Page 57 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Small-town life is a double-edge sword. It’s easy to get comfortable, but new people always stick out. For a man like me, I like the advantage of knowing everyone around me. However, I must admit in a city to blend in is much easier. Some days, I miss the hustle and bustle of the city. Growing up in Dallas, Texas, there was always noise. My early days there weren’t many opportunities for a kid like me. I didn’t have the patience back then. School didn’t keep my mind engaged, and I only did enough to get by.

With my dad in the wind (at least that’s what we were told), my mom worked three jobs to keep food on the table for me andmy younger brother, Emilio. Hating to see her work her body beyond exhaustion, I wanted to provide so she wouldn’t have to.

Yeah, most kids get jobs at a fast-food joint or a grocery store, and maybe I should have taken that route. Only I didn’t.

I got in bed with the Uccello family. The Boss of that time, Miro Uccello, was first-generation American Italian. His grandfather brought his father over from Palermo when he was a young boy. First born boy here in the states made him their prize. Family matters, and the core of the Uccello organization, is generational legacy. The connections all over the world were passed down from Adone Uccello to Matteo and then to Miro.

I doubt they expected that legacy to be me.

As a teen, I didn’t ask questions. Miro saw potential in me, took me under his wing. The more power I was given, the more I craved. To be on top is to be untouchable and wanted all the same.

I relish the challenge then and now. At twenty-eight, I took over and now, at forty-one, I’m not about to be undermined by anyone, even if I took the organization.

On his deathbed, the entire organization fell in my lap, literally. As his body bled out from the knife I put in his neck, the transfer of power came to me.

My vision, my goals aren’t what the Uccello men wanted.

I wasn’t born to be on the sidelines anyway. If I see something I want, I’ll get it, even if I have to take it.

Right now, I want answers.

Hadley Bernard is the key to getting those, and I won’t be stopped.

Hadley

Silently, I look to the parking lot. Apparently, today is his day to be flashy. The shiny red Corvette can’t be missed. How he fits inside it is beyond me. I know Massimo Costa is well oversix feet tall. How can a car that practically sits on the ground be comfortable for him?

I guess it’s fun to go fast. Who knows? It’s not something I can afford.

This isn’t his only car. He usually comes in one of those giant SUVs that’s all blacked out like he’s the damn president.

The way he carries himself is powerful, but he’s not a politician. I don’t know what he does. I only know his name because Gilbert told me. He’s a one-man show here at Clyde’s. He inherited the diner from his brother. It’s small, so there are a couple of servers, and he’s hiring a backup cook, but we don’t have one yet. The other servers are unreliable, which means most days it’s me and Gilbert handling it all. We don’t have huge rushes, but we do have our regulars.

Like Massimo Costa, who has become a regular coffee consumer in the last few months. I can’t remember exactly when he started his daily stops, but they don’t seem to be skipped over anymore. Why he comes here for coffee of all things piques my interest. The coffee is not anything more than a bulk can from the grocery store made in a commercial brewer. We don’t even offer flavored creamers.

The man is a mystery. An enigma. And my imagination runs wild with what’s behind his presence.

He has this fierce, pissed-off face at all times. His dark hair is beginning to show specks of gray. His beard is feathered with grays that only make his face more chiseled, if that is possible, considering it’s carved from granite. Every time I approach, his brows furrow, making his eyes have a deeper inset, leaving them looking almost black.

I wish I could say he’s ugly. Except he’s not.

He’s absolutely sexy in the way that will make your body hum while shattering your heart. No thank you. I don’t need a heartbreak. Life is hard enough on its own.

Granted, I shouldn’t admire him, even from afar.

First, he’s obviously old enough to be my dad.

Second, he’s clearly one angry man. Seriously, for months he has been coming in every freaking morning, it seems. He sits at the same back table, facing the door with a newspaper. It’s a diner, but does he eat? Nope. He gets coffee.

Black.

No cream.

No sugar.

Who does that? I’m sure coffee at home is easier.

And he tips!

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