Chapter 7

Iran my hand over the smooth top of an oak bookshelf and clenched my jaw at the furniture to my left. Atlas's bed should be where the two leather wingback chairs sat. He would've never chosen that color.

My brother liked dark hues, but not brown. Once upon a time, this room was filled with various shades of navy and blues. Now it was all fucking brown.

From the wooden floor to the tan paint on the walls. Everything was that color. Even the liquor filling the crystal decanters on the bookshelf and the table between the chairs were amber. There wasn't a single smidge of blue left in this room.

Three weeks after we put Atlas in the ground, my father turned his bedroom into a parlor. The dresser, the couch we used to play video games on, and the plush rug were all removed. And why? So my father could have another room filled with alcohol and first edition books he'd never read. Even the bathroom was remodeled into a cigar room.

It pissed me off every time I came in here, and could hear my shoes clack off the floor. Atlas hated the feel of hardwood. He said the world was a cold place, that a man shouldn't feel more of that harshness when he went to bed.

That's why he had a plush rug laid out. So that comfort filled the one warm room he had. I didn't know what my father did with it. He didn't seem to have a problem keeping the fucking rug in the hall.

I guess that's how my father dealt with loss. By forgetting it.

The room he shared with my mother was sealed up like a tomb, and my brother was erased. Along with every memory I had of him. Wiped away as if he'd never existed. Everything was gone. Atlas's clothes, the pictures of him that used to hang on the wall, and the mug he'd drink out of in the morning.

All of it was disposed of. The only trace that he was ever here was the mark in the corner of the left wall where I hit my head when we were wrestling.

That was the only thing my father forgot. But I saw it every time I walked in here. It was the first place I looked.

I strode across the room and grazed my thumb over the dip in the plaster.

It was hard to notice under the coat of paint. Nothing more than a small mark that no one would see. But I didn't have to look to know it was there. I could feel it whenever I walked past the door. That was all I had left of Atlas. A scrape in a patch of drywall.

Sometimes, if I focused really hard, I could almost see my brother sitting on his bed with a smile. That crooked grin was permanently ingrained in my mind. It haunted me like the rest of the ghosts in this house. Dark shadows of memories that followed me around. One room smelled of citrus and spice, and the other, blood.

"Atlas would be proud, Little Brother." Romeo sauntered over to a crystal decanter sitting on one of the bookshelves by the door, and poured himself some bourbon. "This is twisted, even for him."

What the fuck did he know about Atlas?

"You sure you want to do this, Little Brother?"

Why did he keep calling me that?

"Yes." I'd never been more sure of anything in my life.

"There are other rooms closer to yours."

Why the fuck would I want Novalee closer to me?

I once again brushed my thumb over the mark in the wall. "I want her right here."

When Novalee was in this house, she would sleep in this room, where what remained of my brother's essence lived. I wanted her to feel Atlas watching when she closed her eyes, and wake to the smell of his cologne.

But mostly, I wanted Atlas to hear every time I made her cry. And when I did decide to fuck her, his ghost could watch and know he was being avenged.

This was the only room in the house that was right.

"We're going to have to get everything rearranged."

"I don't care what you do," I said and tipped my chin at the spot where Atlas's bed used to be. "As long as the bed goes over there."

"Alright." Romeo shook his head and sighed, "You're a twisted man, Little Brother."

He was one to talk. At least my fucktoys didn't end up with permanent scars. Well, except for Nova. I was going to mark the shit out of her. I had half a mind to fill Atlee in on my brother's whip and knife fetish. Let's see how happy he was about his sister's arranged marriage then.

But that would just get Atlee hurt. Romeo was a dick, but he was lethal. I'd give him that much. There was a reason he took the Omerta at such a young age.

"Why are you here, Romeo?"

I hated seeing him in this room. This was Atlas's space, and he was tainting it.

The lit cigarette in Romeo's hand lifted in a point directed at me. "Atlas, was my brother too."

"You sure don't act like it." A true brother would've at least shown up at the funeral.

"I said he was my brother. Not that I liked him."

"Is that why you didn't care enough to help us bury him?"

"I wasn't there because I cared." His eyes squinted as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. "I didn't want to disrupt your mourning."

He didn't want to disrupt my mourning? What kind of bullshit was that?

"Whatever, Romeo."

His statement just reaffirmed that the wrong brother was laying in the ground.

"I think Atlas's death has clouded your memory." Romeo took a sip of his drink and leaned back against the bookshelf. "He wasn't a good man, and he sure as fuck wasn't a good brother."

I snorted. "You're one to talk."

"I'd die for you, Little Brother." He cocked a brow my way. "Would Atlas?"

Of course he would. There was no doubt in my mind about that. Besides, I wasn't having this argument. Not with Romeo. And certainly not while he was fouling Atlas's room with his presence. Every fiber of my being wanted to shove him out the door, but I ignored that urge and focused on the mark in the wall instead.

A task that would've been easier if Romeo kept his mouth shut.

"He raped that girl, Gio."

My glare snapped his way. "What the fuck did you just say?""

"You heard me." Romeo didn't so much as move when my fists balled. "You also know I'm right."

"You don't know shit."

Did Romeo want me to hurt him? Was he trying to pick a fight?

"I know Veda Ford is his type."

That was bullshit. "Just because she was pretty…"

"I'm not talking about her looks. I'm talking about her status." Romeo interrupted. "Poor girl like that, didn't stand a chance. Veda Ford wasn't the first."

"Fuck off, Romeo." I saw the girls Atlas dated. They were all tall blondes with killer legs, who could afford their own designer clothes. He didn't need some pathetic girl like Veda Ford.

"Ask yourself this little brother, how long do you think it would've been before he went after Nova?"

Whatever Romeo was after, he got it when I yelled, "Shut your fucking mouth!"

"There it is." Romeo's eyes lit up as a smirk tugged on the corner of his mouth. "I knew it was in there somewhere. What's wrong, Little Brother, don't like the idea of someone touching your girl?"

"She's not my girl." Nova would never be my girl. "She's a means to an end."

"Keep telling yourself that." Romeo snorted. "Atlas was a piece of shit, but at least he took what he wanted."

This mother…

"Stop talking about my brother like you fucking knew him." Romeo had no right to so much as utter Atlas's name. "Where the fuck were you when he was killed?"

He was probably out doing some job for our father. The mob was the only family Romeo cared about.

"Sitting on the other side of the bar drinking scotch."

Every muscle in my body froze.

Romeo lifted the glass to his lips and stared off at a memory I couldn't see. "That was the best scotch I ever had."

My teeth clenched as my jaw ticked. Was he really there? He couldn't have been. Then again, why would he lie? It wasn't his style. Romeo didn't give a fuck what anyone thought, but if he was there…

"Why didn't you do anything?" When he didn't respond, my fingers dug into my palms. "Why the fuck didn't you help him!?"

I was a half a second away from charging across the room.

Romeo swallowed down a mouthful of bourbon and looked me right in the eyes. "Right before Kato Ford smash his skull in like a fucking pumpkin, Atlas cried like a baby. I'd never seen him like that." His lips pursed in a quick frown. "It was kind of pathetic."

My legs were moving before I had time to think about it, which was my mistake.

Romeo was ready for me. One hit was all I got. My fist clacked off his jaw as Romeo flicked his cigarette in my face, then kicked his leg, sweeping my feet out from under me.

I fell back, but managed to grab the edge of his shirt as I was going. Romeo's drink went flying as we both landed on the floor. Me on my back with him on the ground beside me.

I knew there was no time to waste – my brother was quick – so, I fought past the burn squeezing my chest and rolled on top of him.

"Motherfucker," I growled while bringing my fist down on his face.

I raised my arm for another strike and Romeo punched me in the gut. His knuckles slammed into my flesh, knocking all the air out of my lungs.

I hunched over coughing and he took the opportunity to flip me onto my back. Before I could suck in a solid breath, Romeo's forearm was pressed against my neck.

"Calm down, Little Brother."

"Fuck you!"

My fist flew through the air, but a knee jabbed into my side before I could land a strike.

"I'm your underboss, Gio."

That made me stop. There was a hierarchy in the mob that no one disrespected. If Romeo wasn't my brother, I'd already be dead. That didn't stop me from wanting to kill him.

"You let him die."

"Yeah, I did."

"Why?" That's the part I didn't get. Romeo may not have liked him, but Atlas was still his brother.

He took his arm off my throat and sat up to wipe a trail of blood off his jaw.

"I did you a favor." Romeo got off me and walked over to pour himself another drink. "Atlas would've stepped over both of our bodies to secure his place on the throne."

That didn't make any sense. Romeo was a fucking liar.

I sat up and glared at my brother. "He already had the throne."

"No, he didn't." He placed a cigarette between his teeth and flicked open his gold plated lighter. "The crown was always mine."

"Bullshit." I said while jumping up. "Someone would've told me."

One word. That's all it took for Romeo to punch me in the gut.

"Why?"

And just like that, I was reminded of my father's lack of confidence in me. He didn't think I had what it took. That was obvious throughout my childhood. I was the disappointing youngest son of the boss. Not even enough to be considered as the back-up heir.

My father didn't think about me at all. For fuck sakes, Romeo was the one who came to parent events. If my father wasn't on the board, St. Agatha's wouldn't even know what he looked like.

I couldn't say if Romeo was lying, because I wasn't important enough to be told shit.

"When was this decision made?" How long had they been lying to me?

"After mom."

Did they forget that it was Atlas who found me in that cupboard. He was the one who tried to shield my eyes from the bloody mess on the floor, while Romeo and our father talked over her body. Atlas took care of me. They forgot me.

"Did he know you were there?"

I didn't have to explain who he was, we both knew I was talking about our father.

The look Romeo gave me was all the answer I needed. My father sanctioned the murder of his own son. Well, fuck him, and fuck Romeo. They could both rot in hell.

I stormed away and pulled my phone out of my pocket to shoot Darry a text.

Me: Where are you?

His response came almost immediately.

Darry: The Club.

Perfect. I needed to blow off some steam.

Me: I'll be there in fifteen.

* * *

It tookme about fifteen minutes to pull into The Ellipsis–my father's casino/hotel. The way I was driving, it should've only taken ten to reach this side of town, but I made a detour past a certain yellow trailer.

For half a second, I considered cancelling, but I'd probably just end up parked across the street all night again. The last person I wanted to see was Novalee Ford.

Actually, the last person I wanted to see was Romeo. Given he was the underboss, and I now wanted to rip his heart out, avoidance was my best option. Not fratricide, as appealing as that might be. The fact that Romeo was there that night with Atlas pissed me off, but finding out that my father knew about it? … that blew my mind.

Did I know him at all? What else wasn't I being told?

I pulled open the lobby door and was met with clinks and dings of various slot machines. According to Louisiana state law, eighteen was too young to be in a casino. Not that that mattered to my father or his staff.

All the concierge did when I headed for the elevator was give me a small nod. He knew who I was and wouldn't dare say a thing. Plus, it wasn't like there was nothing illegal going on in this place. More than half my family's fortune consisted of blood money. That much about the rumors floating around town had been right.

But the mob was more than bookies, drugs, girls, and guns. We had legitimate businesses too. Other than The Ellipsis, we owned some breweries, various shipping companies–for obvious reasons–and had our hand in professional sports. Mostly boxing, but Atlee's dad was dipping his toe in football.

I stepped into the elevator and typed in the code.

The roulette and blackjack tables up here didn't even touch what was happening in the lower levels. That was where the really shady shit went down. Underground poker games with bets that weren't always for money, topless women serving drinks, strippers dancing in cages, and then there was the back room. That's where I assumed I'd find Darry.

Which was confirmed when I sent Darry a text telling him I was here.

Darry: We're in the back.

When a chime rang out and the doors slid open, I was smacked in the face with a cloud of cigar smoke. I hated that pungent woodsy scent almost as much as I hated cigarette smoke, but for very different reasons. Atlas liked cigars, and I hated the reminder.

One sniff of that odor brought his smile back in my mind. Perhaps that's why I avoided this place. Not only did it smell like him, but he enjoyed spending time here.

I stepped out of the elevator and surveyed the room.

Servers walked around with their tits hanging out, while people–mostly men–chatted and drank. This place was an FBI agent's wet dream. There were members of various crime syndicates, dealers, and hitmen all in one place.

At least half of the men down here were wanted for something. Of course, most of them weren't openly known. Like the man in the back corner, sporting a jean jacket. The law didn't know his face. He was simply The Devil Of Death.

Preston Whitley had come to our house a couple of times to speak to my father about a ‘job'. That was the only reason I knew who he was. The first time I saw him I was playing with a truck in the corner of my father's office. He was young – maybe fourteen – and with some guy in a suit. I remember looking in his eyes and wondering if he was the boogeyman.

If he was in town then someone was getting offed. Who, I didn't know, because no one told me shit.

Sitting at the table to my immediate left were four guys, all whom I recognized as my father's men. But it was the man seated at the table next to them that made me narrow my eyes. He might be the reason Preston Whitley was in town.

Nikolai Ivanov.

Preston's baby brother was married to his daughter. That didn't mean he was here to protect him though. I was pretty sure that man didn't give a fuck about anyone, including family. I was surprised to find out he had kids of his own. The better question was, what the hell was the head of the Bratva doing in my father's club?

Russians weren't typically invited down. My father didn't trust them. Apparently neither did his head of security.

Fat Ricky was standing by the far wall with arms crossed and eyes locked on Nikolai. I never did understand the nickname. Ricky was a six foot ten wall of solid muscle, with dark hair and an even darker glare. There wasn't an inch of fat on him. Then again Saul's nickname was Moe.

I made my way across the room and tipped my head at Ricky, not taking offence when he didn't break his focus on Nikolai to return my gesture. There was a reason–beyond his massive size–for Ricky being head of security. A fact that was proven when the Russian decided to eyeball me.

Ricky's hand slid inside his jacket, probably to finger his gun. It was unlikely that Nikolai would try anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry, I suppose. A part of me wanted him to try. I was in the mood to break something. Mainly Romeo's face. Since that wasn't an option, I'd happily take the Russian as a substitute.

I strutted across the black tiled floor as Nikolai's eyes locked on me.

"It's Giovanni, isn't it?"

Then again, maybe he would try something.

I stopped and rolled my gaze his way. "Yeah. So what?"

He sat back, trying to look casual, but I could sense him sizing me up. "Your father didn't mention that you'd be here."

That's because he doesn't know I exist.

"And yet, here I am."

"So it would appear."

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

"How is your father?"

Other than being a lying asshole?"He's fine."

"Have a seat." He kicked one of the chairs at his table out. "Join us for a drink. We'd love to hear what the son of Cesare Mancini has to say."

My father's name was spat out of his mouth as if it was a curse.

I wasn't sure if I should take that as a threat or not. So I folded my arms across my chest, and took a second to eye his men.

They didn't look so tough. Other than a couple of names, I didn't know much about the Bratva. But Nikolai had a reputation for not liking Italians. Apparently, so did the men seated at the table. All three of them were staring at me with tense jaws.

"I'll pass."

My rejection didn't exactly help relax the environment.

His men squared their shoulders while Nikolai growled, "I insist."

These intimidation tactics weren't going to work on me. I was the son of the Boss. This was my town.

"Insist all you want you, Russian fuck."

The room Instantly quieted while a few of my father's men started to slowly inch their way over. Tension rolled through the air as Nikolai's jaw ticked. For years we'd been on the verge of war, but right now, it was one flick away. One wrong move on either side and that match would be lit. All I could hear in that moment was my father's voice.

‘He's not ready.'

The only thing I was doing, was proving him right.

Sighing internally, I tipped my chin at the girl dancing no less than two feet away. "You enjoying the show?"

Not a single one of the Russians so much as looked her way, which told me they weren't here for the entertainment.

And what was Nikolai's response? "Italian women have too many curves."

Pretty sure she wasn't Italian, but whatever.

"Well, I'm sure there's a Russian woman somewhere in the back. I hear they have great stamina."

It was a dig that only someone who'd been on the other side of that purple door would understand. There was only one thing the women in that room did, and Nikolai's displeased tongue click told me he'd been back there.

Despite the friction in the air, I couldn't help but add, "Don't you have a daughter?"

That got under his skin. Nikolai's nostrils flared as he waved his hand dismissively. "Run along boy. You bore me."

No, I pissed him off, but he wasn't dumb. This wasn't Bratva territory, and he was highly outnumbered.

I nodded, "Enjoy your night," and walked away.

Once the square off between us was over, things calmed down. Games picked back up while men returned to their drinks, and Ricky took his hand out of his jacket. But even then, I could feel Nikolai's eyes on me right up until I stepped through that purple door.