Romano;
Martin gets the door, and I plop into the leather, aggravation eating at my burning pulse. One fucking job, and none of them could get it right.
My senses turn livid when my ringing phone spears the silence. I pick it up, father's name flashing vividly on the screen. My throat suddenly feels tight as I swipe the green floating call icon.
"Where are you?" His voice rolls from the speaker, low with a slight rough edge underneath.
"On my way home," I report, signaling Martin to get the car moving.
The engine revs to life, and we pull out of the Rossi estate parking lot, tires screeching on the asphalt.
"Make a quick stop at the Casino. Davenport will be there in an hour. Bag that deal," his order slices through the tension in my muscles, making it more unsettling.
"I will, Father." The line goes dead, and my heavy sigh condenses the air.
"Downtown to the Casino," I add.
Martin nods before steering the wheel in the direction I've given.
I've made my father another assurance—one I don't even know if I'll be able to pull through. Another weight on my shoulders.
My head throbs with pressure. The problem with the Rossis' is barely taken care of, and now I'm off to deal with another; fucking Davenport.
It's confidential business, but the whistling anxiety knotting in my spine encourages me to get into my call log, searching for a very helpful aid—one that's always got my back no matter what, unbeknownst to our father.
His network is on another level entirely.
My finger idles over the ten digits, a spark of hesitation zapping through my muscles. I tap on it anyway.
Once, and he picks up the call. "What are we dealing with?" Always straight to business.
"A Davenport, FBI shit," I tell him, ignoring the sting in my chest at the fact that he's used this—used to picking up my calls and knowing it's for a fucking job.
My brother and I love each other in our own ways. Ways we don't show. Ways we don't even want each other to know that we do. We just…do.
"What shitty plan is Father conjuring now?" Caruso grunts his response, tone scaling on annoyance.
"I can't tell you that." He knows already, and I think he wasn't even asking in the first place.
"I'll call you back," he replies, about to end the call.
"How many hours?" I ask, because time is not really on my side.
"Thirty minutes." He deadpans, tone reeking of chilling confidence.
Then the line beeps, signifying the end of our conversation.
Digging into an FBI member is not a walk in the park. It's going to be difficult as shit.
Just like Caruso, now I'm thinking, what the hell was going through Father's mind when he got the idea?
Three blocks down, and we round to a stop at the Casino. It's 9:30 PM, when I check the time, the strap of my expensive timepiece feeling like heavy weight.
Cool air hits my skin, seeping into my pores as I alight, slamming the door behind me.
"Wait here," I issue an order to Martin as I stalk toward the luxurious, flashy, blinking lights.
"Sir," two guards flanking either side of the entrance bow in greeting as I pass through.
With a noncommittal nod, I stalk my way to my office, the loud 'ding-ding' and thudding noises dulling to muffled echoes with every step.
The VIP elevator pings open, and I enter, punching in the only floor it's automated to go.
I arrive in my office in mere seconds, sticking out a finger to the door pad. It accesses my fingerprints, the interface changing bright blue before it 'tings' open, sliding to grant me entrance.
Just when I sink into the swivel seat behind my desk, filled with neatly arranged paperwork—nothing out of place—a knock echoes, and I permit, "Come in."
Luca strides in, hands in his pocket. "The dude's here."
"Who?" My fingers rub my temple as I question.
"Marcello Davenport."
"Fuck." He isn't supposed to be this early. At least fifteen minutes are left before he comes, according to what Father said.
"Seems like a tough one, huh?" Luca taunts, a smirk prying at his lip.
"Bring him in, and arrange some refreshments," I order, feeling a throbbing ache in my temple.
"Yes, boss." He whistles, swinging to leave. "A bottle of scotch for you."
I ignore my cousin's jab, checking for any messages or missed calls from Caruso. None yet.
My drumming pulse heightens.
Eight minutes later, another knock echoes, and I permit them in; Luca and Marcello Davenport, an agent working for the government.
Marcello strolls into my office. I must say, he isn't what I expected—sharp tailored suits and equally sharp shadowed features. He's young. Possibly between my age bracket or my brother's.
He cuts me a smile as he sits, a figure behind him.
And when I drag my gaze upward, recognition flares like hot steel at the woman behind him.
My left eyebrow jumps when she looks at me and immediately averts her gaze, plastering on a smile fake as shit while she stands like a dutiful slut.
My eyes trail from her barely covered body parts to Marcello's hands stretching out before me in a handshake. "Good to finally meet you, Mr. Giordano."
I take his hand in a firm, mild squeeze, then draw away.
"It's a shame I couldn't meet your father," he says, dark eyes regarding me with a rueful smile.
"Unfortunately, you'll have to go through me," I tell him, an edge to my tone that I know doesn't go past him.
He exhales, leaning into the firm leather.
My eyes travel up again to his companion. "Extra personnel weren't included in this meeting, were they?" My gaze still on her. "Or did I miss something?"
He chuckles. "She's as harmless as a fly. You don't need to worry about her."
Running my tongue along my lips, I flick my attention back to him. Time for business.
"I hear you want to buy my silence," Marcello jeers, eyes glinting with deviousness.
Steepling my fingers and feeling too much like my father, I relax my tense shoulders. "That depends on how much it's worth."
The corner of his mouth twitches.
I don't wait to spot the rest of his reactions when the vibration from my phone jars my thoughts. My eyes fall on the lit screen; Caruso's message appears—a confidence booster.
And a hell lot of energy sparks and cackles in my veins. I fight a wry grin. "What if I offer you something more valuable than money?"
Marcello's gaze narrows, glossy and heavy with contemplation. It slides to my phone by my side, his FBI instinct kicking in—realizing that I have the upper hand here.
Movement stirs, and the gingerhead woman behind him lowers to his ears, her lips moving soundlessly.
I sit back, watching the wordless interaction. Shortest bargain meeting I've ever had—thankfully, it hasn't spiraled into violence.
I owe my brother one.
I cut a glance to the woman, reckoning she has deeper ties to things of the Underworld.
Why was she with my fiancée that night at the club?