Remo– 36 years old
“The cemetery, boss?” Gian’s confused statement had me looking up and out the windshield.
Noting the name on the metal arched entrance, I grinned. “Trust the fucker to hide.”
“Huh?” He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Nothing. Keep driving.”
Whining, he climbed out and fiddled with the gates before they swung open with a loud grind against the tarred ground. Disinterested, I looked at my phone and didn’t look up again until the car came to a halt outside a large mausoleum.
“Probably invited all his dead relatives,” I muttered as Gian slid into a spot between two SUVs.
At the door two heavies stepped forward. “You’re not invited to this–”
My right hook had him stumbling back into a wall, his hands clutching his throat, face already turning red. I cocked a brow at his friend, and palms up, he moved away to help his gasping partner breathe.
“Always so cordial,” Gian joked.
Ignoring him, I pushed through the large double doors, my eyes quickly taking in the nauseating scene. Much like Arturo, the atmosphere was a garish show of trying too hard, an ostentatious display of power among dons, their soldiers and half naked women. No wives, sisters, girlfriends, or anyone who required consent.
I arrived late on purpose and a second before Arturo cut a cake in the shape of a woman’s pussy. Around me, conversation faltered, glasses paused mid-sip and heads turned. The same shift of gravity that always followed me, whether I wanted it or not. This time though, I relished it, especially the look on Arturo’s face. Knife poised above the cake, his jaw flexed so hard I was sure I could hear his teeth grind.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Remo?” he gritted, voice sharp enough to peel skin. Our last run-in wasn’t exactly sociable. I punched him in the face for looking at my sister. “You weren’t invited.”
Taking my time to light a cigarette, I glanced at him, smirking. “I know.”
“I was about to cut my cake. You stole my fucking moment.”
“Actually, I improved it,” I countered, lifting a brow. “No one remembers cake, Arturo, they sure as fuck remember an entrance though.”
“You think this is funny,” he snapped, his face darkening.
I chuckled. “I don’t think, I know.”
A few men coughed to hide their laughter, others taking a step back as if expecting the air to ignite. It probably would’ve if Lorenzo hadn’t approached me. “I’ll keep him in line, Arturo. Please, cut the cake.” My brother sent a warning look my way.
“You better,” Arturo grunted.
Grinning, I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “For the record, Arturo, your cake is…cute.” I lifted the glass slightly in a mock toast.
His rage practically vibrated through the air, the knife inching its way upward.
Lorenzo stepped between us, his back to Arturo. “Take a walk, now,” he hissed.
“Sure, brother.” My laugh resonating behind me, I walked away.
Ten minutes later, having circled the boring space, encountered less than interesting conversation, and seen nothing spectacular, I was ready to call it quits. On my way though, something caught my attention. In a room full of wanton women, she stood out. Unlike the others who offered their bodies freely, her stance challenged you to try taking without permission.
Leaning against a marble column, face half hidden behind a black, cat-like mask, exposed lips painted the color of sin, matching a dress in the same brazen red, dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, I knew she wasn’t one of Arturo’s. She wasn’t anyone’s. Her head turned with purpose, slow, deliberate, observant until eyes, the color of anonymity locked with mine.
Plenty women slipped into my orbit, soft, trembling waifs dressed in silk and intentions they didn’t understand, yet none walked into my world like they belonged there, a stance borne of a confidence she was untouchable. None like her.
I didn’t like mysteries, nor did I like being studied yet the amused curl of those plump lips was a magnet on their own. My steps slow, I prowled toward her, the music fading behind me. When I reached her, she didn’t flinch and merely tilted her head like I was the phenomenon.
“Who invited you?” I asked, sure she wasn’t invited, not by Arturo, definitely not a woman like her.
“You did.” Her voice was husky velvet.
