Page 38 of Vito

Dom rubs his jaw. "I also wanted to apologize for the Chamber's lack of progress in finding Aiken's murderer."

My lips press into a thin line. "It seems to be a hard nut to crack."

"Any thoughts on your end?"

I flick my eyes up at him, trying to assess his sincerity and whether he suspects I've been doing my own digging. He looks sincere enough, but I can't read him.

"I hadn't talked to Aiken in a long time, Dom. Unfortunately, I have no insights."

"When did you find out you were his successor?"

It's a curious question, but there isn't any harm in answering it. "Not until after he died. He had a failsafe system, and something triggered the email to me upon his death."

"Your brother always was an interesting guy with out-of-the-box ideas." Dom's fingers drum on the top of the bar, and he smiles. "Have a good night, Ed."

I finish unpacking the liquor and watch him walk out the door. It wasn't the most alarming interaction, but my unease has increased.

"Everything okay, Ed?" Andre asks as he pours a Jack Daniels for Ash and Bane, who sit at a table with two men I've never seen before.

"Peachy, Andre." I school my face back into my mask. "I'm going to take out the garbage."

I grab all the garbage behind the bar, putting it into the empty liquor boxes.

"I can do that at the end of the night," Andre says.

I shrug, lifting the box. "I need some fresh air."

And I need a distraction from eyeing Vito's empty table.

I go through the barroom and down the hallway to the back door. Shoving the push handle on the door with my hip, I go outside and toss the items into the bin. My eyes catch a woman at the end of the alley before she disappears around the counter.

Another movement catches my eye, and I turn. My breath sucks in at the sight of the half-dressed,hot-as-fuckman in front of the open trunk of a black 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.

The car is a sick beast that I secretly drool over.

And the man standing there without a shirt? It'sabsolutelyunfair that Vito's body is even more magnificent than I imagined.

His god-like body looks chiseled from a slab of stone—broad shoulders, ripped arms, and pecs.

Aneight-packand the sharpest-cut Adonis belt I've ever seen draw my attention to his low-slung dark pants, which I'm just now realizing are undone.

Given his state of being half undressed and the woman I saw at the end of the alley, I growl, "Did you just finish fucking someone in my back alley?"

His blue-green eyes fill with confusion. "What?"

"You're just getting dressed and—"

"No," he cuts me off quickly. "I realized when I arrived that my shirt had some ah…splatteron it."

My eyes travel along his chiseled, half-naked body, and I look at his hands with busted knuckles.

I know who he is and his role in his family. My cooch—if I let myself acknowledge it—is wet and pulsing.

"Sounds like a rookie move, Santoro," I deadpan, keeping my tone flat and cool, not showing how he affects me. Especially when he's half-naked.

I keep my eyes above his shoulders, refusing to look at what is going to quickly be my undoing. His low-slung, open pants, where I'm sure he's packing a god-like cock. His perfectly chiseled upper body. His flesh that's coated with scars and one tattoo over his heart that I recognize as the Santoro family crest.

I keep my tone and face flat and cool while my insides quiver with lust. And the jealous bitch inside me preens at his reassurance that he didn't just finish fucking some other ho.

---