2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Aleko

“ D ayum!” Bear whistles as he rotates his head one way then the other, taking in all the opulence mafia money has to offer. “I feel underdressed.”

Bear and I are flanked by Shade and Crow as we make our way down the golden-hued halls of the Mancini Hotel. Not just any location, either. This is the home base, the Manhattan headquarters where all the shady shit happens in the comfort of leather chairs and cherry oak conference tables.

“It’s not just a feeling, Brother.” Just as I speak, some pearl-clutching blonde who spends more money on her hair than we do on our bikes looks us up and down with a scowl until she reaches our faces and does a double take. The man walking her out, his palm at the small of her back, doesn’t even give us the time of day as he barks orders over his phone. I don’t miss the way her gaze follows us, and this time, it has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with her pussy needing a man who actually pays attention to her.

Some say my obsession with Cherry is unhealthy, I say not being utterly consumed by the one person you love more than life should be criminal. Sure, somewhere in there there’s a healthy middle ground, but I’ve never done anything half-assed and I ain’t gonna start now.

Except, isn’t that what I did last night? Leaving Mackenzie in our suite after she dropped the bomb on me? Sure, it was time for me to hit the road, Prez’s orders, but instead of trying to make things right, I walked away. I gave her the space she begged for with a crater sized hole in my chest and the weight of the world on my shoulders. For the first time, I chose club business over my girl and let my anger and disappointment over her cruel words decide my next move.

That’s on me and I will fix it when I get back. I will grovel, but she’ll also have a painful reminder on her ass that words matter and tone is everything.

“It’s not even your fucking baby.”

“Does Mancini know we’re coming or is this a surprise visit?” I scoff at Shade’s question because no-fucking-body surprises the New York City Don on his own turf, but I’m also thankful his words pull me out of the spiral the echo of her words might send me into.

“Nah, I ain’t got a death wish, man. I texted him last night when we got to the clubhouse. Used a card he gave me years ago that I’ve kept safe, knowing one day that I’d need to cash in a favor.” I shrug because we all know that day is today. Twirling the sucker in my hand, I push it back between my lips and crunch, the sweet cherry taste filling my senses.

“Well, guess we’ll find out how much pull this guy has soon enough.” Looking over my shoulder, I wink at Crow, trying to reassure him.

“Don’t worry, Brother. You don’t become this guy without the resources to get shit done.” And he definitely gets shit done, that’s for fucking sure.

“We’ll let you take the lead on this then, Psycho. Good thing Sledge and Grinder aren’t here. Those crazy bastards probably would’ve gotten us killed.” We all chuckle at Crow’s words. Fucker ain’t wrong.

“Welcome to Mancini Hotels, how can I be of help?”

Stepping up to the counter, I lean in and read the nametag on the middle-aged woman at the front desk. Bear stands just a couple of feet to my right while Crow and Shade have a silent contest on who’s gonna bag the chick first. Lopsided grins and all.

To the employee’s credit, she keeps her eyes on me and stays professional every second of our interaction. Holy shit, it’s not easy resisting the charms of Shade, but Crow? I’m guessing this woman loves her job more than orgasms.

Poor thing.

One thing is for damn sure, Mancini runs a tight fucking ship.

“We have a meeting with—” My answer is cut off by the low, deadly voice of the Don himself.

“Thank you, Shann, I’ll take care of these gentlemen.”

We all scoff. Gentlemen? Shit, there ain’t nothin’ gentle about any of us. Well, except maybe Bear. He’s more teddy than grizzly and definitely a woman’s winning choice when alone in the woods.

“Aleko Kastellanos. To what do I owe this pleasure?” We shake hands, sizing each other up like men in our positions tend to do. When danger seeks us out, every encounter is a possible threat and shaking a man’s hand tells us which instinct to rely on if shit goes south. Fight or flight.

“Well, let’s just say the New Jersey garbage has been thrown into our backyard.” After shaking hands with my brothers, Marco turns, whispers something quickly into another man’s ear, then nods for us to follow.

“Sup, man?” Fucking Crow sizing up the mafia henchman. Christ, I’m not sure even he could survive that battle. Obviously, the guy doesn’t answer, just follows him with a gaze so hard it could turn a lesser man to stone.

The whole way up, we don’t talk. Not in the hall, not in the elevator, not as we head down the private quarters of his office floor. It’s quiet up here. The piano tunes overhead aren’t invasive, just a little music to guide you to your final destination.

Once in his office, big enough to fit our fucking bar room, Mancini walks to his desk. Instead of sitting in his huge leather chair, he leans his ass against the massive desk, fingers curling around the edge and legs crossed at the ankle. Completely in control.

To the side, the emotionless brute force of his bodyguard stands motionless against the wall, his piece peeking out from inside his wool peacoat.

To the untrained eye, Mancini has the posture of someone completely at ease. He’s not. It doesn’t escape me that, without even moving his eyes, he seems to know every move we make. Scary motherfucker, that’s for sure. Calculating…without a fucking doubt.

“The Irish?” Straight to the heart of the problem.

“Yeah. Those fuckers seem to think the south is the new Atlantic City.” No sooner than the words are out of my mouth, Shade growls. Legit sounds like a lion.

“Hmm, the Irish think everywhere is Atlantic City. But what does that have to do with me?” Cocking his head to the side, he waits for my request because, let’s face it, people come to Marco Mancini when they need something. Money, help, advice.

My gaze catches on the framed photo at the corner of his desk. It’s not facing us, it’s angled toward the man who usually sits in the big ass chair.

The woman in the black and white picture is holding what seems to be a newborn, their faces only a couple of inches apart as the woman, Mancini’s wife, I’m guessing, seems to be soaking up the feeling of newly found motherhood.

Is that what happiness looks like? How can such a tiny thing bring such huge feelings?

In this brief moment, I learn the most important lesson of my life. That baby is the testament of pure love, the result of math gone wrong when one plus one equals three. The pain I felt when Mackenzie threw those fucking words at me is born from the knowledge that our math didn’t go wrong.

Yet…I don’t fucking care. We’ll have others after this and the baby inside her will still be mine and hers. Ours, always. Those motherfuckers aren’t taking anything else away from my Cherry.

But right now, that picture is going to help get what I want.

“That your wife and kid?” It’s a stupid question, but hey, could be his sister, right?

Mancini doesn’t answer right away. His stare turns to steel as his gray eyes bore into me like he’s trying to assess if I'm a threat to his family. I have no doubts he’d kill me in a fucking nanosecond if he believed it to be true.

“My girl is pregnant, about sixteen weeks along, now.” I can’t help the uptick at the corners of my mouth at the mention of my Cherry Pie and I don’t miss the slight softening of Mancini’s stance, the way his muscles relax just a tiny bit.

“Congratulations,” is all he says, waiting for me to make my pitch. The cock of his head to the right tells me he’s listening.

“Thanks. Problem is, these fuckers took my girl. My pregnant girlfriend. Tied her up, shot her.” Okay, that was her being a fucking savior and getting in the way of a bullet meant for someone else but tom-ayto, tom-ahto. “Then they came to our strip club, beat and raped our employees, then threatened the entire fucking town if we didn’t let things go. Meaning, we don’t interfere with whatever the fuck they’re trying to do.” Pausing to see if Mancini is biting, I startle at the sound of Shade’s voice.

“We think it has to do with pills. College kids keep overdosing on them.” I nod at my brother’s words, my eyes never leaving the Don’s face.

“Hmm…” The boss of Manhattan rises to his full height, walking to his corner bar before pouring five glasses of…water? Wasn’t expecting that. Surely, these rich types drink the finest whiskies at all hours of the day, right?

Slowly, he brings the glass to his lips and drinks, his Adams’s apple bobbing with every swallow. This is a power play, I know it all too well from living with my psychotic brother for so long. Except, I truly believe Mancini is more about thinking shit through before speaking and this is allowing him the time to analyze the situation. Something my brother never learned to do.

“A few months back, one of my capos stumbled upon a pill factory out in Queens.” There’s no need for me to respond, Mancini is linking all the shit together, but one thing is for sure: I don’t believe for a second that the mafia “stumbled” upon anything. “It all looked legitimate from the outside but the math wasn’t adding up. When she came to me with the situation, I told her and her crew to investigate. I don’t do well with illegal pills being distributed without my permission.”

“Did those pills happen to have a smiley face anywhere?” The hope in my tone can’t be ignored; I want this to be linked. Being backed by someone like Mancini would change the whole fucking situation down in Rockford Beach.

“Si, on the plastic bag. They’re the same in your town, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

Mancini hands me a glass while Crow and Bear get up to grab their own.

“Here’s what I know. The pharmaceutical company is legit, completely legal with unassuming employees running the day-to-day business of actually trying to save lives.” Walking to a deep oak filing cabinet matching his desk, Mancini rolls open a drawer, his fingers walking through the documents until he stops on something, pinches the papers, and pulls them out. “Everything you need is in this file.”

My eyes land on the manilla folder and I swear to fuck I’m frothing at the mouth. Mancini pushes a button on his phone and not two seconds later, a man’s voice sounds. “Sir?”

“I need some photocopies, please.” When he ends the call, he looks back at me with ice in his gaze. “Needless to say, these documents are mine and mine alone. You use the information, then every single word in here is burned to ashes. You get me?”

“ Capisco .” I ditch the Hollywood Mafia capeesh bullshit and go straight for the proper Italian.

“Bene.” As he hands me the file, his fist grabs onto my cut, pulling me close enough for his mouth to be at my ear. Behind me, three chairs scrape against the tile floors and one bodyguard whips out his gun, pointed straight at my temple.

Well, that fucking escalated quickly.

“You ever use the subject of my family in a business meeting again, I will pump your body full of so many bullets, there won’t be a piece of you they’ll recognize when they try to fish you out of the Hudson. Capisci?” Yeah, I definitely understand.

I grin, genuine respect for this man’s willingness and ability to kill for his family. “Yeah, man, I completely capisco. The Italian is wrong but you get my gist.” His grunt tells me that disrespecting his mother tongue physically pains him.

Releasing me, he pats down my cut like he’s just left dirt on it or some shit. The mafia stereotype is killing me and I’m about two seconds away from laughing my ass off. But I don’t, ‘cause I’m not fucking stupid.

“Is it okay to ask outside of business?”

Raising a brow at me like he’s asking if I’m serious right now, I mirror his brow and raise him a lopsided grin.

Everyone in the room relaxes, including the silent killer at my side.

“You’re still that cocky little shit from eight years ago, aren’t you? The one who shot his brother right in front of my face.” The memory brings with it a scowl. “Took me days to get the brain matter out of my shirt. Ended up throwing it away.” Yeah, like he’s counting the number of shirts he’s got. Dude owns half of Manhattan.

“Well, no regrets for me. The world is better off without him.” We both nod and hum our agreement.

“Tell me, how is your girl? Baby is okay, yes?” The concern behind his gaze is real and I appreciate it, truly.

“Yeah, they’re both okay but I’m pissed off, you know?”

“Yes. I know the feeling all too well but, Aleko, that anger and that fear that’s building a nest inside your heart will only grow larger and larger until it’s all you can feel. Until it consumes you. Don’t let it. Remember that we choose women who are strong enough to stand on their own. If we cut their wings, they’re no longer custom made for us.” I frown, the guilt of everything that went down last night and the weeks before bubbling up inside my gut. “You get me?”

“Yeah, I do.” I think?

“Also, be prepared to turn into something you never thought you could ever be.”

What now?

“A father?”

“A man worthy of love. That baby is going to own you, heart and soul. Hell, I’m planning Aurora’s first birthday by renting out the Rockefeller Center. My wife has found some kind of love for ice-skating, which is really fucking strange, but what she wants, she gets. So now, here I am…planning fucking birthday parties.”

“Isn’t she a little young for that? I mean, she won’t remember a damn thing.” Crow speaks the exact words rattling in my brain.

“It’s not about what they’ll remember, it’s about creating memories, documenting them, so that later, when they look at all the pictures, they know how important their existence is to us.”

Looking around the room, pretty sure I won’t be planning any extravagant parties like this since it’s not our jam, I nod at my brothers when the file is securely tucked under my arm.

“Hopefully, our baby will love the beach parties and barbecues just as much.”

“I’m sure. Bene. Give me a week and I’ll have people down there who can get the job done quickly and quietly.”

Translation: He’s sending the fucking Reapers.

Score .