Page 11 of Fatal Sloth

Enzo strides over, kicking Petra in the face so hard he rolls onto his back. My boy's got a short fuse, but he's been loyal since day one. “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “the don asked you a question.”

More groans and mumbles, but nothing coherent.

“It’s family,” I repeat, catching a snippet of his garbled speech in between his blood-spattered coughs. This man is infuriating. He says nothing during hours of Enzo's torment, but now he's got shit to say when his mouth is too fucked up to form a sentence.

“Un-Fucking-Believable, did you catch any of that?” I ask Enzo, who looks ready to hit him again.

“Something about family is all I made out,” he huffs, returning to the sink to grab a paper towel, bending at the waist to wipe Petra’s blood splatter off the top of his loafers.

“Yeah, that's all I made out.” Heading back upstairs before watching him take his last breath.

An uneasy feeling washes over me as we head back to the VIP section.

Nico went after the guy Petra came with, but he slipped away. Damn Nico, he never follows through with what I ask him to do. He can't even handle a simple task like nabbing the guy Petra arrived with.

Yet, he's always ready to kiss Dad's ass. If he weren't blood, I wouldn't tolerate him. Dad lost his brother on the same day Nico lost his old man, so he's always had a soft spot for Nico. That's probably why Dad would consider making him his heir. Or maybe he does it just to piss me off. Nico and I used to be tight until high school. Then, things just changed. It was like he was competing with me in a game I never signed up for. The less I gave a shit, the more he tried to one-up me in everything—school, dames, sports, you name it.

And to think Dad's ready to hand over the reins to this stunad just because he wakes up at the crack of dawn and is willing to be married off to any bitch Dad chooses. But I guess that's the only way Nico can get some poor woman to marry his sorry ass. Besides, nothing good ever comes from marriage or being awake before noon.

8

Sebastiano

Fisting her hair in one hand, the other hand behind my head as she bobs up and down on my cock. “Swallow every drop and get the fuck out,” I grunt just before I fill her mouth with my seed, my head falling back on the pillow as I gaze at the ceiling for a minute while I enjoy my post-orgasm haze. Her mouth is still on my dick, trying to suck me dry.

The head wasn't top-notch, but it did the job. After leaving the basement last night, options were limited in terms of who to bring home. Since I couldn't get the blue-eyed blonde out of my mind and still had a raging hard-on, I settled for taking this random chick home to take the edge off.

After removing my dick from Jenna’s mouth, or did she say her name was Sara? Eh, it doesn't really matter.Not sparing a second glance to see the dejected pout on her face, I walk to the bathroom to clean up.

It’s too fucking early for this, I’d prefer to lay in bed all day, but Dad wants me in his home office today to meet a potential father-in-law before we have brunch. It’s bad enough he insists on a horrific union with a woman I’ve never met, but even I have some morals. And meeting the man with the scent of someone else’s daughter lingering on my dick isn’t the first impression I'm going for. I’m just glad that out of the few women selected, I'll get to make the final decision.

I’m already pissed off that I am entertaining this concocted idea of marriage.

As I pull up to the mansion, thankfully, the guards know to let me pass without stopping me. You’d think after my morning with Sara––or was her name Jenna––I'd be in a better mood.

Cruising past a sea of Bentleys and Rolls-Royces, I can’t help but wonder why there are so many cars here and valet. It was supposed just to be the three of us.

As I approach the front of the house, Claire opens the door. She’s worked for my father as his housekeeper for as long as I can remember.

Claire greets me with a warm smile. "Your father has been waiting for you."

Glancing at my Rolex, I see that I’m only twenty minutes late. That's practically on time.

"Thanks," I mutter, brushing past her as I stride towards the office. I don't need her to tell me where he is. I already know.

The main foyer has two grand staircases that dominate the space, their curves spiraling up to the upper levels like some damn symbol of power. Upstairs, to the right, that's where I grew up, amidst all the luxury and bullshit of my family's legacy. It's a place filled with memories, both fond and haunting. Upstairs on the left, those stairs lead to my old man's domain, where he conducts business with the same ruthless precision that defines our family.

My mother, may she rest in peace, always insisted on keeping business separate from our home life. After she passed away, my old man barely stepped foot into the part of the house I once considered my sanctuary. Maybe that's why he dragged his ass for so long to hand over the fucking title to me. At thirty-one, I shouldn't be forced into this marriage to attain the damn title.

But I've got a plan. I'll bide my time and prolong this bullshit engagement for as long as I can. With any luck, I'll find a way out of this mess before I'm shackled to a woman I don't even know.

Without bothering to knock, I barge right through the grand oak double doors and into the lion's den of the great and powerful Don Antonio Morelli.

"There's my boy," Dad greets me with a hearty clap on the back like we're best buddies. Don't get me wrong, we've always been close, I guess. But lately, things haven't been so peachy. It's been worse since Mom passed, and now, it's hitting a new low with this marriage crap he's dropped in my lap.

"Come have a drink with us. You remember Peter Russo, right?" he asks, thrusting a glass of whiskey into my hand.

Oh, I remember this smug stronzo. The Russo family has been part of Cosa Nostra since my old man took over the reins of Chicago.

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