15
DEVIN
I was running late. Again.
The double doors to the conference room loomed ahead like judgment itself, and the muffled sound of voices inside told me the all-hands-on-deck, dick-swinging Butera family meeting was already well underway.
Anthony Butera didn’t tolerate lateness—he called it “a sign of disrespect,” and those usually came with physical violence and worse humiliation.
He wasn’t wrong, technically, since I often showed up a few minutes past time just to piss him off. Like a goddamn teenager disappointing their father at curfew just to make a scene. At least, that was what I assumed it was like, since I’d never had any real parents to speak of besides Jonathan’s father.
Sometimes, disrespect was the only power I had left in this family. Only this time, I hadn’t meant it that way.
I’d lost track of time trying to deal with Lois Taylor—Frankie’s mom. The woman was barely getting by even before she’d beenunknowingly threatened. Frankie hadn’t said it outright, but I could tell it was eating her alive to not be with her mom every second since the letter.
So I’d called in a favor.
Found someone who could check in on Lois daily, help her around the house, get her groceries. Hell, I even arranged transport if she needed to get out of town in a hurry. It wasn’t part of my job. But lately, the job wasn’t exactly my top priority.
I pushed open the doors, late enough that every head turned.
Anthony Butera sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his fingers steepled like some kind of priest about to pass sentence. Jonathan was on his right, sharp suit, calm eyes, trying to look older than he was. On Anthony’s left sat his old warhorses—Milo Conti and Vincent Serrano—men who’d seen more blood spilled than I’d seen birthdays.
“Devin,” Anthony said, his tone flat as steel. “How gracious of you to join us.”
I slid into an empty chair near the end of the table, offering a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, boss.”
Vincent chuckled quietly, but Anthony didn’t bite. “You think this is funny? You stroll in here fifteen minutes late—again—and expect me to believe you take this family seriously?”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The quiet was worse.
I felt the weight of their eyes on me. I knew my place—near the bottom of this table, despite how many jobs I’d done, how many times I’d taken hits for the Buteras. I was muscle with a brain, aman they used when charm or violence was needed, depending on the hour.
But it seemed sometimes like I’d never be one of them. Not really, not to anyone but the two men I was closest to, not just in our organization, but in general.
Who else on this Earth could I trust enough to fuck a gorgeous woman alongside them? No one.
“Got caught up in something,” I said, maintaining a nonchalant tone that I knew would piss him off more. “Won’t happen again.”
Jonathan’s gaze flicked to me. His eyes narrowed a little, remembering all the times he’d covered for me in the past. Telling me,“You know I can’t cover for you all the time.”Good thing I wasn’t asking him to.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in a way that looked oddly similar to his son’s. “You’ve been getting caught up in a lot of things lately, Dev. Personal things. What would you call it, Vinny? Ah, right. Distractions.”
That word hit a nerve. Frankie wasn’t a distraction—she was the only thing that felt real anymore, and all this bullshit felt like a distraction fromher.
Protecting her. Spoiling her. Making her come.
“I handle my work,” I said. “Always have.”
Anthony’s stare didn’t waver. “You handle it because I let you. Don’t forget who brought you in from the gutter, Devin. Without this family, you’d still be running petty cons on street corners.”
That stung, mostly because it was true.
I leaned back, feigning a smile. “And yet here I am, sitting at your table.”
He didn’t reply. But Jonathan’s jaw tightened, the way it always did when things got tense between me and his father. I caught his eye for a second, and for a flash I was seventeen again, dirt under my fingernails, wearing a jacket two sizes too big, staring down a clean-cut kid in an Armani coat.
The sky was spitting the kind of cold, greasy rain that made the city smell like rot and gasoline, or maybe that was just how I remembered everything back in those days.
