Page 11 of Bound in Debt
Bodyguards.
“Mr. Moretti,” the man in front of me greets in a thick Italian accent. “Sorry to drop in like this…but you’re a hard man to find off campus.”
It’s because I rarely leave it.
I’d rather be here than avoiding my brother’s awful widow while hiding in his guest house.
Well, that was true before I had to deal with all the students dropping by today, not to mention two run-ins with the impertinent Miss Waldorf in one day.
Taking my chances with Marissa can’t be any worse.
“And you are?” I ask. This man sure as hell isn’t one of the deans. And he certainly wasn’t present at the Thronewood faculty and staff mixer last week.
“Angelo Lombardi.” He stares at me as if that’s supposed to mean something. Between his air of authority and pure arrogance at walking onto campus after hours, it’s clear he’s some kind of bigshot. “Of the Lombardi mob.”
What in the actual fuck?
I bite back the question, among others, before I can give away my ignorance.
Better to let this Angelo Lombardi character clue me in as to why he thinks I’m worth a trek to Thronewood.
“By the look on your face,” Angelo admits, “this conversation needs alcohol and a whole lot of time. Time I’m unable to offer at the moment.”
“Try,” I deadpan, waiting for someone to make a move. Rival mobs are all over Italy and I’ve had a few run-ins. Well, more than just run-ins.
Turns out joining a mob is a great way to wind up in prison on assault charges. But I left that life behind in Italy after nearly beating someone to death and serving time for assault. That kind of violence changes a person, makes them rethink their choices.
“Then I’ll cut to the chase,” Angelo continues, slowly rising from my chair and coming around the desk. He’s in his late fifties, and they haven’t been easy years telling by the stress lines etching his forehead and the corners of his eyes. “Marco, your brother…he owed me money.”
My blood instantly runs cold. Marco ran off to the States to get away from all the mob bullshit. To steer clear of the greed and corruption infecting the Italian government.
Life with the mob is filled with blood, murder, and convenient accidents.
Accidents related to failures and lack of loyalty.
“If the next words that come out of your mouth are that you murdered my brother, Angelo…I suggest you have your men pull out their guns and drop me right now.”
“Now, why would I do that?” he says through a puff of smoke. “I still wouldn’t have my money.”
I curl my fingers into tight fists. I won’t just be able to let this go. Not if there’s any truth to Lombardi’s claims. I lost my mother and father to a mob hit.
My thirst for revenge drove me straight into the arms of a rival mob. I fought my way up the ranks, killed men for the privilege, and eventually I got my reward when I hunted down the motherfucker who gunned down my parents in cold blood.
For nothing.
Dad was a baker. Mom was a teacher.
There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be here today.
And now I have this fat fuck implying he murdered the only family member I had left.
Angelo Lombardi slips a crisp white business card from his shirt pocket, extending it to me. I let it hover in the air between us.
If he believes that he’s gonna bully me into paying him back, he’s in for a rude awakening.
“Take it, Moretti,” Angelo orders, a hint of irritation shading his voice. “You know it will only get worse if we leave things…unresolved.”
My pride keeps me still, but he steps forward anyway, needing to assert his dominance.
