Copyright © 2019 by Bethany-Kris. All rights reserved.
BENI
The Guzzi Legacy, 4
Chapter One
Ever wonder what it would be like to have a living mirror of yourself?
Benito Guzzi wasn’t curious at all.
“Shots!”
His identical twin’s shout danced over the loud bar where they and their friends gathered in the club for most of the night.
“Bene,” Ashton, one of their mutual friends, said as he stressed the ay ending to Benedetto’s nickname, “you’re going to give us fucking alcohol poisoning. We can’t handle liquor like you two, fuck, man.”
“Beni?”
Down the bar, his twin cocked a brow in his direction. Some might think it looked like a challenge. Others would take it as a question. Beni—his name differentiating from his twin’s with a hard e at the end—didn’t wonder what that look meant when he shared everything with Bene. From looks to style, and even his behaviors and attitude.
When he said mirrors of each other, that’s what they were.
And it was their twenty-first birthday.
So …
“Shots,” Beni said with a nod.
Cheers from their group lit up the bar. The party was far from over, and if all went well, they would drink far into the morning. People knew Beni and Bene Guzzi for their desire to have a good time.
All the damn time.
“Where are your brothers?” the guy to his left asked. “Shouldn’t they be here celebrating?”
Beni shrugged, more interested in the way the bartender had set up the shot glasses in a perfect line along the bar. Grabbing a bottle from the built-in shelves behind the bar, the glass gleamed from the lights. The bass from the music pumped through the floor, vibrating the soles of Beni’s Italian leather loafers while more liquor poured.
Straight vodka this time.
They had to go easy on some of them.
I guess, he thought.
Bene, having heard the question posed to his twin, answered for Beni. “Corrado’s in New York … Chris is—don’t know, whatever. And Marcus?”
Beni scoffed. “Fucking Marcus.”
“What’s that mean?”
Somehow, unlike the small army of their older siblings, Beni and Bene made friends outside of the life. That life being la famiglia. The mafia. Despite their interest and involvement in the family business, considering their father was the boss and their oldest brother followed his footsteps, they still surrounded themselves with people who had no idea about the other side of their life.
Beni and Bene shared a look.
A grin.
Knowing.
Sly.
Amused.
They liked to keep friends that weren’t in. The two of them communicated easier in their strange way. The same thing they had been doing since before they could talk, if someone thought to ask their parents. Gestures, silent looks, body movements, or even a click of a tongue.
The two had a whole nonverbal language. It was a hell of a lot harder for them to communicate with each other when they were around their family, and they didn’t want people knowing what they were saying.
“Marcus is Marcus,” Beni settled on saying, “too busy being our father’s mini-me to come out and have fun with us.”
Marcus used to be fun, though. Then, he graduated, attended a few of years of a university for business, and went straight into the mafia to mentor under their father. Once Marcus was in, and got his button for the mafia, he was all the fucking way in. Unfailingly responsible—they counted on their oldest brother no matter what.
And sometimes that was just boring.
“Ready?”
Bene held his shot glass high into the air. The strobe lights flickered with a higher intensity in the background of the club, making his brother look like a statue. The club was banging, though, and for more reasons than their friends would understand. It was one that wasn’t Guzzi owned, because God fucking knew the twins hated when tales of their night out got back to their parents, or brothers.
They worried.
Bitched.
The twins didn’t understand why.
It was unnecessary.
Couldn’t they just have fun?
Okay, maybe that was a bit of a stretch. Their fun usually included trouble—the wild ones their family called them because from the time they were old enough to run, the two never stopped. He figured, hey, at least they ran together.
That was the thing about Beni and Bene.
If they had each other, shit was cake.
Easy.
Life was fucking good.
“Ready,” Beni said, picking up his own shot and holding it high, too.
Literal mirrors, he thought as he stared at his brother from the other end of the bar. From the way they held their shot glasses, to the curve of their smiles, and the carved-from-glass line of their jaws. Even the browns of their eyes could be mapped by the gold flakes that they’d taken from their father. That playful, but sly smile came from their mother, though. Standing side by side, the twins stood equal in height at six foot, two inches tall. Their weight was almost the same, too, at a solid, lean one-ninety, give or take a pound.
They were identical in every way.
Their stance.
How they carried themselves.
The style of their clothes.
All of it.
“Drop ‘em back!” Bene called.
Beni wasn’t sure if it was instinct, or just nature, for him to throw back his shot at the same time as his twin. He often found himself echoing the movements of his twin like they had when they were kids. Bene moved left, and Beni moved right. One smirked with the left side of his lips, and the other with his right.
It could be strange and disconcerting for new people who didn’t know the twins. It took getting used to, but the twins had never subdued their strange habits for others. It wasn’t in their nature to look out for anyone else but each other, after all. Even like that.
Shouts and hollers lit up the bar all over again as shot glasses clinked down to the glossy, red top. Bene was already waving for the bartender who had moved further down to serve a group that came up for refills while the Guzzi boys were taking their round with the rest of the group.
“Another round,” he called. “Henny next!”
“Fuck,” Beni groaned, “now you’re trying to kill me, bro.”
People liked to act as though Hennessey tasted great, but in fact, it was shit. Absolute, and total garbage. Add onto the horrible taste of the liquor, and it almost always had Beni puking by the end of the night, but especially when he mixed it with other spirits.
“Are you calling it a night, then? Gonna pussy out, Beni?”
Fuck his twin for knowing the right buttons to push.
“Never,” Beni muttered, flipping his own hand up at the laughter of their friends to wave for the bartender, too. “Another round—Henny.” He pointed a finger at his twin, adding, “But then we’re doing Fireball.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Yeah, exactly.
Because as much as his twin knew his secrets, Beni had all of Bene’s locked up tight, too. He could play that game, if his brother wanted. He was good for it, always.
When the bartender didn’t come as fast as they wanted, their calls for the man became louder, and more obnoxious. But wasn’t that every fucking twenty-one-year-old man, anyway? They were just trying to have fun.
Of course, trouble always followed.
It was the twins’ way.
“Fuckin’ Guzzis thinking they own every goddamn place they step into,” someone from the group down the bar muttered. “Why don’t you all crawl into one of your holes, and party there?”
Beni tipped his chin up, not bothering to give whoever that was his attention. Instead, his gaze drifted to his brother at the other end of their large group. Bene matched his posture with wide shoulders going stiff, chin raised in defiance, and an almost manic gleam in his eye.
Savages.
Piss off a Guzzi, or bad mouth them, and the savage came out to play.
It didn’t matter.
No one said a goddamn thing about a Guzzi without it being answered, and usually, violently. Beni didn’t know if it was a pride thing, or what. A thick rush of rage filled his bloodstream with every beat of his heart because fuck all of that.
The guy wasn’t just insulting him and his twin—but to be honest, that was enough to make him want to break the fucker’s neck—but his entire clan. His father, the other three Guzzi brothers, and their mother, too. He didn’t even have to name Cara Guzzi; didn’t have to breathe a single word about her. He simply had to lump all Guzzis into one bunch, and they were insulting the boys’ mother, too.
And no.
That would not fly over.
Ever.
Bene, who had still been toying with the empty shot glass in his hand, set it down to the top of the bar a bit harder than was necessary. Beni turned when his twin came around their group of friends who had all gone suspiciously silent.
They knew what was about to happen.
The guy—Bene knew which one made the comment, given he had been staring that way—didn’t even see the twins coming for him. Fists flew after they yanked the fucker from his bar stool to the floor.
Soon, a whole crowd was fighting. Their friends. The fucker’s friends. Some random guy that got knocked sideways during the scuffle. Even the club’s security that rushed in to try and break it up.
The wild Guzzi twins struck again.
You’d think people would learn.
“Call the fucking cops!”
***
“Hungover, wrinkled suits, and smelling like jail,” Marcus said to his brothers as Beni and Bene stepped out of the back of the Mercedes, “that’s not a good look on the two of you.”
Bene grunted under his breath, saying nothing.
Beni, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. “And?”
Marcus sighed, and hit the roof of the car, a silent signal for the driver to head out. The driver showed up at the jail that morning, waiting for when the twins were released with orders to bring them home. Which they knew, instantly, did not mean their shared penthouse in the city.
No, it meant their parents’ massive mansion outside of the city limits where they would have to go through another round of lectures from their brother, father, and maybe their ma, too. Who fucking knew?
Beni just wanted to go to sleep.
“That looks like it’s raw,” Marcus noted, gesturing at the busted lip Beni sported. “And you’re not in any better shape, huh?”
Bene made that noise under his breath again. “Face hurts.”
“Yeah, it looks like it.”
They weren’t exaggerating.
A night in jail did nothing for bruises and cuts. Beni couldn’t smile without feeling that split in his lip rip open again. Each time he flexed his hands, his bruised, busted knuckles protested to no end. He was kind of sure he had a bruised rib, if not broken, but the hospital wouldn’t do shit for that.
“Should see the other guys,” Beni muttered.
Marcus shook his head. “What is wrong with the two of you?”
“Uh …”
Bene looked over at Beni.
He shrugged.
That was not the response Marcus wanted.
Color me fucking surprised.
“What caused the fight at the club?” Marcus asked.
“People using their mouth for shit they shouldn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
Beni eyed Marcus, and the tailored, pressed suit that covered his form. What was it--nine in the morning? Why was he already at their parents’ mansion, dressed in a three-piece suit, looking like he was ready to start his whole day?
“Do you ever sleep in?” Beni asked. “Or … I don’t know, do what you want to do instead of just business for Dad?”
Marcus arched a brow. “Do the two of you ever go out and not cause a fucking scene?”
“Not really.”
“See, that’s a problem. Because that’s all the two of you do--cause problems, Beni. You can’t even control yourselves at a club we don’t own. And then you get yourselves arrested. You’re fucking lucky Papa has connections to the RCMP, and managed to get those charges dropped. Had it worked out last night, actually.”
Bene’s brow furrowed.
Beni matched his brother.
“Wait,” the two of them echoed at the same time, another strange occurrence for others where the twins were concerned. They could speak in tune with one another, without any prior knowledge of what the other would say. “The charges were dropped last night?”
“Yes.”
“Why did we only get out this morning?” Beni demanded.
Marcus smirked. “Dad thought you two would do well to sober up in a cell.”
Perfect.
Just fucking great.
Beni glared at the mansion at the end of the paved, circular driveway. It was cold as hell—January offered no reprieve in Canada, that was for sure. And yet, he had little to no interest in going inside the warm mansion now because he didn’t want to hear his father bitch. The sloped, Swedish style of the mansion’s eaves brought back familiar memories of his childhood looking out the windows, and the downhill drive in the crisp winter air made him think of sledding down it with his twin.
All good things.
He loved this place.
Just not right now.
“Can I go home?”
“No,” Marcus deadpanned.
He wished he was surprised.
Then, Marcus spun on his heels with a wave of his hand, saying, “Let’s go, better not keep Papa waiting any longer on the two of you.”
The twins shared another look.
Still, they followed after their oldest brother in silence, even though Marcus continued chastising them up the driveway, and into the mansion. His bitching didn’t stop even as they walked through the grand foyer, taking one of two curved staircases to the second level of the mansion where their father’s office sat overlooking the front yard.
Nostalgia.
That’s what it felt like to step foot inside his father’s office. There was something about the rich tapestries imported from France, the darkly stained desk and bookshelves his father ordered from Italy, and the handmade rug his mother brought back from India after a trip that just reminded him of times long past.
And several trips to this office.
For reasons just like this morning.
Gian, an older reflection of his sons, stood at the front of his desk. He used his thighs to rest along the edge, and folded his hands on his middle. Like his older brother, his father was already dressed in a three-piece suit, his hair slicked back and ready for a day of business.
It was Saturday, right?
Work for the mafia didn’t stop.
Only on Sundays.
“A sore sight, the two of you, oui?” his French-Italian father asked.
The smartass he was, Beni decided to reply the same way they had retorted to Marcus outside with, “You should see the fucker that tried to slander our name.”
It was not the right thing to say.
Even though Marcus often mirrored his father in appearance and behavior, he did not have the same attitude that Gian did. Marcus had a much longer string of patience that could take a few tugs from the twins before it snapped altogether. Gian was not the same.
His father drew in a steady breath, pursed his lips, and gave them that look. A silent, excuse me, do you want to try that again? It was the only second chance their fathered offered now that they were grown men out on their own. He wasn’t sure when that changed—around seventeen, he supposed, when they graduated high school and decided to go into the family business. The dynamics of their family had to change with their circumstances.
Gian was no longer just their father.
He couldn’t be when he was also their boss.
Out of all five Guzzi brothers, it was Beni and Bene who struggled the most to make the change. Marcus did fine, ready to take his place at their father’s side in business. The other twins in their family, Chris and Corrado, didn’t have much of a problem differentiating their father from the man who raised them, and the one who ran a criminal organization, either.
The younger twins, though?
A constant struggle.
Beni was never more aware of it than now.
Bene shuffled on his feet beside Beni. “Listen, Papa, we were only making a point, okay? People can’t run off at the mouth about—”
“Made men don’t fight, and certainly not in a public club where it causes them to be arrested.”
“We’re not made yet.”
“And you won’t be, if you continue this behavior,” Gian returned.
Ouch.
That stung a little.
Marcus cleared his throat, coming further into the office to take one of the two high-back leather chairs that faced their father’s desk. Gian looked to his oldest son, considering something before he asked, “And what did you have to say to them about all of this?”
“Nothing we say to them matters. That’s half the problem.”
“Pardonne-moi?”
“They’re spoiled,” Marcus returned in English, knowing the twins had always struggled to learn French like their father spoke more often than not. “And because we’ve spent more time and effort cleaning after their messes than correcting them, this is the problem we face.”
We, Beni noticed.
Not you.
Marcus took responsibility for his brothers as much as he placed blame on his parents. It wasn’t lost on Beni, and he wasn’t shocked to hear Marcus say as much, either. Always the responsible one—he looked out for everyone in their family. He felt an innate sense of duty toward his younger brothers, and for his parents. Maybe it was because he was the oldest, or it could have been the fact he was the only Guzzi brother that was a singleton without a twin to match him, and better him.
After all, Beni always said Bene was his better half, and his brother would reply in kind. When he was nervous, Bene was there to push him. If he went to far, Bene would rein him in. It was the same for him with his twin.
Chris and Corrado were the same.
Marcus, though?
He had to do it all alone.
His need to protect and look after his family came from a different source than theirs, but it was there, nonetheless. It was why they loved him. Even if he was just like their dad.
Some days, Beni found himself wishing all his brothers could go back to a time when they were nothing more than teenagers. Before the mafia swept into their life to determine how they behaved and treated one another when the doors were open to the public, and even when they were closed. He missed the times when Marcus was easier, more carefree. That seemed so long ago, really.
“They’re selfish because we’ve allowed them to be,” Marcus continued like the twins weren’t sitting right there, “and that’s the other half of the problem. Spoiled, and selfish. They don’t consider the family—their need to protect our name comes from a self-centered place, and not for a selfless reason. They don’t consider the mess they make, only the instant gratification from their outbursts.”
Gian shifted on his feet, letting his arms fall to his sides. “And so, how do we correct that?”
For the first time since entering the office, Marcus glanced the twins’ way. Beni could plainly see the concern warring with duty in his oldest brother’s gaze. And yet, Marcus hardened his expression because that’s what he needed to do. And he was nothing if not reliable. He got shit done, even if it was hard.
Like now.
Beni respected it.
Even if he hated what came next.
“We have to stop letting them run wild, and then cleaning up after them when something goes wrong. We can’t continue to expect them to learn when all we’ve taught them is someone else will be there to take care of them, Papa. That’s all.”
Gian nodded, his attention going to Beni first, and Bene second. “He’s right, you know.”
The twins said nothing.
They didn’t really need to.
Gian pushed away from the desk, standing straight before brushing invisible dust from his pant legs. He took the time to fix the gold G cufflinks on his suit jacket, and then lifted his head slightly so that the twins were forced to meet their father’s gaze.
“I want to say it’s because you both are young, but I think a bigger part of the problem is that you both feed off one another. Is it made better or worse because you are in home territory, and you know someone will be there to catch you when you mess up, or fall? That’s yet to be determined, but we’re going to find out.”
“What does that—”
Gian held up a single hand, quieting Bene. “No, it’s my turn now. I have given the two of you more than enough chances to correct the issues you seem to have, but that clearly hasn’t worked, Bene.”
“Come on, this isn’t a big thing,” Bene muttered. “We just had some fun, and got into a fight. It wasn’t like we killed someone.”
“Yet.” Gian lifted one shoulder, his tone cold and flat as he continued on with, “You have not done something I cannot fix yet, and I do not want to reach that point with the two of you. I need you to learn to respect and value your place in this family and business. Apparently, I am not the right man to teach you. I thought the two of you would be like your other brothers—this is what you wanted, and so you would fall into line, and settle out of your wildness. Instead, you’ve used your status and privilege as an excuse to become worse.”
Beni knew exactly what his father was saying.
And how he would fix it.
Correct an issue before it gets worse.
That was the Guzzi way.
“We’ll start with a year away, and go from there,” his father stated.
Even Marcus looked up at that, although their oldest brother stayed quiet.
Gian nodded. “A year away, mentoring under a different organization. Your uncle in Chicago is willing to make a place for the two of you in the Outfit. I will reconsider after the year is up, depending on how well the two of you have done.”
“What?”
“We’ve never worked for the Chicago mob,” Beni said.
Bene scowled. “I fucking hate Chicago.”
They did have a lot of family there, though, being as it was where their mother came from, and where her family remained. Or rather, what was left of it.
Gian shrugged, a faint smile curving his lips as he replied, “In case you didn’t get the memo, boys, it’s no longer about what you want—I’m doing what’s best for you. Otherwise, the more you both act out, the worse my fears become about what will happen to the two of you when I’m not looking. I can’t always watch over you. Marcus won’t always have time to look out for the two of you. And you’re scaring your mother.”
That did it.
Just the mention of hurting their ma.
It was enough to set them straight.
Or, mostly.
“So, Chicago,” Gian said, “you’ll leave within the week. Do make sure to spend as much time with your mother as possible before you go. Understood?”
What choice did they have?
“It’s not so bad,” Marcus said over his shoulder, “Chicago, I mean.”
Beni didn’t believe that. Not for a second.
“And it’ll be good for both of you,” he added quieter, “even if you don’t think so right now.”
Right.
Time would tell, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Two
“The most important lesson a woman can learn in business,” a smart woman once told August Rivera, “is that she will always have to work twice as hard to be viewed as even half as good as a man in the same position. You’ll always have to work for it. They never will.”
That woman?
Her ma.
Ada wasn’t wrong, either. Her mother liked to hand down those little tidbits of information whenever she thought August was listening. Truth be told, she listened far more than she didn’t. Her drive to be successful was in the fabric of her being. All she had to do was look to her parents for the reason why, too.
Her mother, now a fine jewelry designer who immigrated from Nigeria with a small savings and a hope and dream, built her company, Ada’s, from the ground up. She was the very definition of blood, sweat, and tears.
Her father, half Italian and half African-American, grew up in the projects of the Bronx watching people struggle against injustice and oppression. He saw a need, busted his ass through his college years while donating what time he had left to his community, until passing the bar and becoming a defense attorney.
August was meant to succeed.
If anything was written in her stars, it was that.
Maybe that was why, at twenty-two, August already felt like her career had come to a complete standstill. The general rule of thumb for someone who wanted to move up in any company was to refuse to stay in the same position for more than two to three years.
Well …
She had been the assistant to the editor of Bared Brands magazine since she was eighteen. What had been a temp position as an intern for the editor turned into a part-time position while August worked her way through three years of college. And then, after graduating with her degree in business and journalism, her boss offered her a full-time position as her assistant with the promise of more.
She wanted to work on the magazine. On the editor’s team.
Somehow.
Just once, she wanted to see her name listed in the credits of a spread as part of Michelle Coss’s team. It didn’t seem to matter that, writing for the online publication, she had hit viral status at the age of twenty, or that she had clearly proven herself as a good writer capable of handling the workload on the team. All the gatekeepers at the company saw was her age on paper, and that she hadn’t put in her time, as they liked to say.
But that was her goal with the magazine, and the reason for her mistake of agreeing to move to full-time assistant for the editor. Because here it was, a whole year after continuing this job full-time, but several doing the job, and she still hadn’t gotten the chance to pitch an idea for a spread to the editor’s team.
You might, though.
Right.
Which brought her back to the current conversation she was having with her father while sitting at her desk. From her position, she could see the frosted-glass walls that made up her boss’s office, and the stylish gray and green, modern décor that covered the space where she did most of her office work for the magazine.
In all honesty, her boss was pretty good. Michelle didn’t mind if August took an extra half hour for lunch, or if she sat on her phone for an hour when she was supposed to be running errands. The job itself wasn’t bad. And there was nothing hard about the work—but that was also the problem. She wasn’t being creative, and she wasn’t challenged pushing papers, running errands around the city, or taking calls.
That’s not what she came here for.
She wanted in on the editor’s team.
Simple as that.
She was going to have her chance, though.
Finally.
“Are you all set for your trip?” her father, Cameron, asked.
August nodded, although he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, I just have to grab my bags at the door, and head out in the morning.”
Cameron made a noise under his breath before saying, “Be careful, hmm? Don’t let those TSA workers feel you up, and watch your step while you’re in Chicago. Can’t trust any—”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
God knew she had to speak up before her father could really get started. If there was anyone who knew how to have a good panic, it was her dad. Another time, and August might find it amusing and cute. Not today.
The trip to Chicago was more than just a vacation to her. It was the chance for her to finally make a move with her job here at Bared Brands.
“Have you figured out how you want to present your spread to the editor?”
August sighed. “Put me on the spot, why don’t you?”
A laugh answered her back.
That was all she got, though.
After an entire year of asking if she could present an article spread on the culture of a brand in communities or cities to her boss, the woman finally agreed to let August have a shot at it. She had written a few short articles for the online version of the magazine, but like a lot of internet publications, those were submitted without the expectancy of pay. The magazine depended on journalists, writers, and opinion sections to fill up their content spaces, drive traffic, wherein they proceeded to make money through ad revenue, and otherwise.
It was the paper magazine where space was coveted.
In more ways than August could explain.
Her online publications, two informational pieces and one opinion piece, had gained her a bit of notoriety online, and about fifty-thousand followers on her socials. You would think that should be enough to prove her weight to the magazine, but she swore they only saw her as an artist willing to bleed her passion on glossy paper that they would take for all it was worth … without, of course, giving her much worth in return.
“Well?” her father pressed gently.
August sighed. “I thought I knew how I wanted to present it, but I think it’ll be better to scrap any plans I might have until I get to Chicago, and can actually walk the streets. Talk to some people. See how they feel about the brands that have changed their landscapes, and influenced the culture around them. You know?”
“My smart girl, hmm?”
She smiled, unable to stop herself.
Always her biggest fans.
And cheerleaders.
It was what she loved the most about her parents. It never failed.
Her boss suggested, if all went well, that there was possibly a six-page spread waiting for her take on the influence where brands were concerned in the urban sectors of Chicago. That was, as long as she could pull it off, the content was engaging enough, and her message was clear in the article she had to produce for it.
All things August could do.
Undoubtedly.
She just had to get out of her head to do it.
“Ada thinks the trip will be good for you,” her father said, referring to her mother. “And she wants you to take lots of pictures with Camilla while you’re there. She misses her.”
Yeah, August bet.
August’s best friend from the time she was a young teenager, Camilla Donati—now a Rossi, as her friend married a man connected to the Chicago mob a couple years back—was one of the things she was looking forward to the most in the windy city. She didn’t get to see Cam nearly as much now that she had moved out of New York, and it always felt like they had a ton to catch up on whenever they got together again.
At the same time, it felt like they picked right up where they left off, too. That was one of the better things about having a best friend, even if she was several states away from August now. Time and distance didn’t really make a difference to their friendship.
They were still Camilla and August.
“I will,” August assured her father, “because I am sure Ma won’t let me forget it.”
Likely text her a dozen times a day.
Cameron chuckled. “You know it. And how is Ian treating you?”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear …
A truer statement had never passed her mind before.
Ian Bared wasn’t actually the devil, but he could come damn close to it sometimes. People working at the magazine called him a tyrant, and he about looked like it, too, in all his six-foot-four-inch glory, carrying around a solid two-hundred-twenty pounds that he stuffed into a tailored, Armani suit day in and day out.
At her father’s mention of his acquaintance—she wouldn’t call them friends, all things considered—Ian’s shadow darkened her desk, making August look up from the magazine she had spread out across the glossy top. She was quick to give the man a smile, and used a sticky note to keep her place in the magazine before closing it up.
Ian smiled back, a little too widely maybe, before waving a finger at her in a silent demand for her to hang up the phone. He wasn’t her boss—per se—but he was the CEO and majority owner of Bared Brands. And if not for her father’s connection to the man through a case he litigated on behalf of the magazine a few years ago, August likely wouldn’t have gotten the internship that started her career at this place.
For whatever reason, Ian liked her. Maybe a little too much, all things considered. His office was four floors higher in the large skyscraper, and yet he made an effort to come down to visit her at least once a day.
He wasn’t entirely inappropriate, but he also didn’t have to be. Some guys just gave off that kind of vibe. Maybe their stare lingered a little too long, or their words offered too much room for suggestion.
August found herself between a rock and hard place with Ian Bared. He was closer to her father’s age than her own, and for whatever reason, seemed to like her. She wasn’t interested—at all. She also felt like because her position here had been determined by his relationship to her father, not to mention Bared Brands didn’t exactly foster the greatest environment for women to speak up when they were uncomfortable with the attention of a man at the company, that she couldn’t tell the CEO to leave her alone.
Fucking perfect, huh?
As her mother once said … work twice as hard.
“He’s great,” she lied to her father. “I will call you back tonight, okay?”
“Everything good?”
“Yep. I just have to get back to work.”
“All right. Try to make it to dinner tonight, yes?”
“Absolutely. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, August.”
Ian’s smile became impossibly wider after August hung up the phone, and gave him all her attention. That’s what this man seemed to want the most, after all. The attention of women, and men, depending on the situation, entirely on him.
He was the God around this place.
“Mr. Bar—”
“Ian,” he interjected smoothly. “How many times have I told you to call me Ian?”
A lot.
She also figured that keeping it professional would help the man to understand she was not interested in dating someone who could be her father.
It didn’t.
Clearly.
“Ian,” August said, measuring her tone for politeness—no need to make a scene, after all. It never ended well for women who did that, but especially not at this magazine. “I was just about to head out for the day. I was off a half hour ago. Did you need something?”
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked on his heels at the front of her desk. Now, she was wishing she had just left instead of sitting at her desk and flipping through that damn magazine for inspiration.
Hindsight, and all that.
“No,” he said, “I just heard you were heading out on an assignment and wanted to say goodbye as I won’t be seeing you until you come back.”
August shrugged as she stood from her desk, making quick work of packing up the few things, like her laptop and clutch, that she hadn’t put in her bag earlier. “Yep—a month, maybe more, in Chicago for this spread pitch to the team. Well, I’m taking my three weeks of vacation, but the extra week or so … Michelle allowed me to work on this.”
“Finally seeing your potential, then.”
Maybe.
“I just want to see what comes out of it. This idea has been in the back of my mind for a while.”
“I bet.”
Then, Ian reached over the desk and caught one of August’s loose box braids in his fingers to curl around one digit. It was a purposeful move, and it all but made her freeze on the spot. That was the problem with this man—a simple conversation could quickly cross over into inappropriate territory before someone blinked. One couldn’t prepare and avoid it when he behaved this way.
Typically, she kept her hair, but especially when it was done in the protective style of braids, plaited neatly down her back, or tied up. Today, she had worn them down, and she was regretting that choice.
Although, she shouldn’t have to regret it at all.
Her hair was not a toy.
“I miss your curls,” he said.
For several years, August had gone a natural route with her corkscrew head of curls. Sometimes, she still did when she wanted to give her roots a break from the intensity of braiding.
“Maybe,” August said lowly, although her tone remained firm, “but I like the braids, Ian.”
He dropped his hand instantly.
August dragged in a quick breath.
“Well, I do miss them.”
August said nothing.
“Enjoy your trip to Chicago,” he added, finally taking a step back, “and I will see you as soon as you are back.”
Right.
Ian’s little visit reminded her that this trip to Chicago was more than just the spread in the magazine, and visiting her old friend. Like the job offer she had been given a year ago that she hadn’t entertained. She was sure as hell entertaining it now.
***
August practically bounced on the balls of her heels after ringing the ornate doorbell wrapped in brass on the front doors of a three-level Melrose home. The expected windiness of Chicago wasn’t that bad, so she didn’t mind standing there on the porch while she waited for the doors to open.
Even before she saw the cloudy, dark form take shape in the frosted glass of the French doors, she could hear her friend behind it. Camilla’s loud footsteps pounded down the entryway hall of her home, and then the squealing started.
It didn’t matter that they were now in their twenties.
Or that Cam was married.
The fact they were grown ass women, essentially, with jobs, lives, and all the other good stuff that came along with adulthood didn’t factor in to their excitement to be together at all. And she was grateful for that because more than anything, sometimes August just needed to relax. Say screw all the adult responsibility, throw caution to the wind, and have a little fun.
Cam was perfect for that.
When the two of them were together, it reminded her of being seventeen again, having crazy weekends with her best friend, and sitting hungover in church because of it.
Good times.
The cream-painted doors were thrown open in a rush, no grace to it. Camilla darted out before August even had time to appreciate the silk wrap dress her friend wore, never mind the man who darkened the doorway behind her.
She didn’t mind, though.
Camilla’s arms locked around her neck, and squeezed tight enough to take her breath away. August hugged her friend right back, their squeals lighting up the porch, and surely drawing attention from any neighbors that happened to be outside of their houses currently.
She wished she cared.
Pulling back, Camilla grinned wide enough to show off perfect white teeth. Her pixie-like appearance was only aided by her light skin tone and small features, and white-blonde hair that was currently streaked at the roots with a deep purple shade. The contrast between the two women, August with her nearly six-foot in height, and Camilla in all her small, pixie glory couldn’t be denied.
And yet, they were a perfect match.
Best friends ‘til the very end.
Always.
“Oh, my God, I missed you so much,” Camilla said.
August blinked away the tears that had clouded her eyes. “Yeah, me, too.”
Behind her friend, Cam’s husband lingered in the opened doorway of their home. Tommaso didn’t step in on the girls’ moment. He never did. It was one of the things August liked best about him. Despite the fact that this had been the man to finally settle her wild friend down into married life—or as settled as Cam could be—never mind convincing her to move all the way to Chicago to be with him, August liked Tom.
He was a good man.
Good to Cam.
That’s what counted.
“Tom,” she greeted.
He grinned, winking. “How was your flight?”
“Who cares,” Camilla crowed, still holding onto August, “she is here for a whole month now!”
August laughed, hugging her friend to her side again. “It was good.”
Tom nodded. “Perfect. Did you settle into your hotel before coming here?”
Cam waved a hand, dismissing that notion. “She’ll probably stay here more, anyway.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Camilla was already moving to a new topic, which also wasn’t anything new for her friend. “We have to do something. You know, to celebrate you being here, and all. Dinner, maybe? Oh, or a club. Yes, let’s go drink and dance.”
Actually, that sounded pretty good.
“Let me settle in for a few days, and then we can do whatever. I have a couple of interviews set up for this week, and I do not want to be hungover for them. This assignment could finally get me a better position at Bared Brands, and I don’t want to screw it up for anything, Cam.”
Cam pouted. “Fine. This weekend, then?”
“That’d be perfect.”
“Oh, there’s a new club opening on the east side. We should—”
Tommaso made a noise under his breath, drawing in the women’s attention. “Not sure that’s a good idea, babe. There’s been some … bad activity on that end. Gang movement, and stuff. A crew having trouble. Better not to be caught up in something on that side, you know?”
Without even asking, August knew Tom was talking about the Outfit. Mafia business. The mob had come on her radar when she met Cam as a young teen, and people whispered that the girl’s father was a mafia boss. Of course, she hadn’t believed it until her father confirmed it later when he took on a job litigating a set of charges for Camilla’s father, Calisto.
Still, the mob hadn’t touched August’s life.
Not really.
And still, she understood that it was very real and present for her friend. Camilla’s family was saturated in mafia business. And her husband? The son of a prominent mob boss, too. August always figured, as long as she didn’t ask questions or get directly involved, then she was safe.
Right?
“It should be fine, it’s just a club,” Cam pointed out. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Tom gave her a look before muttering, “We’ll see. But have a backup club in the plans, got it?”
“Done deal.” Then, Cam turned her attention back on August. “Speaking of a better position … although let’s forget Bared Brands, have you considered the offer Alessa gave you a year ago?”
Tommaso’s aunt, Alessa Conti, owned Manic Media. The job offer, although she would have to start over and work from the ground up in her career, still lingered in the back of her mind even though she refused it the first time around.
Yes, she was considering it.
No, she was not telling Cam just yet.
Her friend would get excited, wouldn’t leave it alone, and would then undoubtedly affect August’s decision to make such a big change in her life and career. Not only would it mean starting over, but also moving away from her family.
She needed to figure it out on her own.
“Not really,” she lied. “I’m here for other things.”
Camilla sighed. “Breaking my heart, Aug.”
“Impossible.”
A smirk answered her back. “But is that a problem?”
BENI
The Guzzi Legacy, 4
Chapter One
Ever wonder what it would be like to have a living mirror of yourself?
Benito Guzzi wasn’t curious at all.
“Shots!”
His identical twin’s shout danced over the loud bar where they and their friends gathered in the club for most of the night.
“Bene,” Ashton, one of their mutual friends, said as he stressed the ay ending to Benedetto’s nickname, “you’re going to give us fucking alcohol poisoning. We can’t handle liquor like you two, fuck, man.”
“Beni?”
Down the bar, his twin cocked a brow in his direction. Some might think it looked like a challenge. Others would take it as a question. Beni—his name differentiating from his twin’s with a hard e at the end—didn’t wonder what that look meant when he shared everything with Bene. From looks to style, and even his behaviors and attitude.
When he said mirrors of each other, that’s what they were.
And it was their twenty-first birthday.
So …
“Shots,” Beni said with a nod.
Cheers from their group lit up the bar. The party was far from over, and if all went well, they would drink far into the morning. People knew Beni and Bene Guzzi for their desire to have a good time.
All the damn time.
“Where are your brothers?” the guy to his left asked. “Shouldn’t they be here celebrating?”
Beni shrugged, more interested in the way the bartender had set up the shot glasses in a perfect line along the bar. Grabbing a bottle from the built-in shelves behind the bar, the glass gleamed from the lights. The bass from the music pumped through the floor, vibrating the soles of Beni’s Italian leather loafers while more liquor poured.
Straight vodka this time.
They had to go easy on some of them.
I guess, he thought.
Bene, having heard the question posed to his twin, answered for Beni. “Corrado’s in New York … Chris is—don’t know, whatever. And Marcus?”
Beni scoffed. “Fucking Marcus.”
“What’s that mean?”
Somehow, unlike the small army of their older siblings, Beni and Bene made friends outside of the life. That life being la famiglia. The mafia. Despite their interest and involvement in the family business, considering their father was the boss and their oldest brother followed his footsteps, they still surrounded themselves with people who had no idea about the other side of their life.
Beni and Bene shared a look.
A grin.
Knowing.
Sly.
Amused.
They liked to keep friends that weren’t in. The two of them communicated easier in their strange way. The same thing they had been doing since before they could talk, if someone thought to ask their parents. Gestures, silent looks, body movements, or even a click of a tongue.
The two had a whole nonverbal language. It was a hell of a lot harder for them to communicate with each other when they were around their family, and they didn’t want people knowing what they were saying.
“Marcus is Marcus,” Beni settled on saying, “too busy being our father’s mini-me to come out and have fun with us.”
Marcus used to be fun, though. Then, he graduated, attended a few of years of a university for business, and went straight into the mafia to mentor under their father. Once Marcus was in, and got his button for the mafia, he was all the fucking way in. Unfailingly responsible—they counted on their oldest brother no matter what.
And sometimes that was just boring.
“Ready?”
Bene held his shot glass high into the air. The strobe lights flickered with a higher intensity in the background of the club, making his brother look like a statue. The club was banging, though, and for more reasons than their friends would understand. It was one that wasn’t Guzzi owned, because God fucking knew the twins hated when tales of their night out got back to their parents, or brothers.
They worried.
Bitched.
The twins didn’t understand why.
It was unnecessary.
Couldn’t they just have fun?
Okay, maybe that was a bit of a stretch. Their fun usually included trouble—the wild ones their family called them because from the time they were old enough to run, the two never stopped. He figured, hey, at least they ran together.
That was the thing about Beni and Bene.
If they had each other, shit was cake.
Easy.
Life was fucking good.
“Ready,” Beni said, picking up his own shot and holding it high, too.
Literal mirrors, he thought as he stared at his brother from the other end of the bar. From the way they held their shot glasses, to the curve of their smiles, and the carved-from-glass line of their jaws. Even the browns of their eyes could be mapped by the gold flakes that they’d taken from their father. That playful, but sly smile came from their mother, though. Standing side by side, the twins stood equal in height at six foot, two inches tall. Their weight was almost the same, too, at a solid, lean one-ninety, give or take a pound.
They were identical in every way.
Their stance.
How they carried themselves.
The style of their clothes.
All of it.
“Drop ‘em back!” Bene called.
Beni wasn’t sure if it was instinct, or just nature, for him to throw back his shot at the same time as his twin. He often found himself echoing the movements of his twin like they had when they were kids. Bene moved left, and Beni moved right. One smirked with the left side of his lips, and the other with his right.
It could be strange and disconcerting for new people who didn’t know the twins. It took getting used to, but the twins had never subdued their strange habits for others. It wasn’t in their nature to look out for anyone else but each other, after all. Even like that.
Shouts and hollers lit up the bar all over again as shot glasses clinked down to the glossy, red top. Bene was already waving for the bartender who had moved further down to serve a group that came up for refills while the Guzzi boys were taking their round with the rest of the group.
“Another round,” he called. “Henny next!”
“Fuck,” Beni groaned, “now you’re trying to kill me, bro.”
People liked to act as though Hennessey tasted great, but in fact, it was shit. Absolute, and total garbage. Add onto the horrible taste of the liquor, and it almost always had Beni puking by the end of the night, but especially when he mixed it with other spirits.
“Are you calling it a night, then? Gonna pussy out, Beni?”
Fuck his twin for knowing the right buttons to push.
“Never,” Beni muttered, flipping his own hand up at the laughter of their friends to wave for the bartender, too. “Another round—Henny.” He pointed a finger at his twin, adding, “But then we’re doing Fireball.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Yeah, exactly.
Because as much as his twin knew his secrets, Beni had all of Bene’s locked up tight, too. He could play that game, if his brother wanted. He was good for it, always.
When the bartender didn’t come as fast as they wanted, their calls for the man became louder, and more obnoxious. But wasn’t that every fucking twenty-one-year-old man, anyway? They were just trying to have fun.
Of course, trouble always followed.
It was the twins’ way.
“Fuckin’ Guzzis thinking they own every goddamn place they step into,” someone from the group down the bar muttered. “Why don’t you all crawl into one of your holes, and party there?”
Beni tipped his chin up, not bothering to give whoever that was his attention. Instead, his gaze drifted to his brother at the other end of their large group. Bene matched his posture with wide shoulders going stiff, chin raised in defiance, and an almost manic gleam in his eye.
Savages.
Piss off a Guzzi, or bad mouth them, and the savage came out to play.
It didn’t matter.
No one said a goddamn thing about a Guzzi without it being answered, and usually, violently. Beni didn’t know if it was a pride thing, or what. A thick rush of rage filled his bloodstream with every beat of his heart because fuck all of that.
The guy wasn’t just insulting him and his twin—but to be honest, that was enough to make him want to break the fucker’s neck—but his entire clan. His father, the other three Guzzi brothers, and their mother, too. He didn’t even have to name Cara Guzzi; didn’t have to breathe a single word about her. He simply had to lump all Guzzis into one bunch, and they were insulting the boys’ mother, too.
And no.
That would not fly over.
Ever.
Bene, who had still been toying with the empty shot glass in his hand, set it down to the top of the bar a bit harder than was necessary. Beni turned when his twin came around their group of friends who had all gone suspiciously silent.
They knew what was about to happen.
The guy—Bene knew which one made the comment, given he had been staring that way—didn’t even see the twins coming for him. Fists flew after they yanked the fucker from his bar stool to the floor.
Soon, a whole crowd was fighting. Their friends. The fucker’s friends. Some random guy that got knocked sideways during the scuffle. Even the club’s security that rushed in to try and break it up.
The wild Guzzi twins struck again.
You’d think people would learn.
“Call the fucking cops!”
***
“Hungover, wrinkled suits, and smelling like jail,” Marcus said to his brothers as Beni and Bene stepped out of the back of the Mercedes, “that’s not a good look on the two of you.”
Bene grunted under his breath, saying nothing.
Beni, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. “And?”
Marcus sighed, and hit the roof of the car, a silent signal for the driver to head out. The driver showed up at the jail that morning, waiting for when the twins were released with orders to bring them home. Which they knew, instantly, did not mean their shared penthouse in the city.
No, it meant their parents’ massive mansion outside of the city limits where they would have to go through another round of lectures from their brother, father, and maybe their ma, too. Who fucking knew?
Beni just wanted to go to sleep.
“That looks like it’s raw,” Marcus noted, gesturing at the busted lip Beni sported. “And you’re not in any better shape, huh?”
Bene made that noise under his breath again. “Face hurts.”
“Yeah, it looks like it.”
They weren’t exaggerating.
A night in jail did nothing for bruises and cuts. Beni couldn’t smile without feeling that split in his lip rip open again. Each time he flexed his hands, his bruised, busted knuckles protested to no end. He was kind of sure he had a bruised rib, if not broken, but the hospital wouldn’t do shit for that.
“Should see the other guys,” Beni muttered.
Marcus shook his head. “What is wrong with the two of you?”
“Uh …”
Bene looked over at Beni.
He shrugged.
That was not the response Marcus wanted.
Color me fucking surprised.
“What caused the fight at the club?” Marcus asked.
“People using their mouth for shit they shouldn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
Beni eyed Marcus, and the tailored, pressed suit that covered his form. What was it--nine in the morning? Why was he already at their parents’ mansion, dressed in a three-piece suit, looking like he was ready to start his whole day?
“Do you ever sleep in?” Beni asked. “Or … I don’t know, do what you want to do instead of just business for Dad?”
Marcus arched a brow. “Do the two of you ever go out and not cause a fucking scene?”
“Not really.”
“See, that’s a problem. Because that’s all the two of you do--cause problems, Beni. You can’t even control yourselves at a club we don’t own. And then you get yourselves arrested. You’re fucking lucky Papa has connections to the RCMP, and managed to get those charges dropped. Had it worked out last night, actually.”
Bene’s brow furrowed.
Beni matched his brother.
“Wait,” the two of them echoed at the same time, another strange occurrence for others where the twins were concerned. They could speak in tune with one another, without any prior knowledge of what the other would say. “The charges were dropped last night?”
“Yes.”
“Why did we only get out this morning?” Beni demanded.
Marcus smirked. “Dad thought you two would do well to sober up in a cell.”
Perfect.
Just fucking great.
Beni glared at the mansion at the end of the paved, circular driveway. It was cold as hell—January offered no reprieve in Canada, that was for sure. And yet, he had little to no interest in going inside the warm mansion now because he didn’t want to hear his father bitch. The sloped, Swedish style of the mansion’s eaves brought back familiar memories of his childhood looking out the windows, and the downhill drive in the crisp winter air made him think of sledding down it with his twin.
All good things.
He loved this place.
Just not right now.
“Can I go home?”
“No,” Marcus deadpanned.
He wished he was surprised.
Then, Marcus spun on his heels with a wave of his hand, saying, “Let’s go, better not keep Papa waiting any longer on the two of you.”
The twins shared another look.
Still, they followed after their oldest brother in silence, even though Marcus continued chastising them up the driveway, and into the mansion. His bitching didn’t stop even as they walked through the grand foyer, taking one of two curved staircases to the second level of the mansion where their father’s office sat overlooking the front yard.
Nostalgia.
That’s what it felt like to step foot inside his father’s office. There was something about the rich tapestries imported from France, the darkly stained desk and bookshelves his father ordered from Italy, and the handmade rug his mother brought back from India after a trip that just reminded him of times long past.
And several trips to this office.
For reasons just like this morning.
Gian, an older reflection of his sons, stood at the front of his desk. He used his thighs to rest along the edge, and folded his hands on his middle. Like his older brother, his father was already dressed in a three-piece suit, his hair slicked back and ready for a day of business.
It was Saturday, right?
Work for the mafia didn’t stop.
Only on Sundays.
“A sore sight, the two of you, oui?” his French-Italian father asked.
The smartass he was, Beni decided to reply the same way they had retorted to Marcus outside with, “You should see the fucker that tried to slander our name.”
It was not the right thing to say.
Even though Marcus often mirrored his father in appearance and behavior, he did not have the same attitude that Gian did. Marcus had a much longer string of patience that could take a few tugs from the twins before it snapped altogether. Gian was not the same.
His father drew in a steady breath, pursed his lips, and gave them that look. A silent, excuse me, do you want to try that again? It was the only second chance their fathered offered now that they were grown men out on their own. He wasn’t sure when that changed—around seventeen, he supposed, when they graduated high school and decided to go into the family business. The dynamics of their family had to change with their circumstances.
Gian was no longer just their father.
He couldn’t be when he was also their boss.
Out of all five Guzzi brothers, it was Beni and Bene who struggled the most to make the change. Marcus did fine, ready to take his place at their father’s side in business. The other twins in their family, Chris and Corrado, didn’t have much of a problem differentiating their father from the man who raised them, and the one who ran a criminal organization, either.
The younger twins, though?
A constant struggle.
Beni was never more aware of it than now.
Bene shuffled on his feet beside Beni. “Listen, Papa, we were only making a point, okay? People can’t run off at the mouth about—”
“Made men don’t fight, and certainly not in a public club where it causes them to be arrested.”
“We’re not made yet.”
“And you won’t be, if you continue this behavior,” Gian returned.
Ouch.
That stung a little.
Marcus cleared his throat, coming further into the office to take one of the two high-back leather chairs that faced their father’s desk. Gian looked to his oldest son, considering something before he asked, “And what did you have to say to them about all of this?”
“Nothing we say to them matters. That’s half the problem.”
“Pardonne-moi?”
“They’re spoiled,” Marcus returned in English, knowing the twins had always struggled to learn French like their father spoke more often than not. “And because we’ve spent more time and effort cleaning after their messes than correcting them, this is the problem we face.”
We, Beni noticed.
Not you.
Marcus took responsibility for his brothers as much as he placed blame on his parents. It wasn’t lost on Beni, and he wasn’t shocked to hear Marcus say as much, either. Always the responsible one—he looked out for everyone in their family. He felt an innate sense of duty toward his younger brothers, and for his parents. Maybe it was because he was the oldest, or it could have been the fact he was the only Guzzi brother that was a singleton without a twin to match him, and better him.
After all, Beni always said Bene was his better half, and his brother would reply in kind. When he was nervous, Bene was there to push him. If he went to far, Bene would rein him in. It was the same for him with his twin.
Chris and Corrado were the same.
Marcus, though?
He had to do it all alone.
His need to protect and look after his family came from a different source than theirs, but it was there, nonetheless. It was why they loved him. Even if he was just like their dad.
Some days, Beni found himself wishing all his brothers could go back to a time when they were nothing more than teenagers. Before the mafia swept into their life to determine how they behaved and treated one another when the doors were open to the public, and even when they were closed. He missed the times when Marcus was easier, more carefree. That seemed so long ago, really.
“They’re selfish because we’ve allowed them to be,” Marcus continued like the twins weren’t sitting right there, “and that’s the other half of the problem. Spoiled, and selfish. They don’t consider the family—their need to protect our name comes from a self-centered place, and not for a selfless reason. They don’t consider the mess they make, only the instant gratification from their outbursts.”
Gian shifted on his feet, letting his arms fall to his sides. “And so, how do we correct that?”
For the first time since entering the office, Marcus glanced the twins’ way. Beni could plainly see the concern warring with duty in his oldest brother’s gaze. And yet, Marcus hardened his expression because that’s what he needed to do. And he was nothing if not reliable. He got shit done, even if it was hard.
Like now.
Beni respected it.
Even if he hated what came next.
“We have to stop letting them run wild, and then cleaning up after them when something goes wrong. We can’t continue to expect them to learn when all we’ve taught them is someone else will be there to take care of them, Papa. That’s all.”
Gian nodded, his attention going to Beni first, and Bene second. “He’s right, you know.”
The twins said nothing.
They didn’t really need to.
Gian pushed away from the desk, standing straight before brushing invisible dust from his pant legs. He took the time to fix the gold G cufflinks on his suit jacket, and then lifted his head slightly so that the twins were forced to meet their father’s gaze.
“I want to say it’s because you both are young, but I think a bigger part of the problem is that you both feed off one another. Is it made better or worse because you are in home territory, and you know someone will be there to catch you when you mess up, or fall? That’s yet to be determined, but we’re going to find out.”
“What does that—”
Gian held up a single hand, quieting Bene. “No, it’s my turn now. I have given the two of you more than enough chances to correct the issues you seem to have, but that clearly hasn’t worked, Bene.”
“Come on, this isn’t a big thing,” Bene muttered. “We just had some fun, and got into a fight. It wasn’t like we killed someone.”
“Yet.” Gian lifted one shoulder, his tone cold and flat as he continued on with, “You have not done something I cannot fix yet, and I do not want to reach that point with the two of you. I need you to learn to respect and value your place in this family and business. Apparently, I am not the right man to teach you. I thought the two of you would be like your other brothers—this is what you wanted, and so you would fall into line, and settle out of your wildness. Instead, you’ve used your status and privilege as an excuse to become worse.”
Beni knew exactly what his father was saying.
And how he would fix it.
Correct an issue before it gets worse.
That was the Guzzi way.
“We’ll start with a year away, and go from there,” his father stated.
Even Marcus looked up at that, although their oldest brother stayed quiet.
Gian nodded. “A year away, mentoring under a different organization. Your uncle in Chicago is willing to make a place for the two of you in the Outfit. I will reconsider after the year is up, depending on how well the two of you have done.”
“What?”
“We’ve never worked for the Chicago mob,” Beni said.
Bene scowled. “I fucking hate Chicago.”
They did have a lot of family there, though, being as it was where their mother came from, and where her family remained. Or rather, what was left of it.
Gian shrugged, a faint smile curving his lips as he replied, “In case you didn’t get the memo, boys, it’s no longer about what you want—I’m doing what’s best for you. Otherwise, the more you both act out, the worse my fears become about what will happen to the two of you when I’m not looking. I can’t always watch over you. Marcus won’t always have time to look out for the two of you. And you’re scaring your mother.”
That did it.
Just the mention of hurting their ma.
It was enough to set them straight.
Or, mostly.
“So, Chicago,” Gian said, “you’ll leave within the week. Do make sure to spend as much time with your mother as possible before you go. Understood?”
What choice did they have?
“It’s not so bad,” Marcus said over his shoulder, “Chicago, I mean.”
Beni didn’t believe that. Not for a second.
“And it’ll be good for both of you,” he added quieter, “even if you don’t think so right now.”
Right.
Time would tell, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Two
“The most important lesson a woman can learn in business,” a smart woman once told August Rivera, “is that she will always have to work twice as hard to be viewed as even half as good as a man in the same position. You’ll always have to work for it. They never will.”
That woman?
Her ma.
Ada wasn’t wrong, either. Her mother liked to hand down those little tidbits of information whenever she thought August was listening. Truth be told, she listened far more than she didn’t. Her drive to be successful was in the fabric of her being. All she had to do was look to her parents for the reason why, too.
Her mother, now a fine jewelry designer who immigrated from Nigeria with a small savings and a hope and dream, built her company, Ada’s, from the ground up. She was the very definition of blood, sweat, and tears.
Her father, half Italian and half African-American, grew up in the projects of the Bronx watching people struggle against injustice and oppression. He saw a need, busted his ass through his college years while donating what time he had left to his community, until passing the bar and becoming a defense attorney.
August was meant to succeed.
If anything was written in her stars, it was that.
Maybe that was why, at twenty-two, August already felt like her career had come to a complete standstill. The general rule of thumb for someone who wanted to move up in any company was to refuse to stay in the same position for more than two to three years.
Well …
She had been the assistant to the editor of Bared Brands magazine since she was eighteen. What had been a temp position as an intern for the editor turned into a part-time position while August worked her way through three years of college. And then, after graduating with her degree in business and journalism, her boss offered her a full-time position as her assistant with the promise of more.
She wanted to work on the magazine. On the editor’s team.
Somehow.
Just once, she wanted to see her name listed in the credits of a spread as part of Michelle Coss’s team. It didn’t seem to matter that, writing for the online publication, she had hit viral status at the age of twenty, or that she had clearly proven herself as a good writer capable of handling the workload on the team. All the gatekeepers at the company saw was her age on paper, and that she hadn’t put in her time, as they liked to say.
But that was her goal with the magazine, and the reason for her mistake of agreeing to move to full-time assistant for the editor. Because here it was, a whole year after continuing this job full-time, but several doing the job, and she still hadn’t gotten the chance to pitch an idea for a spread to the editor’s team.
You might, though.
Right.
Which brought her back to the current conversation she was having with her father while sitting at her desk. From her position, she could see the frosted-glass walls that made up her boss’s office, and the stylish gray and green, modern décor that covered the space where she did most of her office work for the magazine.
In all honesty, her boss was pretty good. Michelle didn’t mind if August took an extra half hour for lunch, or if she sat on her phone for an hour when she was supposed to be running errands. The job itself wasn’t bad. And there was nothing hard about the work—but that was also the problem. She wasn’t being creative, and she wasn’t challenged pushing papers, running errands around the city, or taking calls.
That’s not what she came here for.
She wanted in on the editor’s team.
Simple as that.
She was going to have her chance, though.
Finally.
“Are you all set for your trip?” her father, Cameron, asked.
August nodded, although he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, I just have to grab my bags at the door, and head out in the morning.”
Cameron made a noise under his breath before saying, “Be careful, hmm? Don’t let those TSA workers feel you up, and watch your step while you’re in Chicago. Can’t trust any—”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
God knew she had to speak up before her father could really get started. If there was anyone who knew how to have a good panic, it was her dad. Another time, and August might find it amusing and cute. Not today.
The trip to Chicago was more than just a vacation to her. It was the chance for her to finally make a move with her job here at Bared Brands.
“Have you figured out how you want to present your spread to the editor?”
August sighed. “Put me on the spot, why don’t you?”
A laugh answered her back.
That was all she got, though.
After an entire year of asking if she could present an article spread on the culture of a brand in communities or cities to her boss, the woman finally agreed to let August have a shot at it. She had written a few short articles for the online version of the magazine, but like a lot of internet publications, those were submitted without the expectancy of pay. The magazine depended on journalists, writers, and opinion sections to fill up their content spaces, drive traffic, wherein they proceeded to make money through ad revenue, and otherwise.
It was the paper magazine where space was coveted.
In more ways than August could explain.
Her online publications, two informational pieces and one opinion piece, had gained her a bit of notoriety online, and about fifty-thousand followers on her socials. You would think that should be enough to prove her weight to the magazine, but she swore they only saw her as an artist willing to bleed her passion on glossy paper that they would take for all it was worth … without, of course, giving her much worth in return.
“Well?” her father pressed gently.
August sighed. “I thought I knew how I wanted to present it, but I think it’ll be better to scrap any plans I might have until I get to Chicago, and can actually walk the streets. Talk to some people. See how they feel about the brands that have changed their landscapes, and influenced the culture around them. You know?”
“My smart girl, hmm?”
She smiled, unable to stop herself.
Always her biggest fans.
And cheerleaders.
It was what she loved the most about her parents. It never failed.
Her boss suggested, if all went well, that there was possibly a six-page spread waiting for her take on the influence where brands were concerned in the urban sectors of Chicago. That was, as long as she could pull it off, the content was engaging enough, and her message was clear in the article she had to produce for it.
All things August could do.
Undoubtedly.
She just had to get out of her head to do it.
“Ada thinks the trip will be good for you,” her father said, referring to her mother. “And she wants you to take lots of pictures with Camilla while you’re there. She misses her.”
Yeah, August bet.
August’s best friend from the time she was a young teenager, Camilla Donati—now a Rossi, as her friend married a man connected to the Chicago mob a couple years back—was one of the things she was looking forward to the most in the windy city. She didn’t get to see Cam nearly as much now that she had moved out of New York, and it always felt like they had a ton to catch up on whenever they got together again.
At the same time, it felt like they picked right up where they left off, too. That was one of the better things about having a best friend, even if she was several states away from August now. Time and distance didn’t really make a difference to their friendship.
They were still Camilla and August.
“I will,” August assured her father, “because I am sure Ma won’t let me forget it.”
Likely text her a dozen times a day.
Cameron chuckled. “You know it. And how is Ian treating you?”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear …
A truer statement had never passed her mind before.
Ian Bared wasn’t actually the devil, but he could come damn close to it sometimes. People working at the magazine called him a tyrant, and he about looked like it, too, in all his six-foot-four-inch glory, carrying around a solid two-hundred-twenty pounds that he stuffed into a tailored, Armani suit day in and day out.
At her father’s mention of his acquaintance—she wouldn’t call them friends, all things considered—Ian’s shadow darkened her desk, making August look up from the magazine she had spread out across the glossy top. She was quick to give the man a smile, and used a sticky note to keep her place in the magazine before closing it up.
Ian smiled back, a little too widely maybe, before waving a finger at her in a silent demand for her to hang up the phone. He wasn’t her boss—per se—but he was the CEO and majority owner of Bared Brands. And if not for her father’s connection to the man through a case he litigated on behalf of the magazine a few years ago, August likely wouldn’t have gotten the internship that started her career at this place.
For whatever reason, Ian liked her. Maybe a little too much, all things considered. His office was four floors higher in the large skyscraper, and yet he made an effort to come down to visit her at least once a day.
He wasn’t entirely inappropriate, but he also didn’t have to be. Some guys just gave off that kind of vibe. Maybe their stare lingered a little too long, or their words offered too much room for suggestion.
August found herself between a rock and hard place with Ian Bared. He was closer to her father’s age than her own, and for whatever reason, seemed to like her. She wasn’t interested—at all. She also felt like because her position here had been determined by his relationship to her father, not to mention Bared Brands didn’t exactly foster the greatest environment for women to speak up when they were uncomfortable with the attention of a man at the company, that she couldn’t tell the CEO to leave her alone.
Fucking perfect, huh?
As her mother once said … work twice as hard.
“He’s great,” she lied to her father. “I will call you back tonight, okay?”
“Everything good?”
“Yep. I just have to get back to work.”
“All right. Try to make it to dinner tonight, yes?”
“Absolutely. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, August.”
Ian’s smile became impossibly wider after August hung up the phone, and gave him all her attention. That’s what this man seemed to want the most, after all. The attention of women, and men, depending on the situation, entirely on him.
He was the God around this place.
“Mr. Bar—”
“Ian,” he interjected smoothly. “How many times have I told you to call me Ian?”
A lot.
She also figured that keeping it professional would help the man to understand she was not interested in dating someone who could be her father.
It didn’t.
Clearly.
“Ian,” August said, measuring her tone for politeness—no need to make a scene, after all. It never ended well for women who did that, but especially not at this magazine. “I was just about to head out for the day. I was off a half hour ago. Did you need something?”
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked on his heels at the front of her desk. Now, she was wishing she had just left instead of sitting at her desk and flipping through that damn magazine for inspiration.
Hindsight, and all that.
“No,” he said, “I just heard you were heading out on an assignment and wanted to say goodbye as I won’t be seeing you until you come back.”
August shrugged as she stood from her desk, making quick work of packing up the few things, like her laptop and clutch, that she hadn’t put in her bag earlier. “Yep—a month, maybe more, in Chicago for this spread pitch to the team. Well, I’m taking my three weeks of vacation, but the extra week or so … Michelle allowed me to work on this.”
“Finally seeing your potential, then.”
Maybe.
“I just want to see what comes out of it. This idea has been in the back of my mind for a while.”
“I bet.”
Then, Ian reached over the desk and caught one of August’s loose box braids in his fingers to curl around one digit. It was a purposeful move, and it all but made her freeze on the spot. That was the problem with this man—a simple conversation could quickly cross over into inappropriate territory before someone blinked. One couldn’t prepare and avoid it when he behaved this way.
Typically, she kept her hair, but especially when it was done in the protective style of braids, plaited neatly down her back, or tied up. Today, she had worn them down, and she was regretting that choice.
Although, she shouldn’t have to regret it at all.
Her hair was not a toy.
“I miss your curls,” he said.
For several years, August had gone a natural route with her corkscrew head of curls. Sometimes, she still did when she wanted to give her roots a break from the intensity of braiding.
“Maybe,” August said lowly, although her tone remained firm, “but I like the braids, Ian.”
He dropped his hand instantly.
August dragged in a quick breath.
“Well, I do miss them.”
August said nothing.
“Enjoy your trip to Chicago,” he added, finally taking a step back, “and I will see you as soon as you are back.”
Right.
Ian’s little visit reminded her that this trip to Chicago was more than just the spread in the magazine, and visiting her old friend. Like the job offer she had been given a year ago that she hadn’t entertained. She was sure as hell entertaining it now.
***
August practically bounced on the balls of her heels after ringing the ornate doorbell wrapped in brass on the front doors of a three-level Melrose home. The expected windiness of Chicago wasn’t that bad, so she didn’t mind standing there on the porch while she waited for the doors to open.
Even before she saw the cloudy, dark form take shape in the frosted glass of the French doors, she could hear her friend behind it. Camilla’s loud footsteps pounded down the entryway hall of her home, and then the squealing started.
It didn’t matter that they were now in their twenties.
Or that Cam was married.
The fact they were grown ass women, essentially, with jobs, lives, and all the other good stuff that came along with adulthood didn’t factor in to their excitement to be together at all. And she was grateful for that because more than anything, sometimes August just needed to relax. Say screw all the adult responsibility, throw caution to the wind, and have a little fun.
Cam was perfect for that.
When the two of them were together, it reminded her of being seventeen again, having crazy weekends with her best friend, and sitting hungover in church because of it.
Good times.
The cream-painted doors were thrown open in a rush, no grace to it. Camilla darted out before August even had time to appreciate the silk wrap dress her friend wore, never mind the man who darkened the doorway behind her.
She didn’t mind, though.
Camilla’s arms locked around her neck, and squeezed tight enough to take her breath away. August hugged her friend right back, their squeals lighting up the porch, and surely drawing attention from any neighbors that happened to be outside of their houses currently.
She wished she cared.
Pulling back, Camilla grinned wide enough to show off perfect white teeth. Her pixie-like appearance was only aided by her light skin tone and small features, and white-blonde hair that was currently streaked at the roots with a deep purple shade. The contrast between the two women, August with her nearly six-foot in height, and Camilla in all her small, pixie glory couldn’t be denied.
And yet, they were a perfect match.
Best friends ‘til the very end.
Always.
“Oh, my God, I missed you so much,” Camilla said.
August blinked away the tears that had clouded her eyes. “Yeah, me, too.”
Behind her friend, Cam’s husband lingered in the opened doorway of their home. Tommaso didn’t step in on the girls’ moment. He never did. It was one of the things August liked best about him. Despite the fact that this had been the man to finally settle her wild friend down into married life—or as settled as Cam could be—never mind convincing her to move all the way to Chicago to be with him, August liked Tom.
He was a good man.
Good to Cam.
That’s what counted.
“Tom,” she greeted.
He grinned, winking. “How was your flight?”
“Who cares,” Camilla crowed, still holding onto August, “she is here for a whole month now!”
August laughed, hugging her friend to her side again. “It was good.”
Tom nodded. “Perfect. Did you settle into your hotel before coming here?”
Cam waved a hand, dismissing that notion. “She’ll probably stay here more, anyway.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Camilla was already moving to a new topic, which also wasn’t anything new for her friend. “We have to do something. You know, to celebrate you being here, and all. Dinner, maybe? Oh, or a club. Yes, let’s go drink and dance.”
Actually, that sounded pretty good.
“Let me settle in for a few days, and then we can do whatever. I have a couple of interviews set up for this week, and I do not want to be hungover for them. This assignment could finally get me a better position at Bared Brands, and I don’t want to screw it up for anything, Cam.”
Cam pouted. “Fine. This weekend, then?”
“That’d be perfect.”
“Oh, there’s a new club opening on the east side. We should—”
Tommaso made a noise under his breath, drawing in the women’s attention. “Not sure that’s a good idea, babe. There’s been some … bad activity on that end. Gang movement, and stuff. A crew having trouble. Better not to be caught up in something on that side, you know?”
Without even asking, August knew Tom was talking about the Outfit. Mafia business. The mob had come on her radar when she met Cam as a young teen, and people whispered that the girl’s father was a mafia boss. Of course, she hadn’t believed it until her father confirmed it later when he took on a job litigating a set of charges for Camilla’s father, Calisto.
Still, the mob hadn’t touched August’s life.
Not really.
And still, she understood that it was very real and present for her friend. Camilla’s family was saturated in mafia business. And her husband? The son of a prominent mob boss, too. August always figured, as long as she didn’t ask questions or get directly involved, then she was safe.
Right?
“It should be fine, it’s just a club,” Cam pointed out. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Tom gave her a look before muttering, “We’ll see. But have a backup club in the plans, got it?”
“Done deal.” Then, Cam turned her attention back on August. “Speaking of a better position … although let’s forget Bared Brands, have you considered the offer Alessa gave you a year ago?”
Tommaso’s aunt, Alessa Conti, owned Manic Media. The job offer, although she would have to start over and work from the ground up in her career, still lingered in the back of her mind even though she refused it the first time around.
Yes, she was considering it.
No, she was not telling Cam just yet.
Her friend would get excited, wouldn’t leave it alone, and would then undoubtedly affect August’s decision to make such a big change in her life and career. Not only would it mean starting over, but also moving away from her family.
She needed to figure it out on her own.
“Not really,” she lied. “I’m here for other things.”
Camilla sighed. “Breaking my heart, Aug.”
“Impossible.”
A smirk answered her back. “But is that a problem?”
