7.

SEVEN

Dominic

Even though I’m freezing my ass off in the shipping yard with my mafia partner, Gianni Moretti, this second “date” is still preferable to my first.

I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just default, something I’ve done for years as a follow up to fucking men, like it confirms that my outward appearance is the same as before, my mask still in place.

Why does that matter with my father dead? Don’t fucking ask me.

All I know is that when Rafael came swanning through the restaurant in his outrageous purple, I felt a mixture of terror, anger, and delight.

He’s so unpredictable. He’s so fucking wild. He’s so goddamn beautiful.

I hated him for trapping me in a public dinner with him, but I loved every second of it too. I couldn’t let him see that. I had to cut him down and leave him there, and, yeah, I took a certain, sadistic pleasure in seeing how that stung him. He deserved it.

But the joke was on me in the end—because I can’t stop thinking about him. The way he so deftly ousted Nicole. The fact that he looked so shockingly polished less than twenty-four hours after being so fucked up that I left him passed out, tied up, and covered in blood and cum.

I’m not the only one with a mask.

But, shit, he wears his beautifully.

Of course, he wears cum beautifully too. Every time I look at those pictures I took, the sight of Rafael such a mess makes me ache with longing. I fucking love the sight of him like that. Debauched. Psychotic. Vulnerable.

I took those pictures for potential blackmail. I took them as evidence of my power over him. But it’s me those pictures seem to have power over.

Maybe that’s the real reason I dug up Nicole’s number.

It wasn’t my first boring evening with her. My father picked her. According to him, social climbing gold diggers are predictable and therefore controllable. He wasn’t wrong. Despite our tedious first date four months ago, she was plenty eager for a second try.

But then Rafael—

“Dominic.”

Moretti nudges me. It irritates me because I don’t like people randomly touching me, but he’s not someone I can slap down. Besides, I was obviously not paying attention to the new arrivals.

Moretti stirs from his cold, cramped position behind the shipping container like he’s not pushing fifty. He’s a tough motherfucker and not someone to cross. His brother Benito is about regret doing just that.

I’m not someone to cross either, and the assholes in one of my crews working with Benito are about to experience the consequences.

I knew there was shit going on, but it’s taken time to sniff it out. I’ve had so much to deal with the last few months.

I’ve got a multimillion dollar construction company operating throughout the state. It’s perfect for blending real business with a little money laundering for the likes of Gianni Moretti, but it requires intensive management. I’ve got the importation of antiques, where I slip in the occasional shipment of diamonds or stolen artwork. That requires management too.

What’s going on now, however, is that Gianni’s brother is skimming drugs from their South American shipments—and storing them in my containers with the help of one of my street crews. Benito and that crew have been creating a nice little side line for themselves, fucking me and Gianni over in the process.

We’re here to catch them in the act—then put them in the ground. I’ve got Rocco and a few others me. Moretti has his own contingent.

My traitorous crew is already here making space in the shipping container. It’s Gianni’s brother Benito who’s just arrived in his Escalade with four men and several million dollars worth of Gianni’s drugs.

Vince, my crew leader, goes to meet them. He and Benito shake hands like chums while Benito’s men lug the duffel bags full of drugs.

Gianni and I wait until all of them enter the container, then one of Gianni’s men goes to take the Escalade, robbing Benito of his escape.

At the sound of the vehicle, everyone comes running out of the container. We start shooting. I get two of my traitorous crew before I have to duck back from the return fire. Rocco gets another, then everyone scatters.

I spot Vince making a run for it. I take off after him. He leads me through the maze of containers. I can’t get a clear shot—until he hits a dead end.

Vince spins and fires, but he’s sloppy as hell and misses me entirely. I shoot him in the shoulder. He screams and drops his gun. I get him in the leg. He hits the ground.

I stalk toward him. He scrambles away until he hits the metal wall of a container.

“Boss, I swear, I thought this was all legit! He’s Gianni’s brother! I thought—”

“If you’re gonna start out lying, we’re gonna have a very long night.”

I crack him in the head with my gun. He goes limp.

***

We do have a very long night, most of it at my family’s estate outside the city. There, in the hidden underground cell, we can work properly.

It’s 4 a.m. before Vince coughs up enough details about his arrangement with Benito that Gianni leaves in disgust to deal with his brother.

Vince is slumped in the chair, his body littered with burns, cuts, and a shit-ton of bruises. He’s coherent enough that I could play with him if I wanted to, maybe put him on the surgical table, but I’m tired. My hands hurt. I pull my gun from my shoulder holster.

Vince lifts his head, staring at me through his one good eye. His lip curls back from his bloody teeth.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he slurs.

Rocco stomps forward. “The fuck you say?”

“He’s a faggot, Rocco. You gonna be his bitch? You gonna—”

Rocco slams his fist into Vince’s face. The clamps hold the chair in place as Vince’s head snaps to the side. Rocco hits him again and again until his chest is heaving and his fists are bloody. Vince is out, maybe already dead.

Rocco steps back. “Shit. Sorry, boss. I should’ve let you do it.”

“Never mind.”

I raise my gun and put a bullet in Vince’s head.

Rocco meets my eyes. I look for a question in his, trying to figure out if he’s hoping I’ll deny it. I don’t see that question there. I don’t see disgust either.

Rocco is a little older than I am, maybe thirty-five. He was already working for my father on the street crews when my father sent me to the Island. I don’t know if he knows what happened there, but everyone who’s been with my family as long as Rocco has knows a little bit. My father never hid how much I disgusted him.

“Dominic.”

It’s the way Rocco says my name, quietly, like we have something to talk about, that has me looking away. “I’m heading back to the city.”

“Tonight?” He’s incredulous.

“Yeah.” I’m sure as hell not staying here in my father’s house.

Rocco will have to. He’s got cleanup to do. But he’ll have a comfortable bed when he’s done.

I tell him, “Take the day and tomorrow night off when you’re done. You can stay here if you want, use the sauna or whatever. There should be food in the pantry and freezer.”

“You could stay too. You need some sleep.”

I won’t get any in this goddamn house.

“I have to go,” I tell him, starting to get pissed off. I don’t know why he’s pushing back, and I don’t like it. I just want out of this house. I can barely breathe here.

I leave the cell, trekking along the narrow hallway and passing through the well-hidden entrance into the cellar. When the police were here two months ago to investigate the attack and my father’s death, I was sweating bullets. The lead investigator was on our payroll, but shit can go downhill fast with dozens of people tromping around.

There were some dicey moments, but everything got sorted. The police never found the hidden door. The bodies got hauled away, the blood scrubbed from the floors, the windows replaced.

I walk through the house to the kitchen, where everything looks like it always did. Nothing’s changed since the day my mother left or since the day my father brought me back here from the Island.

As I pass the dining room, my skin tries to crawl off my body. Even though I don’t actively think about how I would have to sit in there with him every fucking night, the physical reaction happens all the same.

In the huge kitchen, I wash my bloody hands. My knuckles are split and swollen. I’ll deal with them later.

I don’t know what makes me walk out to the walled-in patio and pool area. It’s not the fastest route to my car. But I haven’t been back here since my father’s death and something draws me to the spot where he died.

It was a shitstorm that night. It wasn’t just Rafael and Dante coming after my father. A mobster that he’d screwed over was actually the main aggressor, with Dante and Rafael slipping in behind to rescue Dante’s boyfriend.

I didn’t blame them for going after my father while they were here. In fact, I’m glad they did. I’m glad he’s dead.

I don’t know why I could never do it myself. It wasn’t loyalty that stayed my hand. It was him. He froze me somehow.

He was the only person who could do that to me. Halt every thought, every action.

I stare at the spot where my father lay after Dante put the final bullet in his head. That night, I spent a long time staring down at him, as frozen as ever. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t relieved. I just felt numb.

And now? I don’t know. I’m starting to shake, but I don’t know why.

I leave the poolside before it gets worse and make my way around the house to my car. I get in, start it up, get the heater going. I wish I felt angry. I know I should. I feel angry about so many other things, so why not this?

But what is “this” anyway?

It’s everything. Everything he said to me. Everything he did to me, or let others do. It’s too big to put into words. It’s as big as my father’s house looming behind me.

Shivering, I drive away.