And Rome’s solitude can sometimes come off as indifferent or rude. We all have our frustrating quirks.”

I smirked. “What about Gia?”

He snorted. “Gia still wants her papa to believe that she’s sweet and guileless and doesn’t possess a single conniving bone in her body. So, that’s what I choose to believe. You’ll understand when you have daughter.”

My chest swelled with love for that daughter who hadn’t even been born—yet. Boy or girl, all I wanted was a healthy baby. But I couldn’t deny harboring some hope that Lexi carried our daughter.

“I’m extremely proud of you, son.”

My eyes flew up to Dad’s.

“You say you were an irresponsible jackass, yet you’re the first of my children to get married and have a baby. You’ve built a thriving enterprise over the last ten years, and you’ve taken care of this family in more ways than you want to acknowledge. I couldn’t be prouder of my first-born son.”

Emotion clogged my throat. I sensed it in him, too, and well, neither of us wanted the other to witness it. The only person who ever got to see me cry was Lexi, and it was only on rare occasions.

Instead, I rose to my feet, shook his hand, and hugged him. “Thank you, Dad.”

After a prolonged series of back slaps, he pulled away with a grin and produced a bottle of whiskey from one of his desk drawers.

“I’ve been meaning to try this,” he said, popping the cork. “But I wanted to wait for the right moment.” He got out two glasses. “And I think it’s time.”

It was a bottle of my Saluzzo Reserve.

 

 

 

Jab. Cross.

Jab. Cross. Uppercut.

Cross. Jab. Hook.

Straight kick. Jab.

Roundhouse kick. Uppercut.

Cross. Her—

Fuck.

Not this bullshit again.

For nearly two goddamn months it had been like this. I’d start working out on the bag or the weights or in the ring, and at some point, her face would appear in my mind’s eye like a taunt.

Or a disease.

The way I felt every time I thought about her sure as hell made it seem like I had some kind of illness. I’d start sweating—more than usual—my heart would pound, and my hands would start shaking. Again, more than usual.

Then I’d usually have to go stroke one out somewhere. Locked inside a bathroom stall, or upstairs in my old apartment. Or right behind my own fucking desk. The owner of the most popular gym in Brooklyn was regularly masturbating in his office to the image of one girl.

Well, it was more to a dance.

And I didn’t even know her name.

Other than the fact that she could move like the kind of dream a man never wanted to wake up from, all I knew was that she was a dancer at Rumors, one of the less seedier strip clubs in the city. The first time I saw her was at my brother Cris’s bachelor party two months ago. She’d caught my eye as she was slinging drinks to the customers at the tables, and I’d paid for a private dance from her specifically. Of course, that dance had gotten interrupted by my brothers, and I had to bail out of there.

Right before the best damn part.

I knew it made me sound like a horny teenager who’d never seen actual tits outside of porn before. I knew it made me sound like some quick draw douchebag who couldn’t hold his nut long enough to get his girl off first.

But I’d wanted to see her bare breasts more than I’d wanted to fucking breathe.

They were quite possibly the most perfect pair I’d ever laid eyes on in my life. And not to sound like a complete tool, but I’d seen my fair share of beautiful racks. But my dumbass brothers had burst into the room before she’d been able to untie her skimpy little top.

I was convinced that was the only reason why I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Because I was fixated on her tits, and I’d be like a dog with a bone until I got to see all of them.

Fucking juvenile and pathetic, Rossetti.

So, I’d gone back to the club.

Twice.

Both times she had been serving drinks and working private rooms, but was never up onstage, which I thought was interesting. Girls could make damn good money in the private rooms, especially if they did what wasn’t supposed to go on back there but oftentimes did. Christ, I hope she doesn’t partake in that action.

But they could pull in some serious bank on the stage.

I’d always assumed the draw for most women who became strippers was the money. Obviously, it came with sacrifices, but money was money. Some may do it for the attention, because of daddy issues, or because they had no other marketable skills. No judgment here. Her body, her choice.

But what was her deal?

If she needed money, why didn’t she dance onstage?

For some reason I had yet to identify, I hadn’t paid for another private dance from her either of those nights. I’d simply watched her like a fucking stalker—a theme that seemed to run with the men in my family—and took note of everything she did. Thanks to my military and special ops training, I used a lot of observation techniques that allowed me to see things most people would never notice with the naked eye.

For instance, my girl had manners.

An odd observation, perhaps, but a genuinely sweet, polite girl kind of stuck out in a rowdy strip club. The dancers were generally flirtatious and brazen with customers, always working for more tips. But instead of being seductive and trying to upsell, my girl was courteous and kind to everyone she interacted with.

Even the gropey, drunken assholes that I’d itched to send to the ER in fucking body casts.

She’d also been hyper alert.

Her eyes had constantly darted all over the room, everywhere she went, tracking all the action around her. Frankly, I think the only thing she hadn’t noticed was me sitting in the very back corner, in another waitress’s section. Now, any smart woman in her job would stay on her guard throughout her entire shift. Basic common sense.

But this girl’s attentiveness seemed to almost run to…survival instincts.

In addition to her seemingly sweet disposition, my girl seemed to have a sense of humor about her. She’d made a lot of her customers laugh out loud, and it hadn’t been faked or a way of ingratiating herself to them. I could tell the difference.

And like an asshole, I’d been desperate to hear what she’d been saying to those other men. What jokes she’d graced them with. I’d wanted her to hit me with those punchlines.

Jesus Christ.

What a fucking sap I was turning out to be. I needed someone to hit me all right, but in a much different way.

But the shiniest observation of all had obviously been her body.

It wasn’t something I could have ignored. Not in those tiny shorts that had only partially covered her ass and the crop top that had laughably attempted to conceal her generous chest. The girl wasn’t just naturally fit and thin. With that kind of muscle tone and definition, she regularly worked out. That couldn’t have all been from working the pole because she didn’t even seem to work it. Her glossy, raven hair had reached her lower back and was so black it had looked almost blue. With her dark skin and shorter height, I was guessing a Latina heritage.

Putting all of that together, I’d discerned that she had a higher than average intelligence, some level of street smarts, and a charming, gregarious nature.

And I had no fucking clue what letters from what alphabet that spelled out.

I’d decided I wouldn’t go back again. I didn’t need her kind of distraction in my life—I had enough shit going on as it was. My odd fascination was just an anomaly that would go away with time.

I’d been telling myself that for two goddamn months.

Hoping I’d shake it, shake her.

No dice.

She’d pop into my head at the most inconvenient of times. Like when I was working out. Or when I was around my family and saw my brothers living out their own happily-ever-afters. Or when I was trying to get my cock between another woman’s legs.

I hadn’t been able to seal the deal with anyone since the first night I saw her.

This is getting fucking ridiculous.

Jab. Cross. Uppercut.

Cross. Hook. Straight Kick.

Her.

Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. JAB.

“Uh, excuse me?”

The feminine voice barely cut through the adrenaline pumping inside my veins and echoing loudly in my ears. I dropped my fists and caught the swaying punching bag that I’d sent rocking on its chains.

Without turning around, I began unwrapping the tape around my knuckles. “Gym’s closed. Talk to the front desk tomorrow about starting a membership. They’ll hook you up with a trainer, too, if you need.”

I always had members and non-members approaching me, either wanting me to train them in the ring—or cage—or asking for autographs. I’d started working out only at night after the gym closed just so I could get through an entire routine without being interrupted.

“No, um, I have a food delivery. For a, uh…” The sound of crinkling paper reached my ears. “Luka Rossetti?”

Oh, right.

One of the trainers who worked for me had recommended a new Mexican place a few blocks away. After skipping lunch, I’d decided to order a late dinner, but wasn’t so hungry anymore.

“Right, yeah,” I mumbled, turning around. “Let me go get my wallet.”

I lifted my head and locked eyes with—

Her.

The sensual dancer. The observant waitress. The sweet joke-teller.

I froze.

Was this really happening? Had I pictured her in my mind so many times that I’d managed to make her materialize right in front of me?

Her eyes widened in recognition.

Yeah, she knew who I was. It may have been dark in that private room, but she’d seen enough of my face. And judging by the way her breaths started coming faster, I’d say she remembered exactly how hard I was when she’d been grinding her plump little ass against my lap.

I lied.

I was very hungry. Starving, actually.

The paper bag in her hand hit the floor.

“You…” she breathed.

Fucking me, baby girl.

And you and I have some unfinished business.

 

 

 

Stay tuned for more updates and teasers from Glitter and Greed (Brooklyn Brothers #4), coming soon!