Page 5 of City of Wind and Lies

The police haven't listed our family or associates as potential sources for the bad batches of coke being pushed. I'm not even sure it's ours, but it sure as hell seems convenient that we’ve had product going missing right as these OD's flare up. I've been working over the last few years to lessen our take on the drugs, slowly whittling our involvement down, but we still have a respectable presence on the streets. Between the Monarch Club, my investments, and the realty sectors, we’ve picked up enough legitimate revenue that within a year or two we should be able to leave the drugs behind altogether. The poker nights, loans, and protection orders will still keep our members busy and well-paid. But if this drug thing brings heat to us now, the Feds will be up our asses again in no time.

I press the button on the remote on my keyring to open the gate as I descend into the parking garage below the Monarch Building. Mateo waves from the guard station as I step out of my SUV, and I head off toward the elevator, swiping my keycard for the penthouse and skimming over my work emails as I ride up to the top floor. Allen, the head of accounting at Vento Ventures, has asked for another extension on final reporting for his department for the month. Maybe it's just a bad aftertaste of the day I've had, but something about it feels off.

By the time I step into the hall of the penthouse floor, I've got instructions out to HR and the department heads for a new position I'm creating come Monday morning. It's late, so I decide against briefing Rocco, pocketing my phone and swiping my keycard again to open one of three sleek black doors in the dimly lit hall, stepping into my suite.

The moonlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminates a black box with a matching satin bow resting precariously on the white quartz countertop in the kitchen. My hand instinctively slides to check that my piece is still tucked in my waistband as I quickly cross the penthouse, my hackles raising.

"Cazzo," I mutter as I finger the small card tucked against the bow, instantly recognizing the handwriting.

'For tomorrow, cousin. -R'

I peel away the ribbon- courtesy of Isabella, I'm sure- and lift the lid to find a plain black masquerade mask. There’s another card embossed with the Monarch Club's purple butterfly logo and details for the party, instructing guests to dress in all black.

The longer I stare at the molded mask, the more my jaw tightens as I empty my pockets and slip off my jacket. I'm happy for Rocco, but I’m not looking forward to the pointed questions that I’m sure I'll be fielding all night.

Fuck, maybe my old man’s right. Maybe it’s finally time to settle down, get married and have a couple of brats…

I shudder at the thought of being tethered to someone like Isabella Ricci for the rest of my life, pushing that thought out of my head as quickly as it entered. What’s the point in building an empire just to be goddamn miserable for the rest of my life? People can talk all they want, but the proof’s in what I’ve accomplished over the last decade. I shouldn’t need a wife or a child to legitimize that.

I grumble curses under my breath as I make my way down the hall to my room, discarding my clothes on the chair and sliding into bed. I just have to get through the next twenty-four hours, and then all this bullshit will be behind me and I can get back to focusing on what really matters. I huff out a breath as I cradle the pillow and roll to my side. Sempre per la famiglia .

"Viva gli sposi!" I shout, raising my glass of champagne above my head. There's easily over a hundred people gathered at the Monarch Club to celebrate Rocco and Isabella's engagement, and they all echo my sentiment with their own glasses raised high. "Brindisi!" I call out even louder, bringing the glass down to my lips and throwing back the champagne.

Isabella's family insisted on having the event catered, even though it was well within the capabilities of the club to provide the meal tonight. I guess Aldo's nephew owns a catering business and wanted to support his family. That action only inflates the respect I have for the Ricci's, and it also has my old man's words about settling down echoing louder in my head.

I discard my glass on an empty high-top table as I look around the midnight purple interior of the club to see how many of the smaller families in the outfit turned up. There are multiple younger women scattered about, and while they’re all classically beautiful, I don’t feel anything more than appreciation for their looks as I glance toward them. I’m sure most would be eager to wed me, bed me, and bear my children- and no doubt their fathers would be twice as eager to trade them to me. But I just can't bring myself to settle for a placeholder.

The room suddenly feels more crowded when Rocco's hand snakes around Isabella’s waist, dipping her backwards in a big showy kiss that has everyone swooning and cheering. I need something stronger than champagne.

Excusing myself and heading off down the hall, I stride past the kitchen and private rooms towards the stairs to my office, pausing when I hear the sounds of commotion and a woman’s scream outside the door to the alley. I immediately go to investigate, turning the handle of the door and slowly pushing it open to assess the situation.

As soon as I poke my head outside, I see a tall man in a hoodie hovering over a woman slumped against the dumpster, wearing a server's uniform and gold mask. Her fingertips are stained crimson as she pulls her hand down from her face and inspects them, and her whimpered plea for the guy to leave her alone sparks something inside of me. I may be a made man with more kills than I can count on my hands, but physically hurting a woman is fucking disgraceful.

The man throws his hands up, yelling at her as he inches closer, and I step around the door, releasing it and letting it slam shut behind me to announce my presence.

"She said to leave her alone," I growl as I advance on the guy, snatching his wrist and twisting it behind his back.

"Back off, asshole," he spits, squirming pathetically in an attempt to break free from my hold.

I squeeze tighter, his body going rigid as the realization of my strength registers. Then, without warning, I splay my fingers to drop his arm, ramming my palm between his shoulder blades and forcing him face first to the concrete.

The girl winces at the sound of his body hitting the ground beside her. If she's concerned for him, her face doesn't show it, though. Her bright blue eyes hold a morbid curiosity in them instead, sparking my intrigue.

She watches intently as my hand circles the back of the guy’s neck, roughly pulling him to his knees as I crouch down beside him. The douchebag spits a glob of blood at me, narrowly missing my face and landing on my chest. Guess the all-black attire worked in my favor.

I tilt his head to face me, his pupils dilated and blood trickling from his nose. Lifting my chin in the direction of the girl, I say, "Apologize." My thumb is pressed so deeply into his neck that I can feel his pulse quicken as I turn his head to face her.

"S-Sorry," he mumbles.

She lets out a ragged breath, shaking her head. "Go home, Trey." Her shoulders droop as she adds, "and stay away from me."

Trey's body goes slack, finally accepting defeat. Standing up to my full height, I tug him up with me, fish a fifty from my pocket, and press it into his palm.

"Catch a cab and get the fuck away from my club," I spit, giving him a shove.

His eyes dart to the girl and then back to me before he jogs off at a frenetic pace.

I turn back to the girl, finally getting a good look at her. God, she’s beautiful.

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