Copyright © Bethany-Kris 2018. All Rights Reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
“HOW’S THE Skip’s pet doing today?”
“Did the big boss send the little boss to work in the slums with the rest of us today?”
“Oh, too good to look at us, Tom?”
“Sure he is, Randy. Little underboss-in-waiting hates getting his hands dirty, ain’t that so, Tom?”
Tommaso Rossi’s greatest enemies had always been boredom, and a severe lack of patience when it came to other people. He was easily distracted, but as quickly as his attention could be caught, it was lost. Add that into the fact he didn’t like to wait for anything, and it could be a bad combination for a man like him.
He blamed these characteristics of his on his father, Tommas Rossi. The man had given Tom both his name and his restless nature.
It helped that Tom’s father had also given him a decent drive to get shit done when it needed to be done. His father, an Italian crime boss for the Chicago Outfit, handed down the wisdom that blunt honesty was a better gift than lies. Deceit would do nothing for his end-game except make him untrustworthy in the eyes of others. A man in the mafia wouldn’t benefit from having a stain like being a liar on his back.
Tom worked hard. Constantly. Another lesson from his dad. His last name afforded him a certain amount of respect for some situations in their criminal organization, but it also meant fuck all if he hadn’t earned it.
That’s why when Adriano Conti’s crew members tossed insults and ribbed him with their comments as he strolled through the warehouse, Tom didn’t even look at the young guys. Stupid, useless fuckers. Replaceable foot soldiers.
He knew it.
They knew it.
Their words meant less than shit beneath his thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. They weren’t going anywhere at the end of the day.
Except maybe jail.
Tom didn’t have much issue with letting the comments roll off his shoulders on any other day. He was a secondary Capo working under Adriano—his uncle. Adriano had been Tom’s mentor—one of many—for longer than he cared to remember. Before he knew how to drive. Years before he’d ever gotten his dick wet properly. Men like Adriano had been the ones to teach Tom the business—the family.
A long time.
It was Adriano’s warnings and reminders from years gone by that Tom heard in the back of his head when the comments and ribbing started. The foot soldiers for Adriano’s crew had been coming for Tom on this level since before he was a teen.
It’s your rite of passage, Tommaso. We all dealt with that nonsense, too. There’ll come a time when they won’t even be able to look you in the eye.
Fact was, Tom got the insults worse than anyone else ever had, and he didn’t need Adriano or his father to tell him the truth. To the foot soldiers in the crew, Tom was nothing more than a spoiled, secondary Capo, underboss-in-training, and the son of a boss. That was it.
He couldn’t be like them. They couldn’t be like him.
“You can’t say hi today, Tom?”
Out of all the voices following him, Tom did care to acknowledge that one. One of his oldest friends—Lou.
Over his shoulder, Tom waved a hand in response. For now, that was the best he could do for his friend. It was better they didn’t seem too friendly while the other foot soldiers were around. No need for Tom to go causing Lou any problems on his side of things.
They all had fucking masks to wear, after all.
Lou was one of the only soldiers in Adriano Conti’s crew that didn’t treat Tom like shit whenever he had to be in the same vicinity. He was the only one that didn’t try to push every single one of Tom’s buttons just to see if they could get him to react.
He swore it was a game for them.
Tom let Adriano’s office door slam shut harder than he intended to. The space was empty. The Conti Capo hadn’t even showed up yet, but he made damn sure to tell Tom to roll his ass out of bed before eight.
Sinking into a torn leather chair, Tom scrubbed a hand down his face.
Once it doesn’t bother you anymore, they’ll back off. Don’t let them see it gets on your nerves, Tom, his father used to say.
Tom didn’t know how much more unaffected he could seem than avoiding all eye contact, refusing to speak, and demanding respect when he was in charge. He no longer engaged the insults and teasing unless he absolutely had to, and never with violence.
It wasn’t his place as only a secondary Capo.
He’d fucking hoped that by twenty-one years old—essentially the same or close to the same age as those guys out on the main warehouse floor—they would have at least tried to make room for him. They didn’t have to like him. He didn’t ask for anything except a little bit of respect and peace to himself.
Tom let out a heavy sigh, and scrubbed a hand down his unshaved jaw. Mostly, he made a conscious effort to rid his mind of the useless feelings. They wouldn’t do him any good.
A few minutes later, Adriano strolled into the office. The older man—and father of three girls—barely acknowledged Tom at all as he ended a phone call.
“Yeah, Lissa, I’ll grab you some Chinese tonight … yeah, that, too. Bye.”
Alessa—or Lissa, to only a select few in Adriano’s family—was Tom’s aunt. His mother’s only sister. Actually, Alessa was his mother’s only living family besides her kids and in-laws.
They didn’t talk a lot about it. Nobody did.
Everybody that grew up in the Chicago Outfit had come to a silent understand over the years that The Chicago War between the four families within the organization had done enough damage. It had taken enough people. There was no reason to pay it lip service, too.
“You look like shit,” Adriano said.
The guy didn’t even look at Tom when he said it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built in a way that spoke of his football years, Adriano Conti was not a man to be messed with. He also didn’t indulge whine-fests from any-fucking-body.
Tom included.
“It’s nothing,” Tom said.
“You sure?”
“You wanted me to handle something today, didn’t you? Here I am. Let’s get to that, Adriano.”
“No uncle for me today?”
Tom scoffed “Like that would help my fucking case, right.”
Adriano lifted a brow, and then his gaze drifted to the closed door. “The guys were quiet when I came in.”
“As they should be for their Capo.”
“But not for you.”
Tom clenched his teeth in an effort to stay quiet. All it did was make his jaw tight, and his uncle didn’t miss it.
“Just … don’t bother,” Tom told him with a subtle shake of his head. “It’s like high school with those idiots out there. People all say the same things to me about it. Ignore them. Don’t let them bother you. If somebody says something to them, it only makes it worse.”
“You’re usually better at brushing them off, Tom.”
He didn’t need Adriano pointing that out to him. He was quite aware that his irritation levels were climbing higher by the day.
It brought him back to his biggest enemies.
Boredom.
Patience.
Tom didn’t know what he was bored with—work, Chicago, the same old shit every day, or what. He didn’t know what would fix his boredom. It should have been simple. If he wanted something, he went out and got it. He just didn’t know what it was he wanted.
His lack of give-a-damn was seriously starting to mess with his patience, though. It showed every single time he had to force himself not to put his fist through one of those idiots’ heads.
Tom’s father had the patience of a saint.
His mother? An angel.
Tom?
Less than zero at the moment.
“You know what,” Adriano said, “I can handle this myself today, Tom. Take the day off. Go do something else for a while.”
“I can do what—”
“It’s not your choice to make. I don’t need you here in a bad mood, and halfway to kicking somebody’s ass. Two boosted trucks are supposed to keep those fools busy. I’ll put Lou in charge of watching them.”
“Lou’s good,” Tom said with a nod.
“Yeah, I know. One fool, I might not mind letting get somewhere in this business of ours.” Adriano flicked his hand toward the door. “Get. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Tom pushed up from the chair and exited the office without a goodbye. Adriano wouldn’t want one, anyway. He made it halfway across the warehouse, nearly to the front entrance doors, when another insult came hurling his way.
He didn’t even know what the guy said.
He barely heard it well enough.
Tommaso should have let it go.
It took a single spin of his shoes against the cement floor, and five long strides before his fist crashed into the guy’s face. Jake, or some equally generic name that could be forgotten. The crunch of bone smashed against Tom’s knuckles.
Something akin to relief settled through Tom. The teasing feeling skimmed along his now bruised and bloody knuckles, but it didn’t reach where he needed it the most. It still wasn’t enough. He reared back and punched the guy again.
All the while, Tom never said a word. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t have shit to say, just a damn point to make.
They thought he was some weak-ass rich fuck who couldn’t go toe-to-toe with them on anything, certainly not on the streets.
Tom had news for them.
He fixed his jacket as he walked away, but a form caught his eye in the office doorway. Adriano leaned against the doorjamb, and shook his head once.
“Go see the boss,” he heard his uncle say. “A day off will not be enough, Tom.”
What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
***
“Where’s Sara and Rebeka?” Tom asked.
Tommas, his father, worked on lighting the cigar in his mouth as he spoke. “At school, Tom. It’s the middle of September.”
Ah, yeah, shit.
Usually his little sisters would be tearing up a storm in the house. Sara was almost a decade younger than him, and Rebeka, twelve years younger. He tried to make time for them, when he could, but work kept him away from the Trentini mansion far more often than he was inside.
“Are you going to stand in the doorway and draw attention all day, or sit down?” his father asked.
Tom took a seat in one of the bucket chairs across from his father’s desk. For a long while, the two sat in silence. Tom, lost in his thoughts and irritation. And Tommas, puffing on a cigar that would likely have his wife barking at him later.
Some shit just never changed.
Tom liked it when it was just him and his dad like this, though. His mother used to call them twins, as their behaviors, habits, and features mirrored back at one another more often than not. By the time Tom was seventeen, he stood eye-level with his father at six-foot-two. He shared his father’s chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. The squared chin, strong nose, and blue-gray eyes. He had once worn his dark brown hair a bit longer, but now opted to have it cut short, while his father’s was peppered with a bit of gray at the temples. Their smiles were more smirks or grins than anything else.
“Adriano called,” his father said.
“What, like a little tattletale? Am I going to get punished by my dad now because I got pissed off, and let it show?”
A chuckle echoed from across the way.
“No,” his father murmured. “I’m surprised you went this long without knocking somebody out, honestly. What was it today that got to you?”
Tom shrugged under the weight of his Armani suit. “Nothing in particular. I’ve heard it all before. I just had enough, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I’m bored out of my damn mind, Dad. I work with those same idiots every day. As long as they think they can get away with it, they don’t leave me the fuck alone. I’m starting to think there isn’t much point to keeping my cool when breaking their faces gets me better results.”
Tommas let out a thick cloud of gray smoke, and set the cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray. “You know, nobody ever told you that the way we handled our business as young, made men is the same way you have to handle it, Tom.”
He eyed his father, considering the words.
“Kind of seems like it.”
“Why, because nobody’s jumping in for you when it’s happening?”
“I mean—”
“You know that won’t do anything for you at the end of the day, don’t you? It’s you who is responsible for making your name and position with those men clear, Tom. Nobody else can do that for you, son. If the way you want to do that is with fear and brute force, then so be it, but do so and be fucking consistent about it.”
Tom laughed under his breath. “You think?”
“We all have to do what we have to do.”
Yeah, he knew that, too.
“I am, though. Bored. Tired.”
Tommas sucked air through his teeth, and nodded like he could see all of those things. “Frustrated. Restless. Irritated. Why, though?”
“I don’t know. I’m not …”
“What? Tell me, and then maybe I can help.”
“I’m twenty-one, Dad. Isn’t it time for me to figure out my own shit?”
Tommas cracked a smirk—the closest thing he ever got to a smile when Tom’s mother wasn’t involved. “Still my boy, no matter your age.”
“And my boss.”
His father’s grin faded fast. “And that, too, yes.”
“I don’t know what I want, Dad. That’s half the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tom scratched at the underside of his jaw—a nervous tic, and one of his only tells. “Have you ever felt like you wanted something, or were missing something, but you just didn’t know what in the hell it was?”
Tommas lifted a single brow high. “No, I can’t say that I have. I always knew what I wanted—she was simply out of my reach for a while.”
Abriella, his father meant. Tom’s mother.
“I don’t think it’s a woman,” Tom said. “I’ve just been at a point lately where nothing is doing it for me. I’m bored.”
“You said that already.”
Tom lifted an empty palm and tipped it over as if to say, That’s what I got.
Nothing.
He had nothing.
“Is this about the gunrunning thing again?”
Tom scowled.
He didn’t even try to hide it.
His father didn’t miss it.
“So it is,” Tommas said.
“No.”
“You can’t run guns, Tom,” his father said. “I made my choice on that. I’ve told you this a hundred times already. It puts too much attention on you, and as it is, our organization already has enough attention. You want to move up in the family—gunrunning and other business will force too much of your attention away from where it should be.”
“Dad—”
“We’ve had this chat, Tom.”
They had.
A lot.
“Then why let me do it before?” he asked.
Tommas leaned back in his chair, and stared hard at his son. “Theo needed an extra pair of hands. You have a liking for guns. It worked. You made a friend with that Cross Donati while you were doing it. It’s not like you didn’t get something out of that, Tom.”
“I was good at it, Dad.”
“And you’re good at this, too.” Tommas shrugged, adding, “Here’s the thing, son. I intend to move you up in the Outfit, and you know this has always been our plan.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I will not have your attention split between responsibilities, or worse, have men in the organization thinking you’re the weak link because the top is not where you want to be. My motives for keeping you where you are happen to be well intended.”
“I’m not one for the politics of the mafia.”
“And yet, you still need to be, Tommaso.”
Tom knew he was going to get nowhere fast with this conversation. His father wouldn’t budge. He hadn’t budged an inch since Cross—the gunrunner for the Chicago Outfit—headed back to New York a couple of months back. Tom thought maybe his father would let him pick up a bit of Cross’s slack in some areas, but that was a fucking pipe dream if there ever was one.
Tom and his father were close—he loved Tommas fiercely. Just like his mother.
They had one issue.
This was it.
Tommas let out a quiet exhale, and picked up his still-burning cigar. “I think what you really need is a break, Tom. All good made men need one occasionally. Besides, it’ll give you some time to reflect on things. Issues here. How to handle them. Whatever else. You’ve earned the break, son.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And where should I go for this break?”
His father flashed his white teeth in a grin. “That’s for you to figure out. Say hello to your mother on the way out. Also, don’t even think of heading out of the city without doing something with your sisters first.”
That was that.
Tom found his mother in her library. A massive, bookshelves from floor to vaulted ceiling, room in the mansion that Abriella hid in more often than not. Family portraits—young and old—covered one far wall. A wall of bay of windows overlooked the estate grounds, showcasing colorful leaves littering the ground.
His mother smiled over at him from her white chaise as he entered the space. She rested her book beside her, and waved him further in.
Old paper, leather, and ink wafted through the air. Vanilla and lavender followed right behind. His mother loved her candles and oils. Teas and sweets.
This was Abriella Trentini Rossi’s space.
Her room.
No one else’s.
Here, Tom knew his mother worried about nothing. She shed no tears. Other worlds sucked her in, and she only came out when called.
Like now.
“Hey, baby,” Abriella said.
Tom bent down to kiss his mother on the top of her dark-haired head. “Hey, Ma.”
“You look … stressed.”
“That obvious?”
His mother smiled a little. “Always, to me.”
“Dad said I need to take a break.”
“I bet he’s right, Tom.”
“I bet we won’t tell him that, will we?”
Abriella’s smile bloomed wider. “Never.”
Her hand patted his cheek with a soft touch, but she said nothing to push him on what was wrong, or how he planned to fix it beyond what he already offered. It was one of the many reasons why he loved his mother.
“Sit for a while,” she told him. “I’ll read to you.”
“What, like when I was a boy?”
“Reading is good for the soul, Tom.”
“Depends on what you’re reading, Ma.”
“A thriller.”
Tom could do that. He grabbed one of the leather chairs, and pulled it closer. Sinking into the seat, his mother started to read. Between the silence of the library, the familiar scents clinging to his every breath, and the comfort of his mother’s presence, he could almost sleep. He was relaxed.
Problem was, as soon as he left the mansion, it would all be gone.
That’s when Tom got it.
He was looking for something like his home. Or he needed something like it. He just didn’t know what in the hell that even was.
***
Tom unceremoniously dumped a black duffle bag on the foot of his bed as he dialed a familiar number on the phone, and put it to his ear. His two-level house just outside of the city limits wasn’t anything to scoff at, but it didn’t feel like home to him, either. He’d bought it on a whim, as his trust fund afforded him the ability to do so before he had been making decent money himself. He had wanted to be closer to business and family and not right in the heart of Chicago in a cramped apartment.
He hadn’t even bothered to really decorate the place.
In his ear, he heard the call click.
“Donati here,” a familiar voice answered.
Tom balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear as he grabbed a couple of things from the closet. “Cross, man, what’s up?”
“Not much, Tom. Something come up with the next run, or what?”
“Nope.”
Tom wasn’t surprised the first thing Cross thought at his phone call was business. It was just who Cross Donati was at the end of the day. Business first, and everything else was secondary. Cross came from a New York Cosa Nostra family—another boss’s son, like Tom. The two had made fast friends when Cross and Tom got put together as partners when the Outfit started trafficking guns. It helped that Cross was only a couple of years older than Tom, but didn’t treat him like a kid, or as though he was where he was because of his last name.
Their friendship lasted.
A couple of months back, Cross headed home to New York after living in Chicago for almost three years. He hadn’t been back, but a gun run was coming up soon. Tom figured he would see his friend then.
Fate had different plans.
“You busy?” Tom asked.
Cross chuckled dryly. “Man, I am always busy. Not more than usual, though. Heading over to my parents’ place today to see them.”
“No, I mean for the next week or so. Maybe more.”
“What?”
“I thought I might visit,” Tom said.
“Door’s always open for you, Tom.”
New York was a sufficient distance from Chicago to make it worth the cramped flight. A familiar face made it welcoming enough, too.
“My flight leaves tomorrow in the morning,” Tom said.
“Let me know when you land.”
Friends like Cross were hard to come by.
CHAPTER TWO
“THIS IS your wakeup call, Cam!”
Brothers—but especially older brothers—were things made by the Devil. Camilla Donati would fight anybody who tried to tell her differently. Her brother in particular was the very worst when it came to making her life a special kind of hell.
She still loved him.
He was one of her very best friends.
Soft thumps hit the wall as her brother came closer to the bedroom.
“Come on, Cam. Get up. Right now.”
“Fuck off,” Camilla grumbled from beneath the mound of blankets. “It’s Saturday morning, Cross. Go away.”
His voice came louder and clearer then. “Nope.”
“Oh, my God. He’s hot, but he’s so fucking annoying that it makes me want to kill him.”
“I did hear that,” Cross deadpanned.
Cool air hit Camilla’s skin a second before the blankets fell to the floor. Both Camilla, and her friend who had opted to sleep over instead of catch a cab home, glared up at Cross. August hadn’t lied—Cross was handsome, dark-eyed, black hair, and strong features. He didn’t lack in female attention, as far as that went.
Her brother just didn’t entertain the attention.
August groaned again and rolled over in the bed. “I hate your stupid, pretty face, Cross.”
“Pretty is kind of insulting. I’m not a boy.”
“Want me to call it ugly?”
“Yeah, but it’s not,” Cross replied. “Cam, get out of bed. You’re late for breakfast. Ma and Cal sent me over to yank your ass up.”
Camilla grabbed the blanket from the floor, and tossed it over herself once more. “Tell them I’ll be around.”
“You partied last night, didn’t you?”
“New club in Coney,” August answered. “It was the shit.”
“Cam, you’re not even legal age to drink,” her brother muttered. “And August is two years younger—”
“Almost two years younger,” August jumped in. “I turned eighteen in August, thanks.”
“Nice to know you’re legal for something else, now, but that’s not the point.”
Camilla peeked over at her friend to see August’s dark chestnut skin had flushed with a heated crimson hue at the surface of her cheeks. August took after her Nigerian mother in her features, while her Italian, lawyer father had taught his daughter to take no shit.
August had something akin to a crush on Camilla’s older brother since the two girls met in high school. Cross treated August with the same annoying affection he gave to Camilla—like a little sister he was paid to bother. Besides, Camilla figured her brother was still too caught up on somebody from his past to notice anyone else.
“Get out of my room,” Camilla told her brother. “Better yet, get out of my apartment.”
“Can’t. Promised Ma and Cal, I would bring you to breakfast.”
At the thought of food, Camilla’s stomach threatened to revolt. She should not have taken those extra three Jell-O shots the night before.
“August can come, too.”
Her brother said it as though he was dangling an offer Camilla couldn’t refuse. She knew better.
“Internship starts today with the Bared Brands,” August said as she climbed over Camilla in the bed. “I’m … Shit, get up, Cam. I’m going to be late.”
“Why does that mean I have to get up?”
“Because your stupid cotton pillowcases are a bitch on my hair when it’s not in a protective style, and I like the way you fixed it up the last time.”
Camilla grumbled, but forced her way out of the bed.
Cross headed for the door with a wave over his shoulder. “Thirty minutes, Cam.”
“Make me coffee, Cross!”
“I’ll think about it,” her brother shot back.
He would make her coffee.
She knew it.
Camilla had two best friends in the world.
One was August—the Brooklyn native with the crazy curls. The other had always been her big brother.
August passed over the conditioning pomade she kept at Camilla’s place—considering the two might as well be roommates a lot of the time—and took a seat in front of the vanity. Camilla gathered August’s thick, coarse hair with a practiced hand.
“Just like last time?” Camilla asked her friend.
In the mirror, August nodded. “Big pom, but tease it out like a faux-hawk down the top and middle. I need to get my braids in before winter comes.”
Camilla had spent a lot of time with August and her mom over the years of their friendship. Some of that time had been sitting in salons because her friend’s hair needed to be maintained no matter if she wore it natural, in braids, or with a weave. If anything, Camilla figured that’s where she had picked up some of her talent for fixing August’s wild hair, not to mention, her own …
Right now, Camilla’s hair was a platinum blonde mess with a purple fade of curls that needed a good soak in hot oils. August’s mom—Ada—had taught Camilla how to take care of her hair to an extreme given the abuse she put it through monthly.
Next week, it might be red, or back to brown. Maybe Camilla would put colorful streaks through it, or cut it all off.
She never kept one style for long.
“You know you’re going to be amazing today, right?” Camilla asked.
August’s russet gaze met Cam’s dark brown eyes in the mirror. “Kind of nervous. I feel like Dad got me this, and not you know, me.”
“First, maybe your dad put in a good word, but who cares? Graphic design, marketing, and branding—that’s your focus for college. This one-year internship with Bared Brands is going to be fucking awesome for that.”
Plus, August was smart as hell. Skipped a grade in middle school, got a scholarship into the prestigious private school Camilla attended, and a full ride for college. Her friend could and would do whatever she put her mind to.
“Maybe.”
“Keep me updated through the day.”
August cocked a brow. “Girl, did you think I would do anything different?”
Not at all.
***
“About the club thing—”
Camilla held up a single finger to shush her brother without saying a word. She took a long sip from the coffee he’d handed over in a to-go mug from her cupboards. The creamy, sweet drink perked her up just enough to be agreeable.
“Never talk to me before coffee, Cross. You know this.”
Her brother’s familiar brown gaze rolled upward. He navigated the city streets to head east. Breakfast at a Newport restaurant on Saturdays was a new thing their parents wanted to do ever since Cross came home from Chicago a couple of months earlier.
“How’d you get into the club?” her brother asked.
Camilla smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Do you know the security at the door, or did someone get you a fake ID?”
“Both?”
“Cam.”
She shrugged. “Guess we’re going to pretend like you weren’t the biggest trouble making shit on the planet from the time you were thirteen, huh?”
Cross cleared his throat. “This is not about me. It’s about you. I’m … looking out for you. Yeah, that works.”
“Bullshit. I paid Zeke.”
“I knew that bastard got you a fake ID,” Cross bitched under his breath.
Her brother’s best friend was way off-limits for Camilla in any kind of way—though he was cute, and probably a good time—because the guy treated her like a little sister. A side effect of having grown up around the guy since she was born.
“Be nice. He was looking out for me since you were in Chicago and all.”
Cross nodded. “Right, by getting you into clubs.”
“Like you never used to go into clubs with Catherine Marcello when she wasn’t legal age?”
Her brother stiffened in the driver’s seat of his Porsche at the mention of his ex. Camilla half-smiled to herself, but hid it by taking another drink of coffee. The best way to get Cross off a topic of conversation was to put his ex into it.
“At least it was just August in your bed this morning.”
Camilla snorted. “I apologized for the guy, Cross.”
“He had nothing on, Camilla.”
“And the girl,” she added. “I apologized for her, too.”
That was the first time her brother found out Camilla didn’t have a preference when it came to hooking up with somebody. As long as the guy or girl was going to be a good time, she was all for it. They had to be gone by morning, or soon after—that was her deal.
Camilla didn’t do relationships. She was too young, and having too much fun being nineteen, in college, and out on her own to settle down with somebody. Any relationship she did dabble in was done almost as soon as it started.
She found boys to be like toys. Fun to look at, cool to play with, but then she quickly lost interest. Although, she had never gotten into a relationship beyond sex with a woman, she figured it would probably end up being the same.
Camilla’s interest just couldn’t be kept for longer than it took to have an orgasm … or five.
That didn’t stop people from trying, though.
“I mean,” Cross said, glancing over at his sister, “the girl definitely wasn’t too bad to look at other than the fact she tried to kill me with one of your crystals. You know, when she threw it at my fucking head.”
Camilla laughed.
So she had an active sex life. Her brother liked to pick on her about it sometimes, but he never made her feel like she was doing something wrong. He never shamed her for the choices she made, and instead, only asked if she was safe and okay.
She loved her brother for that, really.
“She thought you were breaking into my place or something,” Camilla said.
“Because we don’t look like siblings at all,” Cross replied wryly.
He was right. The two shared the dominate Donati features, but where Cross took a stronger, more masculine version, Camilla was the lighter, feminine side. He was sharp lines, and she was soft curves. She barely reached five-foot-six in heels, while he towered over six feet. Her brother smiled, and showed off cut-from-stone cheekbones, and she carried her mother’s delicate nose and petite figure.
A person couldn’t miss how much the two looked similar, though.
“Maybe she thought you were going to try to join in or something,” Camilla said. “Some people are freaky like that—the whole sibling get up, you know.”
Cross made a gagging noise in the back of his throat. “That’s enough of that. Jesus Christ.”
A dinging bell took Camilla’s attention away from her brother for the moment. A notification on her cell phone let her know that the paper she needed to have in on Monday was now pushed back until Friday. Apparently, the professor for the class had come down with some kind of wicked bug and would not be back in classes until Friday.
School was the one and only thing Camilla did not mess around with. Her social and personal life did not get in the way of her schooling. From Monday to Friday, she was ass-in-chair at every class, lecture, and whatever else she needed to do.
Her goal to become a NICU nurse—to take care of premature babies like she had been once—would not be screwed up by any-fucking-thing. Camilla would make sure of it. No matter what she had to do.
“Yes.”
She did a little happy dance in the passenger seat.
“What’s going on now?” Cross asked.
“The rest of my weekend just opened up, big brother.”
Cross smirked. “Oh, how so?”
“Nothing due for school. Nothing to do. August is going to be busy, busy. Free weekend.”
“Zeke is having a house party tonight.”
Camilla did like the sound of that. “Who’s going?”
“Our people,” her brother said. “Some you know, and some you don’t. Better than a club.”
“That’s debatable. Besides, it’ll be awesome because I’m going. Anywhere I go is fucking awesome, thank you very much.”
“Yes, Camilla, because you vomit glitter and piss fabulous. I don’t need the lecture again.”
“Is it a lecture if it’s true?”
She grinned at him.
He just shook his head.
“You love me,” she said.
“Just enough not to hate you, sure,” Cross replied. “I don’t know how you manage to have a hangover and still be this annoying first thing in the morning.”
“Or is it that you don’t like how I turn conversations around on you.”
“You know what, it’s both.”
Camilla smiled sweetly at him, but said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Her point was made.
It was another forty-five minutes of Cross and Camilla seeing who could annoy the other the most before her brother pulled into the parking lot of a familiar restaurant. Inside the cozy, homey decorated Newport bistro, they found their parents already waiting at a table close to the windows, and with a spread of food on the table.
Camilla’s hangover was all but gone.
Her stomach growled instead.
She put the thoughts of food aside for the moment to deal with greeting her waiting parents. They always came first when the two were in the room. She loved Calisto and Emma beyond measure because they never forgot to love her--ever.
Her dad, always her hero and supporter, stood to give Camilla a tight, one-armed hug that still reminded her of the man who used to have pretend tea parties and let her paint his fingernails. Only once, though.
Once her father let her go, Camilla bent down to kiss the apple of her mother’s cheek with a smile. Emma was another cornerstone for Camilla—never failing, always holding strong, and loving her through the rest.
“Figured we better send Cross over to get you when you didn’t pick up my call,” Calisto said as he took his seat.
Camilla sat beside her father.
Cross took the chair beside their mom.
“I was out late,” Camilla said. “Didn’t hear anything until Cross bulled his way into my place.”
Her brother shot her a look.
Camilla shrugged.
Her parents didn’t ask a thing about where she had been, or what she had been doing the night before. They never did. At nineteen, almost twenty, Camilla didn’t have a lot of rules enforced down upon her by her parents. Really, they had never strapped her or Cross down with rules or demands.
She knew that she was lucky. Other principessas—girls like her with an Italian, Cosa Nostra boss for a father—were not as fortunate. Their life did not allow for very much freedom. Yet, her father made sure she had as much semblance of freedom as he could allow without being unsafe.
A good example was the enforcer she knew was on her watch. Or rather, the couple of men who rotated to keep an eye on her. Her father made her aware of the men, but also made it clear they did not report back on Camilla’s whereabouts or anything else she did. They were just there—in the background of her life—to keep her safe should something happen. They kept a healthy distance, and otherwise, gave her privacy.
So far, those enforcers had never needed to step in for Camilla. Other than the few times the men had taken her to a safe house when issues came up with other organizations her father dealt with, she didn’t see them. She hadn’t even known their names until a couple of years ago when she first moved out of her parents’ home.
Sure, being a woman meant Camilla wasn’t supposed to know details about the criminal organization her father ran, and her brother participated in. She was far from dumb.
Observant.
Quiet when needed.
Not, however, stupid.
“Make sure you’re not late for classes on Monday,” her mother said.
“I won’t.”
Like they even had to worry at all about that.
***
Camilla emptied the last bit of Pinot Noir from her glass while waving for her brother’s friend—Zeke—to grab her another. Cross had always been clear on the rules when Camilla partied. Be safe. Never drink from a glass you didn’t pour or see poured, or a drink taken from someone she couldn’t explicitly trust.
She trusted Zeke.
Turning her back to the loud music pumping through the Odessa beach house, Camilla tried to focus on her phone call.
“Give me all the details,” she demanded.
“Damn, I can’t even hear you very well.”
Camilla cursed under her breath, but headed out the back exit of the house where a few people had gathered to drink, and smoke. The heady scent of weed clung in the air, but she focused on her conversation with August.
“Details,” Camilla said when the music was all but a deep murmur at her back. “Give me them.”
“It went good. Basically a what’s what, and the stuff I’ll be doing.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I got the impression my main job is to keep Brock Darling’s specialty coffee full all day.”
Camilla barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Not really.”
“Ugh.”
“We’ll see how it goes. It’s a high energy environment. They started the magazine a few months ago, too, so there are some opportunities for me to learn there. Everybody made it seem like Brock isn’t hard to work for.”
“That’s a plus.”
The music blasted louder behind Camilla as someone came out of the house.
“Where are you?” August asked.
“Zeke’s place.”
“Your brother there, too?”
“Not yet. You wanna come and party?”
August made a sad noise. “Can’t. Someone’s going to need their coffee at eight sharp tomorrow morning.”
“He doesn’t do church?”
“Apparently not, but hey, it gets me out of it, too. I don’t need an excuse on Sundays, now.”
“Nice.”
“Right? So hey, text me tomorrow sometime. We can try to meet up.”
“Will do,” Camilla said. “Love you.”
“Love you, girly.”
By the time Camilla got back inside the house, and found Zeke waiting with her safe glass of wine, she caught sight of her brother coming through the front door.
Cross, and someone else.
She only figured the guy had come with her brother because Cross chatted with him as the two navigated the people together.
Camilla didn’t have a clue who he was, but the guy was gorgeous.
Tall. Lean. Blue-eyed. Dark-haired. Strong features. Sharp lines.
Physically, he wasn’t anything to scoff at. She didn’t care how bold it seemed of her to look him over while she had the chance. If the guy didn’t want to be looked at like he was something she wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of, he shouldn’t look that fucking good walking across a goddamn floor.
Who was he?
Long fingers like he played an instrument, maybe. Or maybe like his fingers were built to play something a little more sinful. Built like he could run a ten-k without losing a breath. A half-smile that spoke of an easy nature, but could probably melt panties when he turned it on a woman.
There was nothing boyish about him.
Not a damn thing.
Dressed in black slacks, black silk shirt, and black leather shoes, he looked damn good. The guy walked with a confidence she knew was probably learned. Yet, his disinterested gaze swept over the faces of the people like he didn’t give a shit who they were.
He looked like all kinds of trouble.
And a whole lot of fun.
A little cocky. A touch of arrogance. Nothing innocent about him.
Exactly Camilla’s type.
The fact the guy was Cross’s friend didn’t bother Camilla at all. That didn’t make him off-limits to her. As long as it didn’t interfere with his business, her brother didn’t give a shit. Not to mention, he never told her who she could or couldn’t sleep with, date, or otherwise.
Cross was good like that.
“Who is that?” she asked Zeke while she still had the time. Soon, her brother and his friend would be too close to ask. “With Cross, I mean.”
“Oh, that’s Tom. He’s spending some time in the city, I guess.”
“Tom?”
“Tommaso Rossi—Chicago.”
Oh.
Oh.
Camilla caught Tommaso’s gaze with her own the closer he came. His straight eyebrow cocked high as his gaze drifted over her face. He then looked over the silver, bodycon dress she had slipped on earlier.
He was a lot like her, it seemed.
Bold.
Unashamed.
Down his gaze went to her bare legs, and the Valentino rockstud black and silver heels she wore. Then his striking gray-blue gaze jumped back up to meet hers once more.
Camilla grinned, and took a sip of her wine. Her night just got way better.
CHAPTER ONE
“HOW’S THE Skip’s pet doing today?”
“Did the big boss send the little boss to work in the slums with the rest of us today?”
“Oh, too good to look at us, Tom?”
“Sure he is, Randy. Little underboss-in-waiting hates getting his hands dirty, ain’t that so, Tom?”
Tommaso Rossi’s greatest enemies had always been boredom, and a severe lack of patience when it came to other people. He was easily distracted, but as quickly as his attention could be caught, it was lost. Add that into the fact he didn’t like to wait for anything, and it could be a bad combination for a man like him.
He blamed these characteristics of his on his father, Tommas Rossi. The man had given Tom both his name and his restless nature.
It helped that Tom’s father had also given him a decent drive to get shit done when it needed to be done. His father, an Italian crime boss for the Chicago Outfit, handed down the wisdom that blunt honesty was a better gift than lies. Deceit would do nothing for his end-game except make him untrustworthy in the eyes of others. A man in the mafia wouldn’t benefit from having a stain like being a liar on his back.
Tom worked hard. Constantly. Another lesson from his dad. His last name afforded him a certain amount of respect for some situations in their criminal organization, but it also meant fuck all if he hadn’t earned it.
That’s why when Adriano Conti’s crew members tossed insults and ribbed him with their comments as he strolled through the warehouse, Tom didn’t even look at the young guys. Stupid, useless fuckers. Replaceable foot soldiers.
He knew it.
They knew it.
Their words meant less than shit beneath his thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. They weren’t going anywhere at the end of the day.
Except maybe jail.
Tom didn’t have much issue with letting the comments roll off his shoulders on any other day. He was a secondary Capo working under Adriano—his uncle. Adriano had been Tom’s mentor—one of many—for longer than he cared to remember. Before he knew how to drive. Years before he’d ever gotten his dick wet properly. Men like Adriano had been the ones to teach Tom the business—the family.
A long time.
It was Adriano’s warnings and reminders from years gone by that Tom heard in the back of his head when the comments and ribbing started. The foot soldiers for Adriano’s crew had been coming for Tom on this level since before he was a teen.
It’s your rite of passage, Tommaso. We all dealt with that nonsense, too. There’ll come a time when they won’t even be able to look you in the eye.
Fact was, Tom got the insults worse than anyone else ever had, and he didn’t need Adriano or his father to tell him the truth. To the foot soldiers in the crew, Tom was nothing more than a spoiled, secondary Capo, underboss-in-training, and the son of a boss. That was it.
He couldn’t be like them. They couldn’t be like him.
“You can’t say hi today, Tom?”
Out of all the voices following him, Tom did care to acknowledge that one. One of his oldest friends—Lou.
Over his shoulder, Tom waved a hand in response. For now, that was the best he could do for his friend. It was better they didn’t seem too friendly while the other foot soldiers were around. No need for Tom to go causing Lou any problems on his side of things.
They all had fucking masks to wear, after all.
Lou was one of the only soldiers in Adriano Conti’s crew that didn’t treat Tom like shit whenever he had to be in the same vicinity. He was the only one that didn’t try to push every single one of Tom’s buttons just to see if they could get him to react.
He swore it was a game for them.
Tom let Adriano’s office door slam shut harder than he intended to. The space was empty. The Conti Capo hadn’t even showed up yet, but he made damn sure to tell Tom to roll his ass out of bed before eight.
Sinking into a torn leather chair, Tom scrubbed a hand down his face.
Once it doesn’t bother you anymore, they’ll back off. Don’t let them see it gets on your nerves, Tom, his father used to say.
Tom didn’t know how much more unaffected he could seem than avoiding all eye contact, refusing to speak, and demanding respect when he was in charge. He no longer engaged the insults and teasing unless he absolutely had to, and never with violence.
It wasn’t his place as only a secondary Capo.
He’d fucking hoped that by twenty-one years old—essentially the same or close to the same age as those guys out on the main warehouse floor—they would have at least tried to make room for him. They didn’t have to like him. He didn’t ask for anything except a little bit of respect and peace to himself.
Tom let out a heavy sigh, and scrubbed a hand down his unshaved jaw. Mostly, he made a conscious effort to rid his mind of the useless feelings. They wouldn’t do him any good.
A few minutes later, Adriano strolled into the office. The older man—and father of three girls—barely acknowledged Tom at all as he ended a phone call.
“Yeah, Lissa, I’ll grab you some Chinese tonight … yeah, that, too. Bye.”
Alessa—or Lissa, to only a select few in Adriano’s family—was Tom’s aunt. His mother’s only sister. Actually, Alessa was his mother’s only living family besides her kids and in-laws.
They didn’t talk a lot about it. Nobody did.
Everybody that grew up in the Chicago Outfit had come to a silent understand over the years that The Chicago War between the four families within the organization had done enough damage. It had taken enough people. There was no reason to pay it lip service, too.
“You look like shit,” Adriano said.
The guy didn’t even look at Tom when he said it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built in a way that spoke of his football years, Adriano Conti was not a man to be messed with. He also didn’t indulge whine-fests from any-fucking-body.
Tom included.
“It’s nothing,” Tom said.
“You sure?”
“You wanted me to handle something today, didn’t you? Here I am. Let’s get to that, Adriano.”
“No uncle for me today?”
Tom scoffed “Like that would help my fucking case, right.”
Adriano lifted a brow, and then his gaze drifted to the closed door. “The guys were quiet when I came in.”
“As they should be for their Capo.”
“But not for you.”
Tom clenched his teeth in an effort to stay quiet. All it did was make his jaw tight, and his uncle didn’t miss it.
“Just … don’t bother,” Tom told him with a subtle shake of his head. “It’s like high school with those idiots out there. People all say the same things to me about it. Ignore them. Don’t let them bother you. If somebody says something to them, it only makes it worse.”
“You’re usually better at brushing them off, Tom.”
He didn’t need Adriano pointing that out to him. He was quite aware that his irritation levels were climbing higher by the day.
It brought him back to his biggest enemies.
Boredom.
Patience.
Tom didn’t know what he was bored with—work, Chicago, the same old shit every day, or what. He didn’t know what would fix his boredom. It should have been simple. If he wanted something, he went out and got it. He just didn’t know what it was he wanted.
His lack of give-a-damn was seriously starting to mess with his patience, though. It showed every single time he had to force himself not to put his fist through one of those idiots’ heads.
Tom’s father had the patience of a saint.
His mother? An angel.
Tom?
Less than zero at the moment.
“You know what,” Adriano said, “I can handle this myself today, Tom. Take the day off. Go do something else for a while.”
“I can do what—”
“It’s not your choice to make. I don’t need you here in a bad mood, and halfway to kicking somebody’s ass. Two boosted trucks are supposed to keep those fools busy. I’ll put Lou in charge of watching them.”
“Lou’s good,” Tom said with a nod.
“Yeah, I know. One fool, I might not mind letting get somewhere in this business of ours.” Adriano flicked his hand toward the door. “Get. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Tom pushed up from the chair and exited the office without a goodbye. Adriano wouldn’t want one, anyway. He made it halfway across the warehouse, nearly to the front entrance doors, when another insult came hurling his way.
He didn’t even know what the guy said.
He barely heard it well enough.
Tommaso should have let it go.
It took a single spin of his shoes against the cement floor, and five long strides before his fist crashed into the guy’s face. Jake, or some equally generic name that could be forgotten. The crunch of bone smashed against Tom’s knuckles.
Something akin to relief settled through Tom. The teasing feeling skimmed along his now bruised and bloody knuckles, but it didn’t reach where he needed it the most. It still wasn’t enough. He reared back and punched the guy again.
All the while, Tom never said a word. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t have shit to say, just a damn point to make.
They thought he was some weak-ass rich fuck who couldn’t go toe-to-toe with them on anything, certainly not on the streets.
Tom had news for them.
He fixed his jacket as he walked away, but a form caught his eye in the office doorway. Adriano leaned against the doorjamb, and shook his head once.
“Go see the boss,” he heard his uncle say. “A day off will not be enough, Tom.”
What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
***
“Where’s Sara and Rebeka?” Tom asked.
Tommas, his father, worked on lighting the cigar in his mouth as he spoke. “At school, Tom. It’s the middle of September.”
Ah, yeah, shit.
Usually his little sisters would be tearing up a storm in the house. Sara was almost a decade younger than him, and Rebeka, twelve years younger. He tried to make time for them, when he could, but work kept him away from the Trentini mansion far more often than he was inside.
“Are you going to stand in the doorway and draw attention all day, or sit down?” his father asked.
Tom took a seat in one of the bucket chairs across from his father’s desk. For a long while, the two sat in silence. Tom, lost in his thoughts and irritation. And Tommas, puffing on a cigar that would likely have his wife barking at him later.
Some shit just never changed.
Tom liked it when it was just him and his dad like this, though. His mother used to call them twins, as their behaviors, habits, and features mirrored back at one another more often than not. By the time Tom was seventeen, he stood eye-level with his father at six-foot-two. He shared his father’s chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. The squared chin, strong nose, and blue-gray eyes. He had once worn his dark brown hair a bit longer, but now opted to have it cut short, while his father’s was peppered with a bit of gray at the temples. Their smiles were more smirks or grins than anything else.
“Adriano called,” his father said.
“What, like a little tattletale? Am I going to get punished by my dad now because I got pissed off, and let it show?”
A chuckle echoed from across the way.
“No,” his father murmured. “I’m surprised you went this long without knocking somebody out, honestly. What was it today that got to you?”
Tom shrugged under the weight of his Armani suit. “Nothing in particular. I’ve heard it all before. I just had enough, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I’m bored out of my damn mind, Dad. I work with those same idiots every day. As long as they think they can get away with it, they don’t leave me the fuck alone. I’m starting to think there isn’t much point to keeping my cool when breaking their faces gets me better results.”
Tommas let out a thick cloud of gray smoke, and set the cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray. “You know, nobody ever told you that the way we handled our business as young, made men is the same way you have to handle it, Tom.”
He eyed his father, considering the words.
“Kind of seems like it.”
“Why, because nobody’s jumping in for you when it’s happening?”
“I mean—”
“You know that won’t do anything for you at the end of the day, don’t you? It’s you who is responsible for making your name and position with those men clear, Tom. Nobody else can do that for you, son. If the way you want to do that is with fear and brute force, then so be it, but do so and be fucking consistent about it.”
Tom laughed under his breath. “You think?”
“We all have to do what we have to do.”
Yeah, he knew that, too.
“I am, though. Bored. Tired.”
Tommas sucked air through his teeth, and nodded like he could see all of those things. “Frustrated. Restless. Irritated. Why, though?”
“I don’t know. I’m not …”
“What? Tell me, and then maybe I can help.”
“I’m twenty-one, Dad. Isn’t it time for me to figure out my own shit?”
Tommas cracked a smirk—the closest thing he ever got to a smile when Tom’s mother wasn’t involved. “Still my boy, no matter your age.”
“And my boss.”
His father’s grin faded fast. “And that, too, yes.”
“I don’t know what I want, Dad. That’s half the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tom scratched at the underside of his jaw—a nervous tic, and one of his only tells. “Have you ever felt like you wanted something, or were missing something, but you just didn’t know what in the hell it was?”
Tommas lifted a single brow high. “No, I can’t say that I have. I always knew what I wanted—she was simply out of my reach for a while.”
Abriella, his father meant. Tom’s mother.
“I don’t think it’s a woman,” Tom said. “I’ve just been at a point lately where nothing is doing it for me. I’m bored.”
“You said that already.”
Tom lifted an empty palm and tipped it over as if to say, That’s what I got.
Nothing.
He had nothing.
“Is this about the gunrunning thing again?”
Tom scowled.
He didn’t even try to hide it.
His father didn’t miss it.
“So it is,” Tommas said.
“No.”
“You can’t run guns, Tom,” his father said. “I made my choice on that. I’ve told you this a hundred times already. It puts too much attention on you, and as it is, our organization already has enough attention. You want to move up in the family—gunrunning and other business will force too much of your attention away from where it should be.”
“Dad—”
“We’ve had this chat, Tom.”
They had.
A lot.
“Then why let me do it before?” he asked.
Tommas leaned back in his chair, and stared hard at his son. “Theo needed an extra pair of hands. You have a liking for guns. It worked. You made a friend with that Cross Donati while you were doing it. It’s not like you didn’t get something out of that, Tom.”
“I was good at it, Dad.”
“And you’re good at this, too.” Tommas shrugged, adding, “Here’s the thing, son. I intend to move you up in the Outfit, and you know this has always been our plan.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I will not have your attention split between responsibilities, or worse, have men in the organization thinking you’re the weak link because the top is not where you want to be. My motives for keeping you where you are happen to be well intended.”
“I’m not one for the politics of the mafia.”
“And yet, you still need to be, Tommaso.”
Tom knew he was going to get nowhere fast with this conversation. His father wouldn’t budge. He hadn’t budged an inch since Cross—the gunrunner for the Chicago Outfit—headed back to New York a couple of months back. Tom thought maybe his father would let him pick up a bit of Cross’s slack in some areas, but that was a fucking pipe dream if there ever was one.
Tom and his father were close—he loved Tommas fiercely. Just like his mother.
They had one issue.
This was it.
Tommas let out a quiet exhale, and picked up his still-burning cigar. “I think what you really need is a break, Tom. All good made men need one occasionally. Besides, it’ll give you some time to reflect on things. Issues here. How to handle them. Whatever else. You’ve earned the break, son.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And where should I go for this break?”
His father flashed his white teeth in a grin. “That’s for you to figure out. Say hello to your mother on the way out. Also, don’t even think of heading out of the city without doing something with your sisters first.”
That was that.
Tom found his mother in her library. A massive, bookshelves from floor to vaulted ceiling, room in the mansion that Abriella hid in more often than not. Family portraits—young and old—covered one far wall. A wall of bay of windows overlooked the estate grounds, showcasing colorful leaves littering the ground.
His mother smiled over at him from her white chaise as he entered the space. She rested her book beside her, and waved him further in.
Old paper, leather, and ink wafted through the air. Vanilla and lavender followed right behind. His mother loved her candles and oils. Teas and sweets.
This was Abriella Trentini Rossi’s space.
Her room.
No one else’s.
Here, Tom knew his mother worried about nothing. She shed no tears. Other worlds sucked her in, and she only came out when called.
Like now.
“Hey, baby,” Abriella said.
Tom bent down to kiss his mother on the top of her dark-haired head. “Hey, Ma.”
“You look … stressed.”
“That obvious?”
His mother smiled a little. “Always, to me.”
“Dad said I need to take a break.”
“I bet he’s right, Tom.”
“I bet we won’t tell him that, will we?”
Abriella’s smile bloomed wider. “Never.”
Her hand patted his cheek with a soft touch, but she said nothing to push him on what was wrong, or how he planned to fix it beyond what he already offered. It was one of the many reasons why he loved his mother.
“Sit for a while,” she told him. “I’ll read to you.”
“What, like when I was a boy?”
“Reading is good for the soul, Tom.”
“Depends on what you’re reading, Ma.”
“A thriller.”
Tom could do that. He grabbed one of the leather chairs, and pulled it closer. Sinking into the seat, his mother started to read. Between the silence of the library, the familiar scents clinging to his every breath, and the comfort of his mother’s presence, he could almost sleep. He was relaxed.
Problem was, as soon as he left the mansion, it would all be gone.
That’s when Tom got it.
He was looking for something like his home. Or he needed something like it. He just didn’t know what in the hell that even was.
***
Tom unceremoniously dumped a black duffle bag on the foot of his bed as he dialed a familiar number on the phone, and put it to his ear. His two-level house just outside of the city limits wasn’t anything to scoff at, but it didn’t feel like home to him, either. He’d bought it on a whim, as his trust fund afforded him the ability to do so before he had been making decent money himself. He had wanted to be closer to business and family and not right in the heart of Chicago in a cramped apartment.
He hadn’t even bothered to really decorate the place.
In his ear, he heard the call click.
“Donati here,” a familiar voice answered.
Tom balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear as he grabbed a couple of things from the closet. “Cross, man, what’s up?”
“Not much, Tom. Something come up with the next run, or what?”
“Nope.”
Tom wasn’t surprised the first thing Cross thought at his phone call was business. It was just who Cross Donati was at the end of the day. Business first, and everything else was secondary. Cross came from a New York Cosa Nostra family—another boss’s son, like Tom. The two had made fast friends when Cross and Tom got put together as partners when the Outfit started trafficking guns. It helped that Cross was only a couple of years older than Tom, but didn’t treat him like a kid, or as though he was where he was because of his last name.
Their friendship lasted.
A couple of months back, Cross headed home to New York after living in Chicago for almost three years. He hadn’t been back, but a gun run was coming up soon. Tom figured he would see his friend then.
Fate had different plans.
“You busy?” Tom asked.
Cross chuckled dryly. “Man, I am always busy. Not more than usual, though. Heading over to my parents’ place today to see them.”
“No, I mean for the next week or so. Maybe more.”
“What?”
“I thought I might visit,” Tom said.
“Door’s always open for you, Tom.”
New York was a sufficient distance from Chicago to make it worth the cramped flight. A familiar face made it welcoming enough, too.
“My flight leaves tomorrow in the morning,” Tom said.
“Let me know when you land.”
Friends like Cross were hard to come by.
CHAPTER TWO
“THIS IS your wakeup call, Cam!”
Brothers—but especially older brothers—were things made by the Devil. Camilla Donati would fight anybody who tried to tell her differently. Her brother in particular was the very worst when it came to making her life a special kind of hell.
She still loved him.
He was one of her very best friends.
Soft thumps hit the wall as her brother came closer to the bedroom.
“Come on, Cam. Get up. Right now.”
“Fuck off,” Camilla grumbled from beneath the mound of blankets. “It’s Saturday morning, Cross. Go away.”
His voice came louder and clearer then. “Nope.”
“Oh, my God. He’s hot, but he’s so fucking annoying that it makes me want to kill him.”
“I did hear that,” Cross deadpanned.
Cool air hit Camilla’s skin a second before the blankets fell to the floor. Both Camilla, and her friend who had opted to sleep over instead of catch a cab home, glared up at Cross. August hadn’t lied—Cross was handsome, dark-eyed, black hair, and strong features. He didn’t lack in female attention, as far as that went.
Her brother just didn’t entertain the attention.
August groaned again and rolled over in the bed. “I hate your stupid, pretty face, Cross.”
“Pretty is kind of insulting. I’m not a boy.”
“Want me to call it ugly?”
“Yeah, but it’s not,” Cross replied. “Cam, get out of bed. You’re late for breakfast. Ma and Cal sent me over to yank your ass up.”
Camilla grabbed the blanket from the floor, and tossed it over herself once more. “Tell them I’ll be around.”
“You partied last night, didn’t you?”
“New club in Coney,” August answered. “It was the shit.”
“Cam, you’re not even legal age to drink,” her brother muttered. “And August is two years younger—”
“Almost two years younger,” August jumped in. “I turned eighteen in August, thanks.”
“Nice to know you’re legal for something else, now, but that’s not the point.”
Camilla peeked over at her friend to see August’s dark chestnut skin had flushed with a heated crimson hue at the surface of her cheeks. August took after her Nigerian mother in her features, while her Italian, lawyer father had taught his daughter to take no shit.
August had something akin to a crush on Camilla’s older brother since the two girls met in high school. Cross treated August with the same annoying affection he gave to Camilla—like a little sister he was paid to bother. Besides, Camilla figured her brother was still too caught up on somebody from his past to notice anyone else.
“Get out of my room,” Camilla told her brother. “Better yet, get out of my apartment.”
“Can’t. Promised Ma and Cal, I would bring you to breakfast.”
At the thought of food, Camilla’s stomach threatened to revolt. She should not have taken those extra three Jell-O shots the night before.
“August can come, too.”
Her brother said it as though he was dangling an offer Camilla couldn’t refuse. She knew better.
“Internship starts today with the Bared Brands,” August said as she climbed over Camilla in the bed. “I’m … Shit, get up, Cam. I’m going to be late.”
“Why does that mean I have to get up?”
“Because your stupid cotton pillowcases are a bitch on my hair when it’s not in a protective style, and I like the way you fixed it up the last time.”
Camilla grumbled, but forced her way out of the bed.
Cross headed for the door with a wave over his shoulder. “Thirty minutes, Cam.”
“Make me coffee, Cross!”
“I’ll think about it,” her brother shot back.
He would make her coffee.
She knew it.
Camilla had two best friends in the world.
One was August—the Brooklyn native with the crazy curls. The other had always been her big brother.
August passed over the conditioning pomade she kept at Camilla’s place—considering the two might as well be roommates a lot of the time—and took a seat in front of the vanity. Camilla gathered August’s thick, coarse hair with a practiced hand.
“Just like last time?” Camilla asked her friend.
In the mirror, August nodded. “Big pom, but tease it out like a faux-hawk down the top and middle. I need to get my braids in before winter comes.”
Camilla had spent a lot of time with August and her mom over the years of their friendship. Some of that time had been sitting in salons because her friend’s hair needed to be maintained no matter if she wore it natural, in braids, or with a weave. If anything, Camilla figured that’s where she had picked up some of her talent for fixing August’s wild hair, not to mention, her own …
Right now, Camilla’s hair was a platinum blonde mess with a purple fade of curls that needed a good soak in hot oils. August’s mom—Ada—had taught Camilla how to take care of her hair to an extreme given the abuse she put it through monthly.
Next week, it might be red, or back to brown. Maybe Camilla would put colorful streaks through it, or cut it all off.
She never kept one style for long.
“You know you’re going to be amazing today, right?” Camilla asked.
August’s russet gaze met Cam’s dark brown eyes in the mirror. “Kind of nervous. I feel like Dad got me this, and not you know, me.”
“First, maybe your dad put in a good word, but who cares? Graphic design, marketing, and branding—that’s your focus for college. This one-year internship with Bared Brands is going to be fucking awesome for that.”
Plus, August was smart as hell. Skipped a grade in middle school, got a scholarship into the prestigious private school Camilla attended, and a full ride for college. Her friend could and would do whatever she put her mind to.
“Maybe.”
“Keep me updated through the day.”
August cocked a brow. “Girl, did you think I would do anything different?”
Not at all.
***
“About the club thing—”
Camilla held up a single finger to shush her brother without saying a word. She took a long sip from the coffee he’d handed over in a to-go mug from her cupboards. The creamy, sweet drink perked her up just enough to be agreeable.
“Never talk to me before coffee, Cross. You know this.”
Her brother’s familiar brown gaze rolled upward. He navigated the city streets to head east. Breakfast at a Newport restaurant on Saturdays was a new thing their parents wanted to do ever since Cross came home from Chicago a couple of months earlier.
“How’d you get into the club?” her brother asked.
Camilla smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Do you know the security at the door, or did someone get you a fake ID?”
“Both?”
“Cam.”
She shrugged. “Guess we’re going to pretend like you weren’t the biggest trouble making shit on the planet from the time you were thirteen, huh?”
Cross cleared his throat. “This is not about me. It’s about you. I’m … looking out for you. Yeah, that works.”
“Bullshit. I paid Zeke.”
“I knew that bastard got you a fake ID,” Cross bitched under his breath.
Her brother’s best friend was way off-limits for Camilla in any kind of way—though he was cute, and probably a good time—because the guy treated her like a little sister. A side effect of having grown up around the guy since she was born.
“Be nice. He was looking out for me since you were in Chicago and all.”
Cross nodded. “Right, by getting you into clubs.”
“Like you never used to go into clubs with Catherine Marcello when she wasn’t legal age?”
Her brother stiffened in the driver’s seat of his Porsche at the mention of his ex. Camilla half-smiled to herself, but hid it by taking another drink of coffee. The best way to get Cross off a topic of conversation was to put his ex into it.
“At least it was just August in your bed this morning.”
Camilla snorted. “I apologized for the guy, Cross.”
“He had nothing on, Camilla.”
“And the girl,” she added. “I apologized for her, too.”
That was the first time her brother found out Camilla didn’t have a preference when it came to hooking up with somebody. As long as the guy or girl was going to be a good time, she was all for it. They had to be gone by morning, or soon after—that was her deal.
Camilla didn’t do relationships. She was too young, and having too much fun being nineteen, in college, and out on her own to settle down with somebody. Any relationship she did dabble in was done almost as soon as it started.
She found boys to be like toys. Fun to look at, cool to play with, but then she quickly lost interest. Although, she had never gotten into a relationship beyond sex with a woman, she figured it would probably end up being the same.
Camilla’s interest just couldn’t be kept for longer than it took to have an orgasm … or five.
That didn’t stop people from trying, though.
“I mean,” Cross said, glancing over at his sister, “the girl definitely wasn’t too bad to look at other than the fact she tried to kill me with one of your crystals. You know, when she threw it at my fucking head.”
Camilla laughed.
So she had an active sex life. Her brother liked to pick on her about it sometimes, but he never made her feel like she was doing something wrong. He never shamed her for the choices she made, and instead, only asked if she was safe and okay.
She loved her brother for that, really.
“She thought you were breaking into my place or something,” Camilla said.
“Because we don’t look like siblings at all,” Cross replied wryly.
He was right. The two shared the dominate Donati features, but where Cross took a stronger, more masculine version, Camilla was the lighter, feminine side. He was sharp lines, and she was soft curves. She barely reached five-foot-six in heels, while he towered over six feet. Her brother smiled, and showed off cut-from-stone cheekbones, and she carried her mother’s delicate nose and petite figure.
A person couldn’t miss how much the two looked similar, though.
“Maybe she thought you were going to try to join in or something,” Camilla said. “Some people are freaky like that—the whole sibling get up, you know.”
Cross made a gagging noise in the back of his throat. “That’s enough of that. Jesus Christ.”
A dinging bell took Camilla’s attention away from her brother for the moment. A notification on her cell phone let her know that the paper she needed to have in on Monday was now pushed back until Friday. Apparently, the professor for the class had come down with some kind of wicked bug and would not be back in classes until Friday.
School was the one and only thing Camilla did not mess around with. Her social and personal life did not get in the way of her schooling. From Monday to Friday, she was ass-in-chair at every class, lecture, and whatever else she needed to do.
Her goal to become a NICU nurse—to take care of premature babies like she had been once—would not be screwed up by any-fucking-thing. Camilla would make sure of it. No matter what she had to do.
“Yes.”
She did a little happy dance in the passenger seat.
“What’s going on now?” Cross asked.
“The rest of my weekend just opened up, big brother.”
Cross smirked. “Oh, how so?”
“Nothing due for school. Nothing to do. August is going to be busy, busy. Free weekend.”
“Zeke is having a house party tonight.”
Camilla did like the sound of that. “Who’s going?”
“Our people,” her brother said. “Some you know, and some you don’t. Better than a club.”
“That’s debatable. Besides, it’ll be awesome because I’m going. Anywhere I go is fucking awesome, thank you very much.”
“Yes, Camilla, because you vomit glitter and piss fabulous. I don’t need the lecture again.”
“Is it a lecture if it’s true?”
She grinned at him.
He just shook his head.
“You love me,” she said.
“Just enough not to hate you, sure,” Cross replied. “I don’t know how you manage to have a hangover and still be this annoying first thing in the morning.”
“Or is it that you don’t like how I turn conversations around on you.”
“You know what, it’s both.”
Camilla smiled sweetly at him, but said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Her point was made.
It was another forty-five minutes of Cross and Camilla seeing who could annoy the other the most before her brother pulled into the parking lot of a familiar restaurant. Inside the cozy, homey decorated Newport bistro, they found their parents already waiting at a table close to the windows, and with a spread of food on the table.
Camilla’s hangover was all but gone.
Her stomach growled instead.
She put the thoughts of food aside for the moment to deal with greeting her waiting parents. They always came first when the two were in the room. She loved Calisto and Emma beyond measure because they never forgot to love her--ever.
Her dad, always her hero and supporter, stood to give Camilla a tight, one-armed hug that still reminded her of the man who used to have pretend tea parties and let her paint his fingernails. Only once, though.
Once her father let her go, Camilla bent down to kiss the apple of her mother’s cheek with a smile. Emma was another cornerstone for Camilla—never failing, always holding strong, and loving her through the rest.
“Figured we better send Cross over to get you when you didn’t pick up my call,” Calisto said as he took his seat.
Camilla sat beside her father.
Cross took the chair beside their mom.
“I was out late,” Camilla said. “Didn’t hear anything until Cross bulled his way into my place.”
Her brother shot her a look.
Camilla shrugged.
Her parents didn’t ask a thing about where she had been, or what she had been doing the night before. They never did. At nineteen, almost twenty, Camilla didn’t have a lot of rules enforced down upon her by her parents. Really, they had never strapped her or Cross down with rules or demands.
She knew that she was lucky. Other principessas—girls like her with an Italian, Cosa Nostra boss for a father—were not as fortunate. Their life did not allow for very much freedom. Yet, her father made sure she had as much semblance of freedom as he could allow without being unsafe.
A good example was the enforcer she knew was on her watch. Or rather, the couple of men who rotated to keep an eye on her. Her father made her aware of the men, but also made it clear they did not report back on Camilla’s whereabouts or anything else she did. They were just there—in the background of her life—to keep her safe should something happen. They kept a healthy distance, and otherwise, gave her privacy.
So far, those enforcers had never needed to step in for Camilla. Other than the few times the men had taken her to a safe house when issues came up with other organizations her father dealt with, she didn’t see them. She hadn’t even known their names until a couple of years ago when she first moved out of her parents’ home.
Sure, being a woman meant Camilla wasn’t supposed to know details about the criminal organization her father ran, and her brother participated in. She was far from dumb.
Observant.
Quiet when needed.
Not, however, stupid.
“Make sure you’re not late for classes on Monday,” her mother said.
“I won’t.”
Like they even had to worry at all about that.
***
Camilla emptied the last bit of Pinot Noir from her glass while waving for her brother’s friend—Zeke—to grab her another. Cross had always been clear on the rules when Camilla partied. Be safe. Never drink from a glass you didn’t pour or see poured, or a drink taken from someone she couldn’t explicitly trust.
She trusted Zeke.
Turning her back to the loud music pumping through the Odessa beach house, Camilla tried to focus on her phone call.
“Give me all the details,” she demanded.
“Damn, I can’t even hear you very well.”
Camilla cursed under her breath, but headed out the back exit of the house where a few people had gathered to drink, and smoke. The heady scent of weed clung in the air, but she focused on her conversation with August.
“Details,” Camilla said when the music was all but a deep murmur at her back. “Give me them.”
“It went good. Basically a what’s what, and the stuff I’ll be doing.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I got the impression my main job is to keep Brock Darling’s specialty coffee full all day.”
Camilla barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Not really.”
“Ugh.”
“We’ll see how it goes. It’s a high energy environment. They started the magazine a few months ago, too, so there are some opportunities for me to learn there. Everybody made it seem like Brock isn’t hard to work for.”
“That’s a plus.”
The music blasted louder behind Camilla as someone came out of the house.
“Where are you?” August asked.
“Zeke’s place.”
“Your brother there, too?”
“Not yet. You wanna come and party?”
August made a sad noise. “Can’t. Someone’s going to need their coffee at eight sharp tomorrow morning.”
“He doesn’t do church?”
“Apparently not, but hey, it gets me out of it, too. I don’t need an excuse on Sundays, now.”
“Nice.”
“Right? So hey, text me tomorrow sometime. We can try to meet up.”
“Will do,” Camilla said. “Love you.”
“Love you, girly.”
By the time Camilla got back inside the house, and found Zeke waiting with her safe glass of wine, she caught sight of her brother coming through the front door.
Cross, and someone else.
She only figured the guy had come with her brother because Cross chatted with him as the two navigated the people together.
Camilla didn’t have a clue who he was, but the guy was gorgeous.
Tall. Lean. Blue-eyed. Dark-haired. Strong features. Sharp lines.
Physically, he wasn’t anything to scoff at. She didn’t care how bold it seemed of her to look him over while she had the chance. If the guy didn’t want to be looked at like he was something she wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of, he shouldn’t look that fucking good walking across a goddamn floor.
Who was he?
Long fingers like he played an instrument, maybe. Or maybe like his fingers were built to play something a little more sinful. Built like he could run a ten-k without losing a breath. A half-smile that spoke of an easy nature, but could probably melt panties when he turned it on a woman.
There was nothing boyish about him.
Not a damn thing.
Dressed in black slacks, black silk shirt, and black leather shoes, he looked damn good. The guy walked with a confidence she knew was probably learned. Yet, his disinterested gaze swept over the faces of the people like he didn’t give a shit who they were.
He looked like all kinds of trouble.
And a whole lot of fun.
A little cocky. A touch of arrogance. Nothing innocent about him.
Exactly Camilla’s type.
The fact the guy was Cross’s friend didn’t bother Camilla at all. That didn’t make him off-limits to her. As long as it didn’t interfere with his business, her brother didn’t give a shit. Not to mention, he never told her who she could or couldn’t sleep with, date, or otherwise.
Cross was good like that.
“Who is that?” she asked Zeke while she still had the time. Soon, her brother and his friend would be too close to ask. “With Cross, I mean.”
“Oh, that’s Tom. He’s spending some time in the city, I guess.”
“Tom?”
“Tommaso Rossi—Chicago.”
Oh.
Oh.
Camilla caught Tommaso’s gaze with her own the closer he came. His straight eyebrow cocked high as his gaze drifted over her face. He then looked over the silver, bodycon dress she had slipped on earlier.
He was a lot like her, it seemed.
Bold.
Unashamed.
Down his gaze went to her bare legs, and the Valentino rockstud black and silver heels she wore. Then his striking gray-blue gaze jumped back up to meet hers once more.
Camilla grinned, and took a sip of her wine. Her night just got way better.
