Page 5 of Fatal Sloth

Cameron: Remember that killer number I made you buy when I visited for Thanksgiving?

Me: Ooh, good idea! I'll give it a try. Thanks for saving me from a fashion disaster, Cam!

Cameron: Anytime, girl! That's what best friends are for. Just promise me you'll never let Karen near your wardrobe again!

Me: Deal! Thanks again, Cam. You're my style superhero! Love ya!

Cameron: Always here to rescue you from questionable fashion choices! Anytime, Mia. Love ya!

Normally, I wouldn't dream of going against Karen's wishes, but there's no way I can endure a whole afternoon in this ensemble with my lady-bits on full display. Moments like these remind me of how fortunate I am to have a friend like Cameron—someone I can laugh with but also rely on as a trusted confidante and advocate when needed.

4

Sebastiano

"Another shipment was short, two crates this time," Enzo rushes out the moment I slide out of the driver's seat of my G-Wagon. He runs a hand through his jet-black hair that's disheveled, like he's been doing it a lot.

Striding toward the door of my office at Diavolo,I listen as my second in command continues to rattle off all the other issues that my men have reported.

I grunt, narrowing my eyes at him. He holds a position of power and should be able to manage some of this shit on his own, but somehow they're my problems.

The Morelli family might have their fingers in legit ventures, but our roots are firmly planted in the traditional underworld dealings. From clubs to guns, we run the streets of Chicago, but no matter how many men I have, when something goes awry, it's my ass on the line.

"Get Diego down to the docks tonight and keep his ass there until we figure out what the hell's going on," I growl, my tone leaving no room for debate. Diego's a solid soldier. I trust him to dig up whatever fuckery's been going on. Anyone dumb enough to cross us is going to regret it, mark my damn words.

With a curse, I slam my phone down, the sound reverberating through the room like a warning shot. Anger churns in my gut, threatening to burst out like a volcano. This isn't what I need right now, but the last thing I need is Dad on my ass about things not going right.

Leaning back in my chair, I run a hand through my hair, trying to rein in the rage that's boiling inside me. The air in my office is thick with tension, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

But when I glance out the window that overlooks the sprawling club below, a sense of calm washes over me. Tonight, I'll deal with this bullshit. But for now, it's time to unwind.

"Now that that's settled, let's go have a fucking drink," I declare, nodding toward the VIP section. Enzo follows my lead, and we head for the couches that overlook the dance floor.

As we settle into the plush surroundings, I shoot a signal to the waitress, beckoning her over for drinks. The VIP lounge is like a sanctuary, shielding us from the prying eyes of the outside world. It's a place where we can kick back and let loose without a bunch of nosy bastards poking their noses where they don't belong.

The atmosphere's electric, and the bass thumps like a relentless heartbeat, setting the tone for the night ahead. The VIP lounge is designed to be over-the-top, with lavish seating that screams luxury, adorned with leather upholstery fit for kings. The staff here know their place, stationed in this area to cater exclusively to our needs. They move like shadows, ensuring that every guest in this section is treated like royalty.

As I raise the glass to my lips, the amber liquid burns its way down my throat, igniting a fire within me. The women on the dance floor move like they're auditioning for a music video, with their barely-there outfits that leave little to the imagination.

I'll savor this moment of peace, knowing that chaos is just a heartbeat away.

The women around us are giving it their all to capture my attention, but I let myself be distracted, leaning back in my seat as Jessi tops up my drink. With each sip, I feel the tension melting away, replaced by a sense of temporary bliss.

I look over to tell Enzo not to stress that Diego will get to the bottom of this mess. Only to notice Enzo's attention is already elsewhere, fixated on the woman on stage as she finishes her routine, rubbing her tits together like it's some kind of art form.

Same old shit, different night. These women are like fucking clockwork, showing up every damn evening, hoping to catch my eye. Sure, they're nice to look at, and who the hell doesn't love a good pair of tits? But let's be real. They're as desperate as they come.

I'm a man with needs. I won't deny that. But I'm not going to bend over backward for some random gold digger who thinks she's hit the jackpot. If they come to me, if I'm drunk or horny enough, maybe I'll let them suck or ride my dick. But that's where it ends. No calls the next day, no give-a-fuck if they got off or not.

But they keep coming back for more like I'm an ATM or a trophy to be won. It's the price I pay for being born a Morelli, I guess. And right now, I'm paying it in spades.

A booming voice shatters the silence, jolting me from my slumber. "Sebastiano!" the gruff voice barks out, making my head pound even harder. I squint through the haze of sleep, trying to focus on the imposing figure standing at the foot of my bed. If this were a hit, I'd be dead already. But no, it's just my dear old dad reminding me that sleeping past noon is a cardinal sin in the Morelli household. At sixty, the man still carries himself like he's the king of the fucking world, dressed to the nines, always in a tailored suit. Exuding power and authority with every fiber of his being.

His olive skin and neatly groomed salt-and-pepper hair are a testament to his Italian heritage. "What's the matter with you?" I manage to groan out, squinting at him like a hungover mess.

"The matter is that it’s after two in the afternoon, and you’re still holed up in bed, wrapped in your damn slumber," Dad practically bellows, his voice echoing off the walls.

He gestures to the empty liquor bottle on the floor with a disgusted grunt. "Must've been a good night if she's in your bed," he adds, kicking the bottle for emphasis.

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