Page 21 of Scandalous Kingpin
I sat stiff while he fumbled around, holding my breath the entire time and wishing he would stop.
“Please… just let me go. I won’t get into any more fights. Please.”
“The Holy Spirit frees us to do what we need to keep our sins from swallowing us whole. With the grace of the Holy Spirit, this will be for us. Amen.”
When I finally found my voice and shouted for help, his free hand wrapped around my mouth. “Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I snapped and bit down hard on his hand. His hold on me loosened enough that I jumped off his lap, bolting out of his office. I ran fast and hard down the hallway, then I tripped andfell, realizing that my pants were at my ankles. I let out a sob and pulled them up, then took off running again.
Tears streamed down my face, making it hard to see. I ran through the empty hallways until I slammed into Dante. My brother didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me protectively.
“What happened?” he hissed, pulling us into a corner. “I’ll fucking kill those kids. Tell me what they did.”
I shook my head. “I want to go home.”
I couldn’t tell him what happened, and the longer he studied me, the more I was filled with shame. I hated myself. I hated my mother. I didn’t want my papà and brother to know; it’d destroy them. They’d blame themselves.
The next time Father Gabriel cornered me, I wasn’t so lucky. My mother ensured that.
And so, the cycle repeated, over and over again, trapping me in a vicious, inescapable nightmare.
I awoke with a start, that old, familiar feeling of self-disgust flaring. It was always present, never buried too deep.
Fuck. I scrubbed a hand down my face as I attempted to gain control of my breathing. I needed control.
I hadn’t dreamed of those days in months, but it never got any easier. I swung my legs off the bed and dropped my head into my hands.Deep breath in, deeper breath out.
When the helplessness finally subsided, I headed to the bathroom where my reflection stared back at me. I looked like shit.
That’s what months of tracking a certain redheaded Irish mafia princess as she traipsed all over Ireland did to a man apparently. This fascination with her had reduced me to some kind of creep who lurked in the shadows.
I’d been back from Ireland for five days, managing all aspects of the new club opening in Philadelphia and already itching to see what the woman I rejected was doing.
It was pointless. Ivy Murphy stirred in me everything I wanted to forget; it was for the best that she was a whole continent away.
Running the Kingpins of the Syndicate and Philly should—keywordshould— be my only concern.
I stepped into the shower and turned it to the coldest setting. Once I’d scrubbed my body hard enough, I stepped out and quickly dried off, then dressed in suit pants and a white shirt.
I rolled up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircled my arms. My Patek Philippe read eight fifty in the evening—I slept the whole day away. I took the private lift from my penthouse, catching up on emails on my phone until the doors slid open to the main foyer.
“Good evening, Mr. DiLustro,” the concierge greeted me. “Your vehicle is waiting for you, as requested.”
My black Range Rover Sport was parked in front of the building, looking as unassuming as a quarter of a million dollars of protective detailing could afford. Performance tires, explosive protection, full armored exterior with bomb and bullet-proof glass, complete with high-powered weapons stashed in various compartments. She was a thing of beauty.
“Thank you,” I told the valet, accepting my keys and slipping him a generous tip.
I ducked into the driver seat and buckled in, relishing the quiet. My father hated that Dante and I never employed drivers or armed guards. Driving myself was one of the few things I enjoyed, so there was no fucking way I’d give up the luxury. And as for bodyguards, they were worthless. They certainly hadn’t protected us when we were children at our most vulnerable.
I was halfway to my club when I made a last-minute decision and stopped at the tattoo parlor. They knew me there and wordlessly led me to the back where the artist waited for me.
Three hours later, with a sore groin and a grimace on my face, I was pulling up to the back entrance of my new club, The Angel. My head doorman greeted me the moment my handmade Italian oxfords touched the pavement.
“Good evening, your guests are here.”
I stilled. “Guests?”
“Yes, your brother and cousins.”
