2. Stephano

2

STEPHANO

Sweat runs from my brow and temples into my eyes and down my cheeks. I force myself to ignore the sting that comes with it. To keep my focus even beyond this discomfort. My body is drenched. The ref rings time, and I back off. He tosses me a towel, and I wipe down while I hop on my feet. Another round and this guy will be out for the count.

The bell rings again. We bump fists and start to circle each other. I go for him, grappling at his hands, wrestling until I get my arm around his neck. He is just as sweaty as me, and it's hard to get a solid grip. We've been at this for thirty minutes, give or take. We call it the death spar , or until you're so physically exhausted you want to die.

I'm not sure how this type of cage fighting evolved, but being a Scalera, I created what I wanted. What I needed. A form of mixed martial arts where everything goes except fists. You can kick a man to death, but you can't punch him in the face.

Let's just say, it hasn't hit the mainstream yet. Not that I care. This is my gym, and I make the rules. Fist fighting on its own is allowed, and I will hit a punching bag for hours when I feel like it. It's this feel like it part I need to keep under control. I've always been happy to hand out punches. Too happy.

I knee my opponent in the stomach, and he folds into me. I feel his grunt vibrate against my chest, but he isn't out yet. He tries to flip me, and we fall, roll over each other until I have him pinned. He struggles, but I gain inch by inch. Eventually, I have my legs in such a way that I could choke him if I wanted to.

"Fuck it, Steph, what pissed you off?" my opponent grunts.

Life in general.

"Tap out," I huff, squeezing his chest with my thighs.

"Jesus." He taps, and I roll off him.

For a moment, we're both on our backs, and then I laugh as I glance at him. "You'll do better next time."

As I sit up, I spot my brother Matteo where he's walking past some of the boxing rings. He's in his usual suit, so obviously not here to sweat.

I spit out my mouthguard and stand as he toes the edge of the ring.

"Still running your version of Fight Club down here?" he says with a cocked brow.

"You should try it out some time. The rules are simple, you'll get it."

"Fuck off, Fanny," Matteo says with a grin. "This no-fists thing doesn't do it for me."

I hate this nickname but don't bother to tell him off. I roasted him first.

" No fists is the ultimate control challenge. Any man can use his fists." Keeping them out of a fight makes you master a lot of other things. Yourself, foremost.

He shrugs. "Do you have time?"

"Sure." It's not often that Matteo walks into my gym at midday wanting to have a talk.

I collect my water and towel and give my opponent a handshake. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Maybe in two days' time. It's intense, but fuck—" He cuts off as he shakes his head with a grin.

I get it. This is why I do it, too.

As I pull on a T-shirt, Matteo stands idle, hands shoved in his pants pockets. "Aren't you going to shower?"

"I'll take five at home," I say, feet digging into Adidas slides.

I lead the way out of the gym and around the corner to the small lobby of the four-story apartment block. Our bodyguards are hovering on the periphery, but we both ignore them. A bodyguard is always in my vicinity when I'm out, one of the perks of being in Il Consiglio and a Scalera—or not . Being in the Mafia means someone always wants our blood, but we're the Scaleras and are usually the ones to draw blood first. I like some distance between me and my bodyguard and can get away with it. Matteo, on the other hand, needs more eyes on him. He's the firstborn, the heir to the throne.

As we scale the stairs to the top floor, he sighs. "Fucking dump. I don't get it. Why?"

"Because I like it." I punch in the code for my apartment's door and swing it open. "I don't get why you have an issue with it."

"You can afford a freaking penthouse," he says as we walk inside, "yet you choose to live here."

I glance over the space. It's old redbrick on one full wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the other overlooking a park that gives the sense of space. It has only one bedroom in the loft, but I don't need more. I have my office, an open-concept kitchen, dining, and living room, plus a man-cave for my TV and computer games. One full bathroom and a guest washroom. With the high ceiling, it feels massive for a single guy who doesn't spend all his time here. Most important of all: it isn't an intimidating space. It's welcoming.

"Not all of us are the future face of Il Consiglio , Matteo."

And thank fuck for that. I don't need my living space to intimidate and impress. I like to help people, not rule them, and when they come here, I need them to be at ease.

"Thanks for the fucking reminder," he grunts as he makes his way to the fridge, opens it, and leans in.

It's a touchy subject, his ascension to the throne.

"Help yourself. I'll be back in five."

"Rub-a-dub-dub, have a good scrub. You sure as fuck need it."

I smirk as I take the stairs to the loft. In moments like this, I see hints of my brother and not the Don he is becoming. I strip and step under the cold shower, soap down quickly but take time to read the words inked on my inner forearm, done in such a masculine gothic font you can't read it at first glance.

It's in your blood.

Then I went and proved it to myself by almost killing a boy my age once. I was only fourteen. Fucking young to start for a Scalera. Now I prove it to myself again every day in the gym, but with the iron fist of control over every move I execute for the two hours I work out daily.

The slogan has a double meaning. I might not be the head of Il Consiglio any time soon, what with Matteo and Dominic in line before me, but being a Scalera means only one thing: there isn't an out for the likes of us. This life is in our blood. Even if I could get out, I've done things that have entrapped me in the safety net that comes with being in Il Consiglio .

I step out of the shower, roughly dry, and get dressed in some wash-worn jeans and a T-shirt. I'm not working until much later and won't bother with a full suit like Matteo does.

When I walk into my living room, he's sitting at the kitchen island, a beer in hand and some of my housekeeper's home-cooked chili in a bowl. Not exactly Italian fare, and we might be hundred percent Italian by bloodline, but we've grown up American. He's dished up some for me too, along with a cold can, and I slide onto the stool next to him.

I take a deep chug of beer, waiting for him to speak up.

"Here." He pushes sour cream and grated cheese in my direction. "It's good."

"You're not here to taste-test my chili." I douse my bowl with condiments. "What's up, bro?"

Matteo tilts his head in a small nod and swallows his last bite down with beer.

"The Don has cancer."

I lean back to look my brother in the eye.

"What?" Cancer . Of all the things to take the old man out. "He's dying?"

He hitches his shoulder. "Prognosis is four months."

Fuck. Four months. And just like that, the man who started it all, who is the last living custodian of my secret, will be dead.

"He's taken his sweet time to get to this point, and now, he's going to make us wait four months?" I have a strong bond with my four brothers—one rooted in our mutual hatred for Don Guiliano Scalera, our father. The head of Il Consiglio and a complete psychopath.

"He's not done." Matteo wipes his mouth with some paper towel and looks at me. "He's left me in charge of wrapping up dirty business."

Ah, fuck. Never mind the news about the Don, I knew this wasn't a social call. Dirty fucking business. I suppress a sigh. "Okay. Need some help?" My brother already has my omertà , he doesn't need to ask for it.

"You're not going to like it, Steph."

As if I've ever been given the option. I steel myself. "I'm not touching his mistresses."

"No," he sighs. "It's nothing like that." He rakes his fingers through his hair and then settles his hands on the counter, fingers splayed. "He wants me to ruin the senator's daughter. The final retribution."

"But we're quits. Two for one?—"

"I know it's fucked up. Alex died, and the senator paid for it when the Don killed his wife and son. But he owes us money, and for twelve years, he hasn't bothered to pay up."

"So? Kill him and leave Tasha Armstrong out of it."

Matteo meets my gaze, and I blink at the cold glare in his own. "We both know it isn't about the money."

"No."

Anything around Alex will always trigger Matteo. His trauma is laced with guilt and the burden of not having been able to save our brother.

He will also step into the Don's shoes, by the sound of it sooner than any of us anticipated, but handing out a double dose of revenge isn't how we normally operate.

I bet the Don is using this to test Matteo one last time. Every fucking day, the Don tested and groomed us, each one of us primed for a specific role he saw us taking up in the organization. Every Scalera son has earned his seat at the table the hard way. We never talk about it, but none of us needs to fill in the blanks to know how fucked up we are.

I swallow hard on the chili that doesn't go down with ease. Even now, I can still feel my dad's fist clenching around my throat. I squeeze my beer can, as if the reciprocal move could wipe out memories.

Nothing will wipe my slate clean. There are always the Don's expectations, and sometimes, no level of revenge is enough. Especially when it comes to Alex.

Sometimes, it's just this fucked-up need for violence.

It's in your blood.

"We both also know that if we don't do it, the Don will hire someone else," Matteo grunts. "I won't let anybody else deal with our dirty laundry."

"No." We can't slip up on the Don's final requests, and none of us will hand Tasha Armstrong over to another organized crime ring. I can just imagine what they'd do to the senator's daughter, and when it comes to women— "So, what's the plan?"

"A virgin auction, offshore."

I toss my spoon into the bowl, and it clinks in the silence. "I'm not running a virgin auction for anybody who hasn't signed up for it herself."

"Told you you're not going to like it."

"How the fuck do you even know she's still a virgin?" Rebellion is stirring up in me. This isn't how I roll. I might have many vices, but I have my limits.

"Conjecture. Listen, I don't like it either, but it's going to be the easiest way to give the Don what he wants."

"Someone raping this woman? The girl lost her mom and brother thanks to us. So yeah. Sounds about right for the Don's Il Consiglio ."

We should just kill the fucking Don ourselves and end this feud. There's no love lost between him and any of his sons, least of all Matteo.

"You've vetted your client base," he says, stopping me from talking treason. "You know most of the men on your list on a first name basis, Steph. I'm asking you because with you arranging it, it will be easiest for her."

I push my half-eaten chili out of the way and drag a hand down my face. Matteo wouldn't ask this of me if he didn't have his own agenda for revenge. Alex's death catapulted us all into the reality of what it means to be in the Mafia, but Alex died in Matteo's arms . No man recovers from seeing his brother's lifeblood run out, seeing it drench his shirt and dry to the extent they had to cut the fabric off his body.

I was there when they brought my brothers in from the shooting. Matteo wouldn't let him go. Even unconscious, he clung to Alex's body. Those images are branded on my mind, flashing smoldering red at times when I need it least.

The Don didn't weep when he saw his dead son's body. He was already plotting his revenge. But I don't care about the Don. I care about my brothers. But still?—

"You need something to keep your mind busy, Steph. This existence, where you go all Fight Club for two, three hours a day, overseeing our clubs at night, running some of the online stuff, draining yourself to a point of no return… I can't watch you do this anymore."

I crunch my empty beer can in my hand, not wanting to go there. I know he's right, but it's this mindless routine that keeps me in control.

"I need to eliminate another target in Sicily first," Matteo says. "That will need planning, too."

"Who?"

"The Sicilian."

"Don Emilio Randazzo?" I repeat, stunned. "You have to take him out? For real?"

"Yes."

He sighs, and I grunt. Our old man is losing his mind.

"This auction will happen offshore, and it will involve a lot of planning. All I need for you to do is go through the motions as if she's signed your usual contract," he continues. "We can work both missions together. It will take your mind off Tatiana and everything that's happened."

I dip my head, not wanting my brother to see the red flush heating my face. It doesn't help when he reminds me of what happened to Tatiana. How the woman I deeply cared for was brutally raped and left for dead. Yes, she was a prostitute and went willingly with Greg Fucking Martinez, but no woman deserves that.

"It's as if she's already gone," I say, not wanting to take this conversation any further.

"She was never yours, Stephano."

I lean back and slap my hands down on the counter. Does he really want to go there right now? "It doesn't matter. I'm going to kill the fucker that did this to her."

"Yes. You will. We will make it happen. But Steph?—"

"No. No more." I stand. "Now you're just trying to pick a fucking fight, Matteo. Let me warn you, I'm still pumped from earlier at the gym." And I'll beat him to a pulp. Matteo is in shape, but he doesn't war with himself every day like I do. He has his own battles, plus he is going to be the Don of Il Consiglio soon. I'm his brother, and he will always have my loyalty. Now's the time to show it to him. "I'll do this virgin auction for you, provided she is one. But understand this clearly: I'm doing it because you asked, and not for the Don."

"Thank you. Teamwork makes the fucking dream work." He picks up his phone from the counter as he stands. "I'll keep you posted."