3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

ELIO

The thumping beat of the music from inside the club throbs in my eardrums as I near the door. The bouncer sees me coming and practically falls over himself, grabbing the door handle to pull it open before it’s even finished swinging closed behind the last group of people who entered. I button my suit jacket with one hand and nod to him in thanks.

I think his name is Gio? Rio? Something that rolls right off the tongue like that. At least that’s the exact pickup line Alessio purred at him a few weeks ago. Not sure if that night ended with the towering doorman using all those bouncer muscles of his to manhandle Les or not.

He gives me a polite smile, but I notice the tick at the corner of his lips that gives away a slight case of nerves. He might be six and a half feet tall and chiseled out of pure stone, but he’s as scared of The Family as everyone else in this city.

“Sir,” he says, tilting his head as I pass.

I stifle the urge to snort at the honorific. Sir ? I’ve never been a sir . I can hardly even take anyone seriously when they refer to me as Mr. Moretti. My father was Mr. Moretti, and Lorenzo is definitely Mr. Moretti. Me, though? Not so much.

“Elio,” I correct, even though I know it won’t change anything. He probably thinks it’s a test, like if he actually addresses me as ‘Elio’ the next time we meet, I’ll shoot him in the head.

My heart thuds in time with the pounding, sultry bass as I make my way through the club. Wild is Enzo’s pet project—the first and only all male strip club in the state. Clearly it was a good bet, because the place is packed night after night, regardless of what day of the week it is.

On the main stage, our most popular dancer, Dante, is working the pole in a pair of obscenely tight leather shorts. His ass cheeks hang out the bottom of them as he bends forward and shakes it, eliciting a round of horny cheers from the men clamoring to crawl up on the stage and worship the ground the little spitfire walks on. One of them makes the mistake of reaching for Dante as he struts close to the edge of the stage, unbuttoning his shorts and teasing the crowd with a peek at the lacy thong he appears to be wearing underneath. He dodges the man’s grasp, then slams his foot down, pinning the groper’s hand to the stage and grinding it under the heel of his shoe with a sweet smirk that’s completely at odds with the yelp his action elicits, loud enough to be audible over the music.

I can read the words, “ No touching, baby ,” on Dante’s lips.

I grin and keep walking, ignoring the way my brain hammers against the inside of my skull thanks to last night’s overindulgence, and the flutter of impatience already building in my gut to get this meeting over with so I can make it across town in time.

I’m the last to arrive at our usual table in the back corner of the club. It’s a spot with a perfect view of the main stage, but out of the way enough that no one is going to be eavesdropping on our conversations. Not that many people would have the sheer balls or stupidity to try.

Enzo is sitting with his back to the wall, looking every bit the Mafia Don, with an air of command that hangs around him effortlessly, a don’t-fuck-with-me stare, and a crisp black Armani suit that cost as much as some cars. The chair on his right is empty, waiting for me to claim it. The metaphor is too obvious and boring to even bother acknowledging. On his left, Salvatore is seated, wearing a deep purple suit tonight, with a black-and-gold vest underneath. It would be a joke on most people, but he always manages to look like he belongs on the cover of GQ . Across from Sal, Alessio is leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the table, his suit jacket unbuttoned. I can’t imagine anyone else daring to flout the Moretti image so blatantly, especially right in front of Lorenzo, but Les operates under a different set of rules than most people under my brother’s command. There’s a certain amount of privilege that comes with being childhood friends, I suppose. No one knows that better than Xaviaro—trigger man, enforcer, Moretti Family hitman, and Enzo’s best friend. He’s on Alessio’s left side, earning his nickname, Iceman, with a steely expression on his face that dares anyone to fucking try him. And finally, the newest addition to our inner circle, the unhinged little murderer Xaviaro went and fell in love with, Sparrow.

My brother notices my approach, looking me over slowly, no doubt searching for any signs that I’m still drunk after that call last night. His attention on me causes the rest of the guys to lift their heads or swivel in their chairs as well, five sets of eyes boring into me, trying to read my fucking blood alcohol like they expect it to be printed across my damn forehead. I resist the urge to give them all the finger. It’s not like I’m an alcoholic.

“I’d assure you all that I’m as sober as a judge, but I think we all know there are a few too many judges in Wildcliff who keep a bottle of Scotch in their top desk drawer,” I quip, patting Xaviaro on the back as I pass him, not sure if I’m hoping to get an icy scowl from him or if I’m angling to earn a few growly, possessive threats from Sparrow.

When my hand lands on him, I feel a strange knot under his clothes. I drag my fingers curiously along the protrusion. Is it a rope? A harness? Xaviaro shrugs me off and Sparrow tilts his head, flashing me a threatening, toothy grin.

“Is there a reason you’re pawing at what’s mine?” he asks with too much sweetness in his voice. If I hadn’t lost any sense of fear and self-preservation decades ago, I might shiver at the implied threat in his sugary tone.

“Bold claim, little bird.” I smile right back at him. “Do you have a leash you use to lead Xav around by his dick?”

The only reaction Xaviaro has to my crude statement is a slight hitch in one eyebrow.

“Jealous?” Sparrow asks. “Wishing someone would buy a dick leash for you too?”

I make an attempt to scoff at the suggestion, but the sound comes out too tight and strangled to actually get my point across. He leans back in his seat looking smug and satisfied, and I fumble to come up with a retort, even though I’m well aware it’s already been too long to fire back with any dignity.

“Can we put a pin in any further discussions of kinks and fetishes and get down to business? Or is that too much to ask?” Lorenzo asks dryly.

“Honestly, talking about kinks sounds more interesting.” Alessio shrugs and rocks his chair back onto its back legs. “I definitely noticed Sal panting when Dante did that routine last week where he wore nothing but a pair of cowboy boots and a riding crop.”

“Fuck off,” Sal mutters, and I think I notice a blush creeping over his cheeks even in the dim lighting of our cozy corner.

“Oh, are we supposed to talk about our own kinks?” Alessio flashes a shit-eating grin. “In that case, I keep having this wet dream where…”

My brother clears his throat, cutting off whatever horny description Les was about to launch into, and leveling him with a look that makes it clear playtime is over. As hard as he pushes the limits at times, he’s not a fucking idiot. He has the good grace to look mildly sheepish as he snaps his mouth closed and lowers his chair back onto all four legs, putting his own feet on the floor and sitting up properly.

Enzo gestures towards my seat. I reach up to loosen my tie a fraction, then round the table to claim my place on his right side. Underboss and second in command. Successor to the Moretti throne if shit ever goes sideways and Lorenzo ends up ice cold on a slab in the morgue. I shudder at the thought, and not just because it hits too close to home.

There’s a comfort to the familiar cadence of the meeting once it gets going. There’s an accounting of the books, new business to discuss, like the bar that opened last week a couple of blocks over, and whose knees Xav had to break this week, and finally old business, which tonight mainly consists of Sparrow giving us an update about his continued surveillance of the Sleepless Reapers motorcycle club. I’ve been sitting in meetings exactly like this for as long as I can remember, since Enzo and I were both perched on our father’s lap as he casually ordered people killed and money collected.

Even then, as a barefoot five-year-old, I can remember people treating me like some kind of royalty. Everyone was afraid to deny us anything, and we ate that shit up like a pair of tiny dictators while our father reveled in it. Nothing gave him a bigger laugh than watching grown men piss themselves trying to keep a couple of spoiled Mafia kids happy. My lips twitch at the memory. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like for someone to not give a fuck that I’m a Moretti, though. For someone to treat me as something other than a fragile bomb, bound to detonate at any moment. The memory of Orion getting up in my face last night sears through my veins and makes my pulse speed up.

“I think that’s everything,” Enzo says. “Unless anyone has anything else to bring up?”

No one volunteers anything, which means this meeting is officially over. I push my sleeve up an inch to check my watch, standing up at the same time. Mentally, I’m already halfway to the parking lot, but unfortunately, physically my brother snags my arm before I can get far.

Enzo stands up too, nudging me off to the side while Alessio launches right back into the conversation about kinks without missing a beat, as if the last hour and a half didn’t just happen.

“How are you doing?” Lorenzo asks in a low tone, letting go of my arm and pinning me in place with his worried, probing gaze instead.

“I’m fine.” I brush the question off. It’s not a complete lie. I’m fine in all the ways my brother needs to concern himself with. I’m sharp and in control, just like I need to be.

He hums, seemingly unconvinced. I’m not sure what he wants from me. I doubt he wants to hear me blather on about the pathetic, one-sided crush I have on Orion Barros. Does he want me to spill my guts to him about how desperately I want to get fucked by someone who won’t act like they’re either a hostage or auditioning for a Mafia version of The Real Housewives ? Maybe I want to play the hostage for a change. Again, I suspect that’s the last thing Enzo wants to have a heart to heart about.

“I’m fine,” I say again, hoping my tone sounds more firm than petulant. “I haven’t had a drink all day.” I blow a heavy breath right into his face to prove it to him, and he just scowls. “Look, we both know that this job, this life comes with a hell of a lot of pressure. The occasional glass—”

He scoffs loudly and quirks an eyebrow at me.

“ Bottle ,” I amend, “of whiskey is how I let off some steam. You must have your own way of releasing the pressure valve.”

“Not all of us have the luxury,” he mutters.

“Well, maybe you should work on that.” I shrug and stuff my hands into my pockets.

He doesn’t bother to respond to that suggestion. Not that I expected him to. Maybe I’m deflecting. Maybe I just want to get the hell out of here and indulge in my favorite form of stress relief that doesn’t involve a drop of liquor.

“Why don’t you come home with me tonight? We can order takeout from that Vietnamese place around the corner and watch The Godfather .”

I snort a laugh, letting some of the tension slip from my shoulders.

“How about a rain check? I’ve got a… thing.” I’m not sure if I’ll lie if Enzo tries to pick apart my vagueness. The truth will only lead to more questions and embarrassing answers I don’t really want to give him.

Luckily, he doesn’t ask. He just nods, and I take that as a dismissal, turning on my heel and hustling for the door.

ORION

My muscles are still tight and sore from the fight last night. The bruise on my ribs has deepened to a dark purple that’s bound to be a neon target tonight. I’m not sure the bandage I wrapped around my ribs is much better. It’s a flashing sign telling my opponent exactly where I’m hurt. But I can’t do anything about it now.

I roll my head one way and then the other, loosening up my neck and focusing on the steady whoosh of my pulse in my ears, drowning out the roar of the gathered crowd and the loud instrumentals of the rock music that’s being blasted through the speakers of the underground bar.

Upstairs, there’s a perfectly respectable business—an upscale bar situated in the business district of Wildcliff, where anyone can stop in for an overpriced drink after work. But, if you know about the entrance around back, at the end of the unlit alley, and you happen to have the password to give the bouncer, you’ll find yourself in an entirely different world.

The smell of weed and cigarette smoke hangs heavily in the air, mixing with the scent of cheap alcohol and stale sweat. I drag in a slow, deep breath and block all of that out too.

Last night, I was a celebrity, or at least the closest thing to one. MMA is a brutal sport, but there are still rules, there are referees and press. There are bright lights and medics standing by if the need should arise. But tonight? Tonight is the human equivalent of a cock fight. Brutal, messy, dangerous . I could end up injured or in a bed just like Jack’s. If the cops were to show up—fat chance here in Wildcliff, honestly—I could be arrested. I could even end up banned from the Ultimate Fighting League for participating in an underground fight. Or I could walk away with a fistful of untaxed cash. That’s money I can use to pay down some of my debt to Elio and his big brother.

“You’re up.” The man with a bad combover and a stained t-shirt whose name I can’t remember gives me a little shove between the shoulders to push me towards the makeshift ring.

I grit my teeth, flexing my wrapped hands into fists. No gloves in a fight like this, just knuckles on flesh and bone. I step into the roped-off circle in the middle of the room. It’s the only spot in the bar with a light hanging directly overhead, illuminating the wooden floor stained with blood from past fights.

A big fucker steps over the rope on the opposite side. He’s a head taller, with at least seventy-five pounds on me. There’s a jagged scar down one of his cheeks, and two teardrop tattoos on the other. He flashes a smile, and I notice his canine teeth are capped with sharp silver fangs. If points were awarded for intimidation factor, he would be the one walking out of here with the payout tonight. I stare right back at him, stoic and unblinking. Unfortunately for him, it’s not about how scary you look , it’s about how savage you are. And he’s about to find out that size isn’t everything.

A bell rings from somewhere unseen, and every ounce of my attention snaps into crystalline focus. The whistling, jeering drunks surrounding the two of us don’t exist anymore. There’s nothing but the taste of adrenaline on my tongue and the familiar coil of my muscles, eager to hurt just a little bit more if it means bleeding some of this poison from my veins.

Unsurprisingly, he goes right for my bruised ribs, swinging wildly, trying to connect body blows. I’m expecting them though, dodging each one easily, weaving and floating out of his reach, moving so fast it’s like my feet aren’t even touching the floor. Every one of his missed swings energizes me a little more, amping me up until the beast inside of me is thrashing with bloodlust, hungry to pound him into nothing but crumpled, bloodied flesh.

He realizes his approach isn’t working, and redirects his next punch at the last second, managing to catch me off guard. My head snaps to one side as his fist connects with my jaw. The throb of a hit is a familiar, deep ache, rattling my teeth and filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. It’s the sharp sting that burns across my skin that I’m not prepared for. I reach up tentatively and pull my hand back to find my fingers wet with blood. Asshole must have something sharp stuck in his knuckle wrap.

I narrow my eyes and spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor, then lunge for him. He isn’t prepared for my fist plowing straight into his nose, and as soon as he stumbles back, I use his momentary lack of balance to take out his legs with a kick to his knee. He crumples, and I jump on him, straddling him before he has time to recover. I let my fists fly, a primal, satisfied growl rumbling in my throat as I pummel him. The wet sound of flesh on flesh, the smell of blood in the air, the frenzied screams of the crowd. It’s all a blur. The only thing that feels real is the pain radiating through my knuckles with each fresh blow.

I’m vaguely aware of being hauled off of my opponent, whose name I never bothered to learn. Dragging in ragged, heaving breaths, I wipe the back of my hand absently over my jaw, feeling the heat of the blood that’s still flowing from the cut. The high of violence slowly starts to fade and the crowd of men around me gradually unblurs, one face in particular coming into sharp focus.

Standing front and center, wearing a suit that’s completely out of place in a shithole like this, his dark hair neatly coiffed, looking like he can’t decide whether he wants to kill someone or fuck someone… Elio fucking Moretti.

Of fucking course he’s here.