Sloane is wiping her eyes with her napkin after her laughing fit. “It’s perfect, Lennon. Don’t worry, I’ll go with you for moral support.”
“Moral support. Right. Not the hot, rich single guys then?” She broke up with her boyfriend of two years a few months ago and has been enjoying dating around.
I think about that photo of Sandro kissing Giada again, and a flare of rage sparks in my mimosa-soaked brain. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
Because what could go wrong?
Chapter 20
Alessandro
Big Tony is at the wheel, with Gunnar and I in the backseat as we pull up to the Zerilli house for the supposed family dinner. There’s no way I’m going into the lion’s den alone. I don’t trust these fuckers. If Zerilli has any inkling we’ve been sniffing around the Bratva girls hustling at the Viper Room, I’m walking into a trap.
His waterfront property is surrounded by a wall and gate. Big Tony’s window glides down, and he presses the intercom button. “We’re here.”
The rod iron gate opens, and we drive through lush tropical landscaping filled with pygmy date palms and birds of paradise plants, around a circular brick drive with a decorative fountain burbling in the middle. We pull up to the front of the two-story, ten-million-dollar Mediterranean mansion.
Guards peruse the property while two loiter on the stairs in camo pants, black T-shirts, and sunglasses. Semi-automatics hang from their shoulders. They watch silently as Gunnar and I exit the Range Rover.
“Let me know if there’s any trouble.” Big Tony’s gruff voice floats from the open driver-side window. “I’ll be here.”
I give him a nod of acknowledgment, and then Gunnar and I climb the wide marble stairs. The guards frisk us, their jaws clenched. They seem pretty uptight for a leisurely Sunday dinner.
“So much for family trust, eh fellas?” I quip.
Once Santino Zerilli is gone, it’s going to take some sorting out to make sure these guys are loyal to me and not Milo. New York said they don’t want Milo taking over Zerilli’s businesses. I wonder how that’s going to work? He’s not just going to step aside. I could have a coup on my hands.
They ignore me. One of them leads us up and opens the door. Another guard is standing inside. His gaze sweeps over us and then he motions for us to follow him.
I’m surprised at the modern décor as Zerilli seems like the old-fashioned Tuscan farmhouse kinda guy. But here we are, walking over white marble floors, past an open kitchen with sleek black cabinets and chrome everything. There’s a great room with black leather furniture and a gas fireplace. The whole back wall is glass doors with a stunning view of Old Tampa Bay. I wonder how much of this is paid for by girls like we rescued last night. My fists clench.
To our left is a long, smoked glass table where a woman in a maid uniform is busy laying out covered dishes.
Santino uses a cane to rise from a plush armchair. “Ah, welcome to our home.” He snaps his fingers at his youngest daughter, Catena. “Get our guests a scotch,mia cara.”
As the nineteen-year-old puts down her book and nods a greeting at us, I narrow my eyes at Santino. Something’s wrong. Something besides him being in his final months on earth.
His gate is slow and careful, like he’s nursing an injury as he approaches us, and when he’s close enough to shake my hand, I see a fresh bruise forming on his cheekbone and jaw.
Milo strides into the living room with Giada behind him. “Hey, fuckers.” He grins at us.
Palmiro appears from a room off the kitchen, her tiny figure clad in a black dress. She clicks her tongue. “Language, Emilio.I signori non parlano così.”
I smirk at Emilio. No one would mistake him for a gentleman, but it seems Palmiro has the patience of a saint.
He rolls his eyes but walks over and smacks a kiss on the top of her head and apologizes. “Mi dispiace.”
Santino holds a hand over his ribs as he steps away. A definite sign that someone worked him over. Who would be bold enough or stupid enough to work over a Italian mafia boss? Only one group comes tomind.
The Bratva.
“Hello, fiancé,” Giada purrs as she stands too close and runs her palms down my chest. Her eyes are glittering with satisfaction. “Did you see the article about us in the paper this morning?”
I grab her hands and pull them off me, dropping them at her side. “I have a name, Giada. And no, I don’t give a shit what some rag says about us.”
She folds her arms, her nostrils flaring. “You may not,fiancé.” She leans forward and whispers. “But I bet that little slut you can’t keep your hands off of will.”
Luckily for her, her little sister has impeccable timing. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and say something I shouldn’t, Catena shoves a tumbler of scotch in my hand with a knowing smirk. The girl has always been quiet, but I swear she’s the only one who sees the big picture.
