“Name one.”
“Okay. That time at the docks. Sure, you took a bullet for me, but I clocked that assassin from a mile away. He never would have hit me in the first place.”
Aron raises a dark brow and smirks, making his dimples pop. “You clocked him while your dick was buried in that callboy’s ass? Right. And I suppose you were just going to dodge the bulletMatrix-style while you were balls-deep in a prostitute.”
“I could have, if you hadn’t gotten in the way.”
Aron’s bark of laughter echoes in the stairwell as we ascend into the club proper. “I’ll carry that scar with me for life, and you think I was ‘in the way’?” He shakes his head. “I swear, Matt, your delusions will be the death of me.”
His phrasing catches me off-guard, and I falter in my steps.
“Whoa!” Aron grabs my arm before I trip. “See? You can’t even walk straight.”
It’s a friendly jab, but one that cuts deep. Aron’s the only person who knows the truth about me, the only one who knows without a doubt that my sexuality isn’t a phase, that I’m not “just confused.” Even my father doesn’t realize that I’ve never been with a woman. All of my public-facing romances have been lies, façades for the sake of Dad’s pride, for the sake of the business.
Worse than the gay joke, though, is the fact that I’ve kept one secret even from Aron, one secret that can never come to light.
Shaking my head clear of poisonous thoughts, I change the subject. “How’s Emily?”
Aron beams as he holds the door to the club’s VIP room for me. “She’s positively glowing. Pregnancy’s a good look on her. I can’t wait for the baby to come, though. My poor girl is miserablelately. Can’t sleep, barely keeps anything down.” He sighs. “I thought morning sickness was an early-stage thing. Shouldn’t she be over it by now?”
“You’re asking the wrong man, my friend. The female body is a mystery to me on a normal day. Throw a baby into the mix, and I’ve got no clue what’s going on there. I didn’t even know morning sickness could happen all day long before you told me.”
“Didn’t you pay attention in sex ed?”
He poses the question while sweeping the room for bugs, wires, and bombs, his tone casual despite the gravity of his task.
“You think the Catholic boarding school Dad shipped me off to had a sex ed class?”
Once the room is clear, Aron straightens and adjusts his suit coat. “Did you already forget I was sent off to boarding school with you? St. Mary’s of the Divine Light might not have had sex ed, but it had biology; you just weren’t paying attention.”
I clamp a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what I had you for.”
“You had me to watch your back. Classwork was your own responsibility.”
“Speaking of watching backs, are we clear?”
“Of course. I'd drag you out of here if we weren’t.”
“Good.” I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and dial. “Sal? Hey. VIP room is all ours. You can bring the buyer and his guest in. Just make sure you've checked them first.”
Salvador Vincento, one of my dad's lieutenants, scoffs on the other end of the line. “I know how to do my job, Matteo.”
“Like you did your job with the witness at Papa Leo’s?”
“That wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know they were a ketamine addict? That dose I gave them would have taken out a rhino if they hadn’t built up a fucking tolerance.”
Dad already forgave Sal for that particular fuckup, but I can’t resist messing with him. “Weren’t you also assigned thepreliminary surveillance on that target? Don’t tell me you’ve lost your touch, Sal.”
“If you weren’t Tito’s only son, I’d show you how in touch I am.”
Sal’s all talk. He’s like an uncle to me. He’s no more likely to harm me than Aron is. “Get on in here. I’ve got business to take care of.”
The door opens, and in walks Sal and two men in well-tailored suits.
One man is young, cocky, clearly in charge of the other. He looks about mid-twenties, and his carriage suggests that he’s trying to compensate for his young age. The set of his shoulders is a bit off, and the way he tries to puff up his lanky chest is almost comical. He’s got bleached blonde hair pulled into a thin, tight ponytail at the crown of his head. There’s enough pomade in it to keep every hair in place, and the stench of his cologne is almost enough to strangle me. He carries a briefcase in his right hand, and I catch the glint of metal peeking from under the cuff of his sleeve. Handcuffs.
Harrison Walker. New money. Tech startup, if our intel is correct, though clearly not all of his earnings are on the up-and-up, or he wouldn’t be here. Not that we care if his money is clean. We have ways of scrubbing any funds we get from him.
