two

E L I A

―――

THE LITTLE REDHEAD sits back on her heels between my thighs, freshly manicured hands gripping my knees through the black slacks I wear, mouth dangerously close to my dick. It comes to life, twitching beneath her hooded, lustful gaze, and I clench my jaw to steel myself away from the thought of taking her a third time.

"Is something wrong, Elia?" Siena's piercing green eyes peer up at me from fluttering lashes, fingers squeezing me. She's completely naked, her pale, freckled body on display in my office, even though Orlando Montalto sits across from us, gaze trained on the wooden surface. Not my fault he came in while I was busy.

I ignore Siena, staring daggers into my father's hollow face. His fingers tap on the large oak desk in my office, nestled in the upstairs corner of Crimson, the club we've owned and operated since our arrival in King's Trace. He leans into the leather wingback chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, and cups his jaw.

Waiting. Watching. A made man through and through, several times over.

The speculation is killing me.

Our nightclub, Crimson, is basically a dirty front for mafia business; this town is a massive tourist town because it's so small and nearly off-the-grid, so rich folk from Quebec and Portland like to vacation here and party hard during their visits. We set up deals in the back alley during the day when we're less likely to be raided, and at night they come back and pump money into cover charges, over-priced drinks, and sex in our VIP lounge, occasionally with strippers.

I'm not a huge fan of the whole prostitution thing, but I let the girls make the final decision. Most of them don't double, because they're paid enough with my gig, but there are a few that do it for the control.

Siena doesn't like control. She wants to be treated like dirt, which is why she's the only girl I do repeats with; it's why she sits here still, despite my father's presence.

Uncrossing his legs, my father shifts, the rustling fabric of his Brioni suit the only sound in the room. Even the ice cubes in our glasses are still, as if the discomfort swarming around froze them in the liquid.

The temptation to take Siena again, just to spite him, is heavy. Unfortunately, I've already had her twice this evening; once, bent over my desk, legs spread as wide as they could go. I pummeled into her tight little ass over and over again until she screamed out in agony, the sound making me come harder than usual.

Then again, against the tall, double-paned window overlooking the streets of Maine's smallest, most corrupt town, enjoying the way she exploded on my dick at the prospect of being watched.

That's how I know she's got a voyeurism kick. While any other time, I might tell her to stay right where she sits and suck my cock until Gia finally fucking shows up and my father dies of embarrassment, today I'm not really in the mood.

I'm the first to break our silence, desperate to know whether he approves or not of my decision. "Okay, would you just fucking say something?"

"Not until you excuse your little harlot."

Rolling my eyes, I brush Siena away, tossing her the dress I stripped off her not long after dragging her up here. She pulls it over her head, taking the hint, stiletto heels clacking against the hardwood floor as she exits the room.

My father clears his throat. "What would you like me to say, son? That you're royally fucking up here? Forcing this girl to marry you, just to stick it to Ivers?"

"I'm not forcing her to do shit. It was a suggestion, and she accepted. Almost immediately. Makes me wonder what the fuck is going on at home."

"Whatever's going on at home is none of your concern. We have much bigger problems, now that someone's stealing from our direct supply in the warehouse. Or did you forget we're missing product?"

I roll my eyes. "Of course, not."

"Then why aren't you focusing on that? I know for a fact that Giacomo and Marco have rounded up several men as leads, and I'm told you haven't interrogated a single one."

"I don't do that. That's what Gia and Kal are for."

"Kal isn't even in town."

Swallowing, I swirl my fingertip along the rim of my glass. "All right, we'll put Marco on it."

My father leans forward, leveling me with a steely gaze. It doesn't scare me, per se, but my spine does sit up a little straighter. His nostrils flare, a clear indication that he's pissed.

Well, join the club. I propose to a woman, and she gives me a fake fucking number. As if I wouldn't be able to find her, regardless.

That's my exact plan when I leave the club tonight, but my father's interference is ticking me off. I don't need micromanaging.

"You know, son, how a man leads his men says a lot about what kind of husband he'll make. Are you sure you're up for that particular task? Because your disinterest in being involved with the business, and your immaturity tell me you're not ready for any of it. Maybe I should call Rafe down here and have him dissolve the outfit, take the rest back to Boston with him."

I clench my jaw, my fingers balling into a fist at my side. It takes more effort than I'm willing to admit not to snap, take his throat in my hands, and demand to know what he thinks of the kind of husband he was—allowing his wife to be murdered while his son sat there, helpless.

But I can't. I don't want to dredge up the memories, hash out sins past. My mother haunts me regularly; I can only hope she does him as well.

"Maybe you should." I shrug instead, forcing nonchalance.

I can tell he isn't expecting my response, and it makes my chest cave with the weight of how little he knows me. His brown eyes narrow, looking for a piece of my soul to penetrate. But my soul is tarred, black and thick, and in desperate need of redemption.

Too bad men like us don't get that chance.

"What the hell's gotten into you? That girl's pussy cannot be that tight."

Aside from the fact that I've merely tasted Caroline, the way he so blatantly disregards the woman I've chosen to be my wife grates on my nerves. "Pops, I get you're used to doing things a certain way, but this is my job now. My business, my wife. And you will respect all of it."

"Am I supposed to respect the several million dollars you wire transferred into Harrison's account, as well?"

"It was a business transaction, just like anything else. I had to sweeten the pot so he'd hand Caroline over." And to protect her sister.

A knock on the door jars us from our conversation, and Benito, my personal guard, pokes his bald head inside. "Giacomo for you, Boss."

I wave him along, irritation spiking my blood. My father's mouth presses into a thin, hard line, and he stands, exiting the room as Gia enters.

"Boss." Giacomo Marelli's large frame and buzzcut fill the doorway, blocking the view into the hallway behind him. Dressed in casual clothes, light-wash jeans, and a black sweater, like he isn't the second-in-command to a fucking mafia boss. The only tell is the .22 strapped to his waist, mirroring my own weapon. He averts his eyes from my father's retreating form, scratching at his forearm. "Am I interrupting?"

"Actually, you're late." I push back in my chair, settling behind the desk. Gia looks at me with narrowed eyes, shifting back onto his heels, appearing uncomfortable. I bristle. "What's going on?"

He sighs, looking apologetic. "I guess that depends on what you want to hear first."

"How many fucking problems are there?"

"Well, I received word that Kieran is looking for an outfit to poach clientele from and debts to collect."

"How the hell can he do that from that creepy house he lives in?"

"Ivers International has hands in every pie; organized crime is only the tip of the iceberg where their computers are concerned, and Kieran's a hacking phenomenon."

I stroke a hand over my chin, considering this. "And he thinks I owe him something?"

Gia frowns. "He knows you do."

Goddamn Dominic Harrison.

If I weren't such a fucking sap, there'd be no wedding. No war with a man lacking a soul.

And that's saying something since all made men sell a part of themselves for this life. My soul reeks of destruction, but Kieran's is missing altogether. I've only met him once, right after he took over fixing for an outfit in Stonemore, the town a half-hour away, in light of his older brother's death. But once was enough.

What kind of a bastard smiles during his own brother's funeral?

I sure as fuck didn't smile at Ma's. How could I, knowing what I'd done? The guilt follows me around like a lost ghost, and it's what drove me to help Caroline in the first place. A form of atonement I'm not sure she's capable of offering.

Reaching for the scotch at the corner of my desk, I tip my head back and down the remainder of the drink, admiring the burn as it glides down my throat. Slamming it back on the wooden surface with a grunt, I level Gia with a look. "Does he know I'm not giving her up?"

He nods, shifting and crossing his legs. Gripping his knee in one hand, he flicks a piece of lint off his jeans. The picture of ease, though my insides are boiling. "Do you really want to keep her?"

Blinking, I narrow my eyes. "Why the fuck wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. It isn't like this is a marriage that's really benefiting you. I mean, wasn't Siena just here?"

The slight bite of jealousy in his words makes my chest squeeze. Gia keeps quiet about his sexuality, but I know a small crush simmers beneath the surface of my best friend. "Yeah, so?"

"So, why not give Caroline an out, let her marry Kieran, and move on with your life?"

"I don't want to do that. Besides, I paid my dues. If I'm going to be out a few million dollars, don't you think I deserve to get something out of it?"

To keep my promise to Caroline and provide protection for both her and that bratty sister of hers, I had to outbid Kieran, which meant paying Dom's hefty debt to him. And even though it barely made a dent on my bank, my pride still suffered.

"You're starting a war by bringing her here, and you don't seem to really care."

"I don't care." I shrug, suddenly feeling trapped in my expensive suit. I don't know what it is exactly about this subject that makes my skin crawl, but I'm quickly becoming irritated with the conversation. "Caroline belongs to me, regardless of how this arrangement benefits either of us. She will be my wife, and I promised to protect her. As my oldest friend, I thought you of all people would get my desire to honor my word."

Bowing his head, he uncrosses his legs and braces his forearms on them. Giacomo and I grew up in this life together; his family followed my father and me shortly after Ma was murdered in New York, starting the Montalto operation under the thumb of the Riccis in Boston. When my father retired as underboss and Gia's father was shot and paralyzed, we naturally assumed their previous roles and have been running the unit ever since.

His older brother Angelo serves as one of my soldiers, constantly causing trouble. Most times, Gia's only job is to keep an eye on the unruly fucker.

As underboss, my father only ever admired one trait in a man—loyalty. Dominic Harrison never had any; always looking for a way to steal a quick buck, the senator began as a bookkeeper for Ivers International, but quickly expanded his business. Using money he skimmed from the Ivers' company, he secured himself a seat in the legislature and began borrowing from organized crime units throughout the state, promising the moon and more.

Most of the campaign money at this point is stuff he's straight-up laundered from our businesses, using connections as a front and funneling the money into his own account. He's playing a dangerous game; one I suspect he's close to losing. Few steal from the mafia and live long enough to tell about it.

But regardless, with whatever the fuck is going on with him, the little topolina is mine. I have a feeling she might be worth it.

━━━━━━

"Lotta pussies dryin' up today, my friend." Marco Alessi, head of shipments and imports, claps his hand on my shoulder, shaking me. Considering how many trips he's made to the bar, and the stench of vodka on his breath, I'm guessing he's wasted.

Phoebe, the petite brunette bartender that he insisted we staff, glances at him warily as she adjusts my cufflink. I don't know how I managed to rope her into helping me dress for my elopement, but she seemed happy enough to leave her post at first. Now, she just seems annoyed.

I can relate. "Goddamnit, Marco, you're not supposed to get drunk until after the wedding. That's what the reception is for."

"Sue me." He shrugs, swinging his arms at his side and scanning the room. Crimson's club floor is split-level, half for the dancefloor and bar, the elevated half a VIP area with strippers and sticky, red leather booths. My eye catches Siena's red hair as she works a pole from above, shaking her ass like her life depends on it, and I quickly look away. Marco, though, zeroes in on her, a wicked grin slicing across his face. "Excuse me."

He takes the stairs quickly, immediately sidling up to the side of the stage Siena's on, leaning against the edge as she shimmies around. I roll my eyes, but not because I give a shit who he fucks. My men stick it in these girls as often as I do.

For some reason, my nerves are getting the best of me; it's been over a week since I made plans to meet Caroline at this courthouse, and part of me worries she won't show. If she doesn't, I'll have to chase her father down and shake him for a return, which I know he won't give easily.

I'm not sure she'd forgive me for putting a bullet in his head.

And it wouldn't even solve her problems—as if Kieran wouldn't come after her anyway, demanding payment in whatever form she'd give it. Even if she didn't give it; he'd rip it from her the way a dairy farmer rips a newborn calf from its mother. She wouldn't even see it coming.

I don't know why, but there's this strong urge inside of me to keep that from happening, which is what has me signing my life over today, abandoning bachelorhood and choosing duty over freedom.

Nothing good can come from having your choices taken away.

My heart races at the memory of her words, her determination to not let others rule her life—at least, anyone who isn't her father. I need to find out what the fuck he has on her to make the girl so subservient to his every whim.

Phoebe pokes my wrist with the Montalto family cufflink, drawing my attention back to her. She forces an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I'm not feeling all that well."

"Relax, Pheebs, it's a dull cufflink, not a knife." I take my hand from hers, step down off the makeshift platform we've been using—an overturned milk crate—and look at myself in the mirror she dragged down from the dressing room upstairs. "Well, what do you think? Do I look like a groom?"

Her big doe eyes stay focused on the stage above us. "You look great, Elia."

"Phoebe."

"Like James Bond, even. Or Michael in The Godfather."

I glance again at my Armani suit; all black, because anything more is just false advertisement, and obviously more expensive than the one he wore in that fucking movie. "Phoebe," I repeat. "You're not even looking at me."

Blushing, she tears her eyes from Marco and Siena dry humping in a booth. What the fuck is that about?

"Sorry, sir." She gulps, then takes me in for real, a slow, shy smile spreading across her face. If not for her demure nature—and the fact that my soldier is hopelessly in love with her, but clearly a dumbass—I'd probably have had a taste of her delicate flesh, but we work better as colleagues. Friends, even.

And my mind is stuck on a feisty blonde, who, after tonight, will legally be mine.

Phoebe's jaw drops as her gaze reconnects with the scene upstairs, watching as Siena crawls on her knees to Marco's lap, head disappearing as her red locks drape over him. I reach down and close her mouth with the tip of my index finger, offering her a sympathetic smile. "Why don't you head home?"

Her eyes snap to mine, and she straightens her back. "I don't need—"

I shake my head, cutting her off. "Look, this place will probably be packed tonight for the reception. You don't want to be here for a Montalto celebration. They're notoriously raucous and always getting shut down by police."

"I thought the police were on your payroll."

"They are, but they've still got to keep up appearances from time to time." She tries to steal another glance upstairs, but I grip her chin firmly, keeping her head straight. "Go, kid. Trust me when I say you don't need to see that shit."

Her chin jerks in my hand, resisting, but after a minute of me not relenting, she finally sags beneath my touch and nods. I release her, adjusting the collar of my shirt as she walks back over to the bar, scoops up her coat and purse, and walks out the front entrance without another thought.

I should probably go tell Marco to get it on somewhere less public, but I don't exactly have time. One glance at the thick, gold watch on my wrist tells me I'm somehow running behind, and there isn't a chance in hell I want to miss this.