Chapter 17

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

ONE OF THE best things about Chef—he was quick.

Less than two hours after he called, Dom opened the penthouse door to see a grin on his friend’s face, along with a shallow red scratch across his cheek.

“Someone got handsy.”

Chef shrugged as he walked inside. “I gave him that one for free.”

“I didn’t think you did anything for free.”

“Oh, I don’t. I’ll get my fun later.”

If Dom wasn’t so keyed up, he would’ve cracked a smile at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Where was he?”

“Caught him coming out of his mistress’s house. Dirty fucker.” Chef hit the sink, soaping up his hands and wrists with a vengeance. “You have the talk with Luca?”

“Good guess.”

“Not a guess. Something had to set you off, and you were fine earlier.” He shut off the water and ripped off a paper towel, then leaned back against the counter. “How’d he take it?”

“Who cares?”

“Oh, come on. I can’t imagine the kid was thrilled to learn he’s the heir to a family of fucks.”

“Denial’s a powerful thing.”

“He doesn’t believe it?”

“He won’t let himself. Not yet. But he saw a picture. He saw her.”

Chef let out a low whistle. “No denying those genes. Thank fuck he didn’t take after Daddy.”

“That’s what I said. Though—” Dom stopped himself. He’d been about to say “though it would’ve been more helpful if he was.” Jesus. That would’ve been admitting he found Luca attractive, and that was the last thing he needed to say. Or think.

But Chef knew everything about Dom in a way the rest of the family didn’t, and he said, “He’s not a bad-looking guy if he takes after her. Under other circumstances—”

“Enough.” Dom ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t even go there. I fucking mean it.”

Chef nodded, and Dom turned on his heel to leave. Before he was out of the penthouse, though, he heard Chef call out, “Save me something good,” and decided to answer by slamming the door shut.

The loud bang was like the flip of a switch to Dom’s brain as he stepped out into the hall where Joe stood guard, stoic and stony-faced. It was an instant reminder that Dom had been sidelined for the foreseeable future and that his father—though concerned for his safety—thought him unable to look after his fucking self.

It was irritating, frustrating, and only added to the red haze starting to cloud his vision as he made his way toward the elevator.

“Uh, Dom?” Joe said. Usually he wouldn’t question Dom’s moves, but Dom knew his orders were not the ones Joe was currently bound to.

“I’m not here.” Dom punched the button and waited for the doors to open.

“Yeah, but—”

He placed a hand on the door and took a step forward, then cast a menacing look Joe’s way. “I’m not fucking here.”

Joe grumbled and ran a meaty hand over his head, but said nothing else as Dom let go of the doors and they slid shut behind him.

Fucking prisoner in my own damn family.

Dom hit the button then moved to the back of the car, closed his eyes, and took in a breath. This was exactly what he needed. This “gift” that Chef had brought tonight was the perfect remedy to this toxic inadequacy Dom was starting to feel slip in.

With the focus of a surgeon about to operate, Dom reached for the cuff links at his wrists and removed them from their holes. He slipped them into his pockets and flicked the buttons free, then rolled the sleeves up his forearms—one ruined shirt was enough for the day—before he held his hands out in front of him.

As he looked at the scars and strength in them, things he’d always worn as a badge of pride, he found himself thinking back to the smooth, dexterous hands that had stitched him up that afternoon—hands that had healed him.

Stop it. Dom flexed and tightened his hands into fists as he cracked his neck from side to side. Stop fucking thinking about him.

This was his time, a moment for him to feel like his old self, not this trapped animal he’d become in the last forty-eight hours. Though the fucker downstairs was about to discover just how feral he could be.

As the elevator plummeted deeper underground, Dom concentrated on the pain in his arm, letting that fuel his rage. The Fiore asshole may have gotten a shot off at Dom, but he’d left him alive, and that had been a deadly mistake.

The elevator doors opened to the basement, and Dom stepped into the silent hall. Tony stood watch down here when there was a special guest, and when he saw Dom, he nodded and moved aside.

Dom stood in front of the door, his adrenaline pumping. Then he gave Tony the signal, and as the door opened and he stepped inside, the lights flickered on, giving the man sitting in the chair a good, long look at who was about to rip his world apart.

“Hello,” Dom said, striding into the room. “You missed.”

WHAT FELT LIKE hours later, Dom stepped back into the elevator and punched the penthouse button. He’d satiated his rage with his fists to the point of exhaustion, and as he leaned back against the wall, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t even bothered asking the fucker’s name before knocking his jaw loose. It didn’t matter. He was no one important, just a lowly soldier doing the boss’s orders. There were dozens more where he came from; he wouldn’t be missed.

Dom flexed his beat-to-shit hands, stretching them out, and didn’t bother opening his eyes until the elevator doors opened on his floor.

Of course, the first thing he saw was Joe’s ugly mug.

He took one look at Dom and knew exactly where he’d gone and what he’d done, and there wasn’t an ounce of disapproval in his expression. Any of them would’ve done the same.

Dom hit a button on his phone, unlocking the door, and when he stepped inside, he was surprised to find Luca sitting on the couch opposite Chef.

Both men glanced in his direction, and the expressions on their faces couldn’t be more different. Chef smirked, as though he were proud Dom had just gone and pummeled that dirtbag to within an inch of his life, whereas Luca’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and his face turned a pasty grey.

Dom knew the picture he made. The broken skin on the knuckles, the blood splatter up his arms and most definitely on his face. His hair was flopping down in his eyes and his pulse was still hammering from the workout he’d just put his body through. He could feel a distinct wetness on his arm under his shirt, but he wasn’t about to stop and check it. Whatever was going on under there had been worth it, and for the first time in hours, he felt a sense of relief.

Not about to apologize for the state he was in, he strode across the tiled floor to the bar cart and grabbed the ice bucket that sat on top. He pulled off the lid and shoved the most damaged hand inside. As the frigid water hit all the cuts, he reveled in the sting.

“Feel better?” Chef sounded amused as Dom picked up the bottle of scotch on the cart and pulled the cork free with his teeth.

“Yes.” He took a swig of the hard stuff as Chef got to his feet, but Dom was too busy watching the kid’s response to pay all that much attention.

“You leave anything for me?”

Luca’s attention finally trailed back up to meet Dom’s and the terror from their first encounter was back in full force.

That’s right, don’t forget who you’re boarding with, kid.

Dom tore his eyes away from Luca’s and gave Chef a clipped nod. “I left enough. You bring your apron?”

“Got a brand-new one just for this occasion.”

“Good. Then you should have fun.”

Chef grinned and glanced over his shoulder to Luca. “Nice chatting, kid. Would you check out Dom’s stitches again? I think he might’ve busted them.”