Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Everyone’s alright,” he assured her, tapping my arm, and leading me down the hall with him.
“You’re not going to let me take them out are you?” I asked.
“It’s too risky right now.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I snapped.
“Hey, you’ll keep her safe. Now that you know how serious the threat is, you can adjust and make sure nothing like this happens again.”
“What, forever?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“Is he telling you about his girl trouble?” Giana asked, walking toward us with a coffee cup in her hand, handing it to her husband, and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
There was a strange… I don’t know… tugging sensation inside, seeing them.
I decided I was probably just hungry or something. Because nothing else would make sense.
“I don’t have girl trouble,” I insisted.
“This Halle,” Lorenzo said, snaking an arm around Giana’s waist, and pulling her close. “Is she pretty.”
“She’s fucking gorgeous, but that has nothing to do with this.”
“You know where I’ve heard that before?” Giana asked, eyes bright, smile bemused. She raised a hand, counting off on her fingers. “Santi, Brio, Salvatore, Cesare, Emilio…”
“I don’t even know the woman,” I insisted.
“Well, no easier way to get to know her than to have her staying at your place,” Lorenzo said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Keep me updated on everything. And I will have Ant look into this family. Just so we are sure who we are dealing with. Go home to your girl,” he said.
“She’s not my girl,” I insisted.
“No, of course not,” Giana said, lips twitching.
“Christ,” I hissed, turning, and walking out of the Brownstone.
And damn near plowing into my step-brother.
Silvano’s head whipped up, his eyes immediately darkening when his gaze landed on me.
“Don’t worry. We don’t have to exchange pleasantries,” I said, continuing down the steps.
“You owe Mom an apology,” he said, making me turn back.
“Excuse me?” I snapped.
“You heard me. You owe her an apology. Spent weeks, months, crying over your selfish fucking ass. You owe her. You owe everyone, in fact,” he said, voice dripping venom, as it always did when we interacted.
Admittedly, when my father married his mother, I’d been the older one. I’d been the one who should have tried harder to set the tone between us, to refuse to rise to his continuous fucking bait.
But I had still been a kid, too.
And dealing with a shithead dad who’d already done a number on me. And continued to beat me down in any way he could. Physically and otherwise.
I didn’t have the coping skills to deal with an equally unhappy brother whose main complaint seemed to be that he didn’t have a blood relation to the Costas. Seeming not to realize that blood relations were why we got the ever-loving hell beat out of us, while he stayed relatively unscathed.
I won’t say my old man never raised a hand, or belt, to him. But Silvano had layers of protection that I’d never had. His mom. Me. As much as there was no real love between us as brothers, I did often take the heat for shit he’d fucked up. Then, as shit got worse with him and Silvano’s mom, I’d done my best to step in there, too, saving her from getting the kinds of beatings I’d been getting my whole life.
The problem was, I’d never told Silvano any of this.
And, eventually, I did start rising to his bait.
Then the fights led to resentment and distance.
It was a pattern that continued well after my old man died, and we were old enough to go off on our own.
“First, for the record, I already talked to Ma. We worked shit out. Second, how I interact with Ma—or the Family—is none of your fucking business. Third, I don’t have fucking time for your bitching today,” I said, turning and walking away.
Did I regret the way I spoke to him by the time I got to my car? Sure. Kind of. But that was just the way shit was with us. Hard. Angry. It didn’t seem like there was any fixing that after all these years. Even if we wanted to, it didn’t seem like either of us had the skills to figure out how to do that.
After Lorenzo’s, I met up again with Miko, this time over a meal that both of us needed.
He’d taken over at Venezio’s place. Not only had he ordered him some food, but he’d gotten a fucking mini fridge and microwave delivered, and set up near the recliner, so Venezio could reach and heat up food without getting out of his chair.
He’d loaded the fridge up.
Then he’d also gotten him an office chair, so he could transfer onto that, and roll it into the bathroom. Apparently, his doors were too narrow for a wheelchair.
“Besides, think he’s got too much fucking pride for the chair,” Miko said. “You headed home now?” he asked.