Getting out of the condo was easier than I thought. I pretended to receive a call on Fly’s phone from Miss Fantino about Nacho being sick. The way Fly convinced Carlo and Santo to bring us to get my dog surprised me again. Nacho miraculously got better as soon as we arrived at my building, so since we were there, I got to go to my apartment. I don’t know why but someone broke my closet—Luca the fucking wacko—Fly assured me he’ll make him pay me back. Like that would ever happen. I took the chance to change my clothes and grab some more. After that, another fake call from Marco took us here to celebrate.
Carlo doesn’t look very happy about it. I think he’s on to us—it’s pretty obvious that it was all staged. I saw him tapping on his fucking phone, the snitch. But I know Fly will be fine, and he’ll smooth things over for Carlo and Santo as well. I’m the one in trouble. Still, fuck it! I need this after nine days of seclusion.
I’m climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge, patting Nacho’s head, when a guy coming down grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.
“Hey, remember me?”
I glance at his face and discard him quickly. He’s greasier than the bowl of meat Luca gave me a couple of days ago.
“Buzz off! Don’t like small dicks.” I try to tug my arm free, but he doesn’t let go. Nacho starts growling. Good boy.
Carlo suddenly grabs the guy’s wrist. “Didn’t you hear? He’s not interested,” I hear him say.
Fly appears at the top of the stairs, watching what’s happening. The idiot finally releases me as a couple of guys from security find us—glad to see that the CCTV works well. They grab him, and I tell them to throw him out before I resume the climbing.
“You know what I’m thinking about?” I ask Fly when we reach the table and sit. “Female dragonflies.”
“Why?” He chuckles then orders a bottle of champagne, as I choose a plate of appetizers from the menu.
“They’ll fake their own deaths to avoid mating with unwanted males.”
Fly laughs at my reply.
So I continue. “Like ugh, play dead, here comes tiny-dick dude.” I open my purse and start munching on some Sour Patch Kids.
“How do you know it was tiny? Did you fuck him?” Fly asks about grabby guy from the stairs, accepting a fruity gummy from me. Carlo does too when I stretch my arm holding the pack toward him. He’s standing with Santo near the table.
Maybe I did fuck that guy. Can’t remember. I shake my head after thanking the waitress who’s pouring champagne into my glass.
“But compared to Luca’s, they’d all be tiny. I’m telling you, he has a weapon of mass destruction in his pants.”
“Art, sometimes you got a mouth like a badger’s ass,” Fly whispers in my ear.
“Stinky?”
“Filthy!” he states, savoring his glass. I laugh. Fair enough.
I raise mine toward Carlo to thank him for the help. It’s the first time a soldier has helped me out. My father’s men sneer or ignore me most of the time.
“Oh, my dear lord, is that River?” Fly sounds really surprised.
“Your brother?” I follow the direction he’s looking and see an Asian guy with green locks, wearing a light blue suit, sitting a few tables away from us near a mountain of a man with reddish-blond hair tied in a bun and eyes so similar to Fly’s. He has an old burn scar covering half of his face; Fly told me River almost died in a fire when he was a kid.
“He’s with Akira, his husband.” He tilts his head toward the colorful dude.
“Are you sure that’s your bro? Fuck, he’s hot!” I almost whistle, but really, he’s definitely my type. Big, rough and dangerous looking. Fly only ever showed me a pic of when they were kids. The skinny boy grew into a hunk of meat. Damn.
Fly slaps my arm, breaking his drop-dead gorgeous brother’s spell. My gaze falls to the dance floor, and my blood runs cold when I see Mario there. I blink, and he’s gone. My heart is pounding inside my chest, air stuck in my lungs as my eyes flicker all around the room. Where is he? Is he really here? No. He’s in Boston. It’s just a fabrication of my anxious mind. Yes. I tighten my arm around a sleepy Nacho on my lap.
“Oh, no! What is Seb doing with them?”
Fly’s hissing whisper makes me turn toward his brother’s table again.
Sebastiano “Ice” Leone—here? A subtle chill runs down my body—no pun intended. What is it tonight? I finally managed to go out, and everybody decides to come tomyclub? Can’t be a coincidence.
I mostly read about the Leone boss online, about his business genius, and King Midas investments. It has been years since I’ve actually seen him face-to-face. He’s got more white strands in his black wavy hair—not one is out of place. It’s not his designer suit that gives him a sophisticated air; it seems to come from within him spreading out in waves, the power, the entitlement. A dangerous predatory vibe that shows me why he’s the big boss. The bodyguards around him heavily substantiate that.
His eyes abruptly find mine. The nickname “Ice” makes perfect sense. The chill I felt before is more like a polar vortex now. Red flags are waving everywhere. There’s so much emptinessin his gaze, a beepingwarningresounds inside my head. I feel like something is stuck in my throat; his hair-raising presence is eerily daunting. This is a dangerous man, my father’s a damn fool to go against him.
