6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

ELIO

The paper bag crinkles under my arm, the sound somehow managing to be louder than the rumble of traffic from the street and the deafening hum of pedestrians moving around me on the sidewalk. Maybe because I can’t stop picturing the hard scowl Orion is bound to wear when he finds out what I’ve done.

Not that it stops me or even slows me down. If anything, I pick up my pace as I near Lorenzo’s building. The towering glass building stands out, even on a street lined with luxury penthouses and high-end hotels. There’s not one, but two doormen who man the lobby. One to open the door with a friendly smile, doing his best to hide the flicker of nerves in his eyes when he sees me. And the other to greet me once I step inside.

“Mr. Moretti, it’s nice to see you this afternoon,” Carlisle, the older of the two men, has been the full-time doorman here since Enzo bought the top floor penthouse a handful of years ago. “Is Mr. Moretti expecting you?”

My lips twitch into a resigned half smile. Wouldn’t it be simpler and less confusing to dispense with the formalities and just use our first names? God forbid anyone might call me Elio, even if I’ve requested it on a thousand different occasions.

“I didn’t call ahead,” I say. Honestly, I didn’t even think about what I was doing or where I was going until I was halfway here, weaving through traffic in my Jag, with a paper bag filled with twenty thousand dollars sitting on my passenger seat.

Carlisle picks up the phone on his desk to make a call to Enzo. While I wait, my mind wanders back to the years when Lorenzo and I shared an apartment after college. Not because we couldn’t afford our own places—we were both working for the family at that point and pulling in plenty of money—but I guess out of some sense of brotherly bonding. Growing up the way we did, nothing ever felt stable. You could be talking to Uncle Georgio one morning, and by the afternoon he could be dead or behind bars. Shit like that always happened fast. Living with Enzo felt like being in a bubble away from that for a little while though. At least until our dad died.

“I appreciate your patience, sir,” Carlisle says once he hangs up the phone. “Mr. Moretti says you can go up.”

“Thank you.” I give a nod of thanks and step around his desk, into the waiting elevator behind it.

I fidget with my tie with my free hand as I watch the numbers over the elevator door increase one at a time, so slowly I wonder if I could have walked up the fifteen flights of stairs faster than this. Then again, it’s not like I’m in a hurry. The sooner I get to Enzo’s door, the sooner I have to explain why the hell I’m paying off Orion’s debt. I should have taken the cash to Sal. This is his department anyway. But the only thing worse than having to look my brother in the face and bullshit him about this money would be Salvatore letting it slip at some point that I was the one to pay off Orion’s debt. Then it would look like I purposefully went behind Enzo’s back with the whole thing.

Family politics. I’m guessing we’re not all that different from most families, with everyone sticking their noses into each other’s personal lives, getting pissy when they feel like they’ve been left out of the loop… Same old, same old. Except maybe for the fact that we’re all heavily armed. It’s been years since a family conflict ended with anyone being shot though.

The doors slide open on Enzo’s floor, and I tighten my arm around the bag as I step off the elevator. His door is the only one in the small hallway, my footsteps echoing off the marble floor for the few steps it takes to reach it. The heavy black door swings open before I can knock, and my brother fills the doorway, immediately looking me up and down with concern.

Instead of his typical expensive suit, he’s dressed comfortably in a pair of loose-fitting black sweatpants and a light blue t-shirt that softens him, despite the fire in his eyes and the worry line etched between his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes and shoulder past him into his apartment. “Unbunch your panties. No one is dead and I’m perfectly sober.”

Come to think of it, I haven’t touched a drink in over a week. Not since the night I got drunk after Orion’s last fight… Well, his last legal fight, anyway. I’ve been too busy being strung out on memories of the way he ordered me to my knees and fucked my mouth like he wanted to punish me. I jerked off to the memory of it three times a day until my dick was raw and my balls were sore.

He scoffs and swings the door closed behind me.

“Excellent news. It’s so rare that anyone bothers to come by without an ulterior motive. Broken noses to fix, problems to solve, dead bodies that need to be dealt with. It’s always something. But I knew I could count on my baby brother to stop by simply because he misses me and is ready to take me up on that offer for an afternoon of ordering takeout and watching movies.” Let it never be said that Lorenzo Moretti doesn’t know exactly how to twist the knife.

I wince at his casual, knowing tone, calling me out without uttering a single accusation.

“We can watch movies and order food.” It wasn’t part of the plan, but I don’t have anything else going on this afternoon, so why the hell not. “But, uh…”

He stands casually with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, his shoulders relaxed in a way I rarely see since he took over the Family. I pull the bag of cash out from under my arm and hold it out to him. He arches an eyebrow.

“What’s this?” he asks, not making a move to grab it.

“The balance of Orion Barros’s debt,” I answer, and a second eyebrow joins the first, inching up his forehead as he studies me with probing eyes.

“You doing collections these days? Got bored of delegating that task to your underlings and decided to shake down a couple of guys yourself?” He cocks his head to one side and his lips curl into a smirk. “Or is it just the beautifully savage MMA fighters who require your personal attention?”

My throat tightens and the paper crinkles noisily under my fingers, giving away the twitch of my grasp. Of course he’s seen right through me. Lorenzo is no idiot, and I haven’t exactly been subtle about my interest. But for some reason, I can’t make myself admit that he’s right.

“It’s money,” I say gruffly, stepping closer and shoving the bag into his chest. “Can you just take it without giving me the third degree about it?”

His eyes tighten and darken for a fraction of a second before he finally pulls one hand out of his pocket and takes the money from me. He doesn’t open the bag to check any of it, he just moves past me, striding into the large main room of his penthouse and tossing the money carelessly onto the coffee table. The bag slides across the glass tabletop, stopping just before it topples over the edge. Meanwhile, Lorenzo makes himself comfortable on the leather couch in the middle of the room, crossing his ankle over his knee and stretching one arm along the back of the couch.

He picks up his phone, and I realize I’m still rooted to the spot. I shrug out of my suit jacket and unstrap my leather holster, then slip my shoes off. I stretch my toes inside my socks and reach up to loosen my tie before following him into the living room. He glances up from his phone and does a quick once-over of my more relaxed appearance, grunting what sounds like approval.

“Pad Lao and spicy wontons?” he guesses, and I nod.

“Hell yeah,” I agree, my mouth already watering. I take a seat on the other end of the couch, mirroring his position and reaching for the remote so I can find something to watch. If I’m not quick, we’ll end up watching the entire Godfather trilogy.

I settle on Scarface while he finishes placing our order and lets Carlisle know that we have food coming. Then, he slips his phone into his pocket, cracks his neck, and swivels to face me a little more.

“You realize I don’t give a damn who you fuck, right?” His voice is rough, but there’s a layer of something gentler underneath, like he’s worried that I’m actually lying awake at night, afraid he won’t approve of my love life.

I snort and grin. No, I’m definitely not stressed that Lorenzo or anyone else who matters will have an issue with my crush on Orion. Crush. The word is entirely too tame. Obsession, perhaps? I roll the word around on my tongue without saying it out loud.

“You want a full accounting of everyone I get off with?” I ask blandly. “Do fantasies count, or are you only interested in who I actually close the deal with?”

“Why don’t we just keep it to men who are important enough to warrant paying off their debts.” He matches my tone.

“He’s been doing underground fights twice a week to earn the money to pay that debt off.” It’s a true statement, I’m just leaving off the part where I decided to take care of the rest of it myself without telling him.

Enzo hums in response.

“Who are you dating these days?” I turn the line of questioning back on him.

“I’m spoiled for choice, aren’t I? Between the men who are looking for nothing more than money and status, and the ones who are too damn scared of me to be any fun,” he mutters. “And, of course, I have the added privilege of paranoia, always wondering if any man who throws me a flirtatious smile could be an undercover Fed or a hitman sent by another Family, desperate to encroach on our territory.”

The irritation that was simmering in my chest moments ago fizzles out in an instant.

“That makes two of us.” I sigh.

His lips twist into a sympathetic smile and he pushes himself up off the couch. He crosses the room to the bar cart in the corner and pours two glasses from the crystal decanter our dad always kept his favorite Scotch in. When he returns to the couch, he hands me one of the glasses, and holds his up.

“To mob life,” he laments, and I clink my rim against his.

“You said it,” I murmur before taking a sip.

ORION

I get out of my car in the well-lit parking lot of Wild, two rolls of bills clenched tightly in one fist, the crumpled remains of a letter from Jack’s insurance company clutched in the other. Apparently, they need proof of his ongoing disability if we want them to keep paying for the portion of his care they’ve been covering. The original letter from his physician stating he’d never so much as twitch a pinky again wasn’t enough for a bunch of suits with no medical training, I guess. But until I produce more proof, they’re not paying.

I ball it up with a frustrated growl vibrating in my throat, and I whip it at the ground before slamming my car door behind me. One more fucking problem I have to deal with. If I didn’t have to hand over this week’s payment to the Morettis, I could use it to cover more of Jack’s expenses. But I took out the loan, and I’m going to pay it back. Besides, something tells me the care home’s late payment policy is a lot more forgiving and less painful than the Mafia’s.

I make my way through the parking lot, pausing at the door to pay the ten-dollar fucking cover charge to get inside the club. Figure that one the fuck out. I grind my teeth together, grunting impatiently at the bouncer when he finally waves me inside. I realize I’m in a shitty mood tonight, but I’d also love to know whose classy fucking idea it was for the Morettis to set up shop in a strip club.

I scowl at the scantily clad men who attempt to approach me to offer a lap dance or a drink. I don’t have the patience for any of this shit tonight. I just want to make my payment and then maybe go find a way to blow off some of this steam. It pisses me off to no end that the first thing that comes to mind is an image of Elio on his knees for me.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

Going to find Elio is definitely not the way I’m going to exorcise my rage. Maybe I’ll make a few calls and see if there are any underground fights I can get in on. Or maybe I’ll swing by the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag for an hour or so. Irritation bristles along the back of my neck though, neither of those options doing anything to satisfy the gnawing feeling in my gut.

I approach the table where Salvatore Moretti is seated by himself, his eyes fixed on the dancer up on stage—a petite, tan man wearing nothing but a G-string. In hindsight, the assumption that Elio was mocking me for being gay the other night was probably bordering on paranoia. The stereotype of old school mobsters putting a bullet between the eyes of any queers they find among their ranks clearly doesn’t apply to the Morettis.

Salvatore doesn’t even seem to notice me approaching the table, completely mesmerized by the way the dancer hangs upside down from the pole. I clear my throat and he bares his teeth in irritation at the interruption. He fixes the lapels on his burgundy suit, then looks me up and down slowly.

“Nice fight last week,” he says after a few seconds.

I jerk my chin in a nod. “Thanks.” The single word sounds harsh to my own ears, and I’m well aware that I need to rein in my attitude before I end up pissing off a mobster who isn’t likely to be so eager to choke on my cock.

My dick jerks at the flippant thought and the memory of Elio’s hot, wet mouth around me. Jesus, I really do need to fucking hit something tonight.

I set the two heavy rolls of cash down on the table in front of him and cross my arms.

“I should be halfway to paid off with these,” I say gruffly, knowing he’s going to count them and check his spreadsheet either way.

He does the latter first, picking up the sleek, expensive looking tablet in front of him and tapping at the screen to bring up his spreadsheet. I shift my weight impatiently from one foot to the other, antsy as fuck to get the hell out of this club and away from Salvatore, or anyone else with the last name Moretti.

After a minute, he sets the tablet down again and nudges both rolls of money back in my direction.

“Your balance is zeroed out.”

I frown. “What?”

“You don’t owe us anything,” he says, and I swear my brain makes a grinding noise like a fork stuck in a garbage disposal.

“What?” I ask again, sure I heard him wrong. Or maybe this is some kind of test. Do mobsters do that shit? Would he pretend I don’t owe anything just so they can tell me I’m behind later and break my knees? Or worse, force me to do the one thing I swore I’d never do—lose a fight on purpose.

“Your. Debt. Is. Paid. Off.” Salvatore enunciates each word slowly, like I’m some kind of moron.

I ball my fists and glare at the rolls of cash on the table. “That’s impossible. Check it again.”

Both his eyebrows jump up and he sits up a little straighter. “You think I don’t know how to keep my own damn books?”

My heart jumps into my throat and I take a step back, holding both hands up defensively on instinct. “No.” I glance at the money again, and then back to him. “I just… I don’t understand how it got paid off. I know what I owed, and I know I didn’t pay it.”

There’s a small voice in the back of my head telling me to shut the hell up, to shove the money into my pocket and get the hell out of here before he decides to keep it as a convenience fee, or whatever the fuck else he might want to call it.

He shrugs and turns his attention back to the dancer. “Somebody did.”

“But who…” I trail off, the answer forming in my mind with complete certainty. I slam my teeth together hard enough to rattle them, snatching the money off the table. “Thanks,” I mutter, seething as I stuff the cash into my pocket and turn on my heel to leave.

I need to figure out where Elio fucking Moretti lives.