2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

ORION

My heart thunders and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder as I step into the grungy shower stall. There’s something black and fuzzy growing in the upper left corner of the cramped space that I’d rather not look at. As gross as it is though, it’s preferable to giving in to the prickling feeling on the back of my neck, the terrified animal sense clawing at my skin, telling me to turn around and make sure Elio isn’t standing there with his gun pointed right at me.

I grind my molars together and crank the water a few degrees hotter. How fucking dare he? I’ve been fighting for survival almost as long as I can remember, learning to use my fists as soon as I could, selling off parts of myself until rage was the only thing left. And now an asshole like Elio thinks he has the right to get in my head and make me feel like I need to look over my shoulder? Absolutely not.

The scalding water beats down on my aching muscles, searing the spots that are already bruising from Cabrerra’s fists. I poke a finger into the tender purple splotch blooming across the bottom edge of my ribs. Nothing feels broken. At least, not broken enough to warrant anything more than wrapping it before I crash later.

I roll my neck from side to side and groan at the tug of my tight muscles. I would sell my soul for a hot bath and a massage. Jesus, what a fucking luxury that would be. I close my eyes and indulge in the fantasy for half a second, imagining a laughable dream world where instead of cleaning up in this biohazard of a shower just to avoid a mobster, I get to go home to a hot bath and an eager lover. Instead of wrapping my injuries myself, a beautiful man would tend to me with adoration and submission in his eyes, kissing my bruises and massaging the knots out of my muscles while I whisper hot, filthy things to him.

I groan a second time, the sound painful as it works its way through my throat. Fantasies like that are dangerous. A life like that is for other people, not for me. I learned that a long time ago. Some people are dealt nothing but shit—that’s just life.

I slam my hand back down on the nozzle, killing the water. It’s jarring how quickly the stream stops, leaving me standing, shivering in a draining puddle. My hair clings to my neck and shoulders in wet clumps. I didn’t think to bring a towel with me during my storm out, so I’m forced to do a sopping wet walk of shame now, hoping Elio took the hint and fucked off in the last few minutes.

Leaving a trail of footprints through the bathroom, I snatch my shorts off of the floor and step back into the main part of the locker room. It’s empty, no trace of the Mafia prince aside from the lingering agitation that refuses to release its hold on me.

“ A lesson in manners? ” His words earlier echo in my head while I grab a clean towel to dry myself off.

If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought he was flirting. Flirting like a bratty sub, looking to be taught a lesson. My cock perks up at the thought. I scoff to myself, running a hand over my face and shaking my head to clear the momentary insanity. Elio fucking Moretti is not a subby brat begging for a spanking, he’s a goddamn killer.

I get dressed in the same jeans and faded band t-shirt I wore on my way in earlier, when I was buzzing with the adrenaline of an upcoming fight. Now everything feels too quiet, like the crash after an intense high.

I wind my hair up into a bun on top of my head and sling my bag over my shoulder before shoving my feet into my ratty old tennis shoes. I shuffle out of the locker room with knots in my stomach, dragging my feet and immediately feeling guilty about it.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him. Of course I do. He’s my flesh and blood, and I’m not even sure I’d still be breathing if it weren’t for him. It’s just that some nights, like after a fight, it all feels like too much. All I want to do is go home and fall into bed, pretend for twelve hours or so that I’m the badass MMA champion everyone else thinks I am. But there’s no question what I’ll choose. Blowing off Jack isn’t even an option.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans and square my shoulders as I step out onto the street. The arena isn’t on the best side of town. Hell, eighty percent of Wildcliff is the bad side of the city. Unless you’ve got a hell of a lot of zeros in your bank account, you’re stuck slumming it. The scrawny twelve-year-old inside me has the urge to hurry down the street, avoid looking down any alleyways, keep my head down, and get out of here as quickly as possible. I’m not that kid anymore though, and I’m not afraid of this city. She’s done her worst to me, and I’m still here.

It’s a handful of blocks to the towering cement building that sits right on the corner, with a brief detour to pick up some burgers from Jack’s favorite place. There are overgrown flowerbeds on either side of the steps up to the door, and graffiti that’s been hastily scrubbed off the side of the building. The words ‘Shady Oaks’ are written above the door. There isn’t a tree in sight, but okay. I pull open the door and step into the familiar lobby, squinting as my eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lights.

The woman behind the reception desk smiles at me, the skin around her eyes crinkling with well-earned smile lines that give away her age, no matter how often she touches up her graying roots.

“I’m glad you came by. Jack has been in a mood all day. He’ll be happy to see you,” she says, adding to the guilt writhing in my gut.

I force a smile, reaching for the sign-in sheet on the counter and jotting my name down in a messy scrawl.

“He’ll be glad to see a cheeseburger, that’s for sure,” I say, and she laughs, waving me back without bothering with any other formalities, like reminding me about when visiting hours end. I’m here four nights a week—I know the rules and schedules like the back of my hand. I could walk the path to Jack’s room with my eyes closed and a concussion. I think I actually did do that after one particularly brutal fight.

I tap on the door to Jack’s room, a pattern of three knocks that we established when we were teenagers squatting in an abandoned apartment building.

“Yeah,” he grunts, which I take to mean, ‘ Come in, dear brother. Thank you so much for bringing dinner and always thinking of me. ’ Not that I blame him for being a crabby asshole from time to time. Fuck knows if I were in his position, I’d have a much worse attitude than he does.

I step inside and hold up the bag from Reggie’s with a grin, refusing to wince at the twinge in my bruised ribs that accompanies the motion. He’s lying in his bed, the curtains on the windows drawn, the stale smell of sweat and antiseptic filling the room. The place looks homey, at least. Which was the main reason I even agreed to it when he said he wanted to live here instead of staying with me. It’s basically a studio apartment with a living room set up, an old flatscreen TV hanging on the far wall, a small kitchen, and his bed. There are table lamps, cozy rugs, and a vase of flowers that I’m sure one of his nurses brought for him. But no matter how welcoming it is, there’s no denying what this place is, or why my brother is here.

“Victory burgers.” I grin and shrug my bag off my shoulder, dropping it by the door and setting the bag down on the counter. “Do you want to stay there, or do you want help into your chair?”

Jack frowns. “Bed is fine. You don’t need to be picking up my bullshit, useless body and carrying me around like a ragdoll after a fight.”

“Dude, I’ll wear you on my back Yoda-style during a fight if you want me to,” I say, while still respecting his decision and pulling a chair up next to his bed so I can take a seat there.

His sour look melts into a momentary smile. My lips twitch in a matching grin and I reach into the bag to pull out one of the burgers. I unwrap it and hold it up to his mouth. He scoffs under his breath but takes a bite anyway, chewing slowly.

There aren’t a lot of blessings to count in this situation, but the fact that he can still eat and breathe more or less on his own is in that column, as far as I’m concerned. If the damage had been one vertebra higher, he’d be eating through tubes and stuck on a ventilator.

“Tell me about the fight tonight,” he says once he swallows.

“Come on, you don’t want to hear about it.” He asks every time, and it never stops feeling downright wrong to give him a literal blow-by-blow of every fight when he’s supposed to be the one out there making headlines and signing sponsorship contracts. He’s the one with the boy-next-door good looks and all the charm. I feel like a little kid wearing shoes five sizes too big.

“Let me live vicariously,” he insists, then opens his mouth for another bite.

I sigh and give in, sharing the burger with him while I tell him about every detail of the fight. Of course, I leave out the visit from Elio that came after. Jack doesn’t need to know that even my fat fight paychecks aren’t enough to cover the cost of keeping him here with nurses on call twenty-four hours a day. He doesn’t need to know that I broke the pact we made a decade ago about never getting mixed up with the Morettis, no matter how bad things might get. He doesn’t need to know that I lie awake at night, wondering how much longer I’ll even be able to fight and where I’ll get the money to keep paying the medical bills after that.

Maybe I’m being a stubborn idiot, refusing to take a payout from the Morettis. I can’t keep up this winning streak forever, right? Sooner or later, I’m going to lose a fight, and it would be pretty damn nice to make a cool million for it. I grit my teeth at the thought though, my pride rearing up and thrashing inside me like an untamed beast.

Taking a dive is apparently the limit of what I’ll do to take care of my brother. At least, as long as I have other options.

We finish the burgers and spend another hour talking bullshit until Jack falls asleep. It’s past visiting hours, but no one hassles me on my way out. There’s no shortage of pity and special treatment for a thirty-five-year-old quadriplegic and his scrappy younger brother who’s literally fighting to support him. That’s some movie-of-the-week shit right there. Too bad there’s no happy ending to be had here.

ELIO

My footsteps echo eerily in my empty apartment. I sway, bracing my hand against the door to keep my balance until the room stops spinning. It’s possible I had a few too many drinks after slinking out of the locker room earlier, words stuck in my throat as I watched Orion disappear in a rage after throwing his towel at me.

The towel …

A sloppy grin spreads over my lips at the same slow pace as the tendrils of heat that weave their way through my veins. I slip a hand inside my suit jacket and pull out the folded towel. The droplets of blood that came from Orion’s split lip are rusty brown now, the cloth almost entirely dry after a couple of hours spent tucked under my jacket. This is a new low, I’m well aware of that. But that doesn’t stop me from bringing the towel to my nose and inhaling deeply.

The musky scent of his sweat fills the back of my throat and makes my head spin. I moan, my dick swelling rapidly. I sag against the door, using one hand to undo my belt while I hold the towel to my nose with the other. My eyes flutter closed, and I imagine having my face buried in the crook of Orion’s neck, feeling the slickness of his sweat after a fight, lapping at his salty skin with slow strokes of my tongue until he’s moaning and twisting his fingers roughly in my hair.

I shove my hand down the front of my pants and wrap it around the base of my thick, throbbing cock, drunk on whiskey and Orion’s scent, but most of all drunk on the fantasy of his hatred turning into passion. The door rattles at my back with the frantic pace of my hand on my cock, rough and unlubed, with just enough bite to keep me right on edge without tipping me over right away.

I grunt and gasp, the sounds muffled by the towel still pressed to my face. My balls tighten and Orion’s cold green eyes dance behind my eyelids, set in a harsh glare that makes me more desperate to please him every time he turns all that disapproval on me. I want to crawl on my knees for him. I want to hurt for him. I want to see his rage shift into desire until he can’t do anything but put his hands all over me, mark me with his bruises, fucking claim me.

I groan, curling my toes inside of my shoes and wrenching the towel away from my nose to shove it down my pants. I replace my hand with it, squirming and panting at the rough feeling of terrycloth on my throbbing cock, working myself harder and faster.

“Orion. Orion. Orion ,” I murmur his name over and over, my hips snapping helplessly as I fuck the towel, the flavor of his sweat still thick on my tongue, mixing with the smooth taste of whiskey that’s lingering there. “Please,” I rasp, throwing my head back to bang against the heavy door and letting out a howl as my orgasm punches through me.

I fuck into the towel, shivering at the odd satisfaction of spilling all over something Orion pressed against his bare skin only a few hours ago. The image of his disgust and disapproval fills my mind, twisting my gut with burning hot shame that only makes me come harder, weakening my knees and clenching around my balls until I’m completely spent and out of breath.

I slide down the door until my ass hits the floor, one hand still shamefully down my pants, my chest heaving with my ragged breaths.

So much for being the big, bad second in command of the biggest crime family in the city. Too drunk to stand up, getting off on humiliation and pure goddamn contempt… Elio fucking Moretti, ladies and gentlemen.

I yank the towel out of my pants, wad it up, and toss it lazily aside. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, I kind of hate myself for ruining it. Then again, what was I going to do with it? Sleep with Orion’s sweaty towel tucked against my face like a security blanket? There’s a twinge in my chest at the thought.

Jesus, I am beyond pathetic.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out my phone, not giving any thought to who I’m calling until the familiar sound of my brother’s voice fills my ear.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is rough with sleep but already alert, ready for whatever horror I might be calling about in the middle of the night.

“Nothing,” I answer, and I hear an exhale of relief, followed by the faint shuffling of fabric. His bedsheets? Probably. “Do you ever just wonder what it would have been like to be a normal kid? Like, not raised knowing we were going to inherit an empire of blood and money?”

Enzo is quiet for several seconds, but I can hear him breathing, I swear I can practically hear him thinking , turning the question over, looking for the right answer to it. As if there is a right one.

“You’re drunk,” he says eventually, and I snort.

“’S still a good question.” I clumsily get to my feet again, bracing one hand against the door to help in the process.

“No, I don’t. We are who we are, there’s no changing that.” He’s full of the kind of certainty I would fucking kill for if I thought shedding blood over the matter might solve anything.

“Everyone thinks we’re monsters,” I mutter, shuffling through my apartment, flipping on lights on my way to the bar cart parked in the corner of my living room.

I pick up an expensive bottle of whiskey that Alessio gave me for Christmas last year and uncap it, bringing it to my lips to take a swig. It doesn’t even burn on the way down, which is a sure sign I’ve had enough. I take a second swig anyway, then drag my tongue over my lips.

“So let them think we’re monsters. You and I both know there are worse boogie men out there than either of us.” The venom in his words sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you want me to come over?” he offers more softly a second later.

“No. I’m going to sleep.” I wasn’t actually planning on it until the words left my mouth, but it sounds like a pretty damn good idea now that I think about it.

“Okay. Night, fratello . Don’t forget we have a meeting tomorrow. If tonight turns into one of your three-day drinking binges, I’ll have Salvatore so far up your ass you won’t be able to sit down,” he says, and I chuckle.

Salvatore is the best threat he can come up with? Half the time our cousin ends up just as drunk as I am when he’s meant to be wringing me out. Enzo’s only solution is to pass me off to someone else. Alessio is too nice about it, making me scrambled eggs and putting cold compresses on the back of my neck, and Xaviaro is in the middle of the two of them, acting like everything is fine while I puke into a bucket next to his couch.

It’s fine. I don’t need any of them to babysit me anyway. I don’t need anyone around to shove me back into line when I stumble or spank my ass when I’m feeling out of control. I don’t need someone to see right through me and somehow know when I need to be coddled and when I need something rougher to help me get my head back on straight.

Even if I did need those things, the only man I want them from hates my fucking guts. There may be worse monsters in this city than us, but as far as Orion is concerned, I might as well be Satan himself.