Stepping into the glass shower, I flip the high pressure water on, steam filling the place. I don’t indulge often, and when I do, it’s usually a boiling hot shower. Nothing relaxes the muscles more than that.
Fucking does.
I don’t have time for that. Especially not when I need to court a woman, let alone deal with the expectations of a relationship when they know that will never happen.
I wash the shampoo out of my hair, pushing back the wet strands that fall over my forehead. The tiled floors fill with suds as the water carries them off my body and down the drain.
Some would say my life is boring, monotone, repetitive, but that’s the way I want it. Meticulous control is something I will never give up. My brother and I lived in chaos for most of our lives with a junkie ma and a pa that only knew his way with killing for the mafia. That isn’t the kind of life I want to live, being controlled by drunks or obeying every whim some boss has.
I step out of the shower, water dropping onto the pristine marble floors. Grabbing the towel that’s hanging by the shower door, I quickly dab myself dry as I pull out a pair of boxers and black pants. The clock reads four o’clock in the morning. Three hours until the work day starts. My employees will fill this building, and not a second past seven, will everyone be at their desks.
And I will be in my office reading over more fucking contracts. I need to get out and go to Naples, but if I do end up going, I’ll need to take the Folonari girl with me. I've laid eyes on Mara Folonari only a handful of times; she puts models to shame, but she's just as dead in the eyes. And that is a fucking problem.
Her brothers are reckless idiots who can’t get their heads on right. What do I expect from boys who let their dicks lead them?
I button up my black dress shirt, forgoing the tie, and head back into my office to call Romiro.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Click.
“What kind of psychopath calls people at four in the morning? Are you insane?” he groans, his voice groggy from sleep.
“I don’t know any psychopaths, but I know a lot of people who call at four in the morning. And no, I’m not insane.” I keep my tone firm and serious.
I can hear him shuffling on the other end of the phone before he sighs and asks, “What the fuck do you want, Nicolo?”
“Tell Folonari that there will be stipulations to the agreement we had a couple of weeks ago. I’ll be at Vault 61 like he texted earlier. Be there.”
I hang up, not waiting for his answer.
I tapmy forefinger on the sleek table. This part of the club is always on the quieter side; soft classical music plays and the low murmur of a few other patrons fills the air.
Vault 61 is the most exclusive club in New York. It accepts five new members each year and has a strict criteria on who even qualifies.
But it’s clearly not strict enough, seeing as the fucker Nestor is here and heading toward me.
“I didn’t say you could join me,” I grit out as he slides into the booth opposite me.
He waves his hand, as if to dismiss the notion of needing permission. “Now, why would I need permission to sit with my friend?”
My eyes narrow on his face, trying to figure out where he gets the stupidity from. I take a sip from my drink, letting the alcohol burn its way down my throat.
“Where did you get that notion?”
He grabs my glass after I set it down and sniffs it.Sniffs it. Christ.
“Vodka. A man of taste, I see. And which notion are you referring to?”
“The one where you think I’m your friend.”
“Oh, come on. I know you’re just pretending not to like me. I mean, who doesn’t like the great, magnificent, handsome?—”
I stop him from continuing his ego-stroking rant. “Stop talking, Nestor. Your voice aggravates me.”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Everyone’s voice aggravates you, Nico.”
“It’s Nicolo, and that’s because everyone’s voice is aggravating.”
