Page 118 of Ruthless Lord
“Before you go, one more question.” Adriano’s got a sly smile now. “Think you could take him?”
My eyebrows raise. “Sterling?”
“Come on, think you could handle him right now?”
I hesitate, looking over my shoulder. Sterling’s grinning viciously. His showy smirk’s gone, replaced by the wild-eyed stare of a true killer.
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’ll say this. I’m smart enough that I’ll never find out.”
Adriano laughs as I walk off. I give him a respectful nod and wave before disappearing back into my office.
It’s like coming up for air after being submerged for an hour. I feel myself relax as my wife picks her head up from where she’s doing some paperwork. Her eyes light up, and she leans back in my chair, kicking her feet up on the desk.
“Did he win?”
I shut the door behind me. “Sixteen unbeaten now.”
She whistles. “Getting close to your record.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. Adriano already tried to get me to admit that I could beat him.”
“Come on, you know you can, right? Sterling’s good, but you—” Her eyes glaze over, and she sighs. “Maybe I’m biased, but you were a god.”
A god of death and thunder. She’s damn right.
But these days, I’m a businessman and a husband.
“Doesn’t matter anymore.” I walk around the desk and bend down to kiss her. “I’m retired.”
“You’re not that old.”
“Compared to the fighters these days? I’m damn ancient.”
“That’s a good point. I did hear your knees crack like bubble wrap when you walked over here.”
“You’re brutal.”
“You love it.”
I kiss her again before slumping down into a chair in front of the desk with a grunt. I rub my back and try not to think about all my aches and pains. Even a year off from fighting hasn’t healed it all. I doubt it’ll ever fully go away.
But it doesn’t bother me much these days.
I’ve got the warehouse to think about. Ever since Charlie’s dad fully took over the Westbrook properties, we’ve been managing this place. Part of the funds get funneled to the Marino Famiglia as a respectful gesture, part ends up in Charlie’s trust, and the rest is funneled into operations. The Westbrooks get a little piece, but not as much as they used to.
Turns out, her dad doesn’t much care for the illicit stuff. Which surprised me when he said it.
“We’ve got to talk to Davide about toning down the light show,” I say, stretching my legs.
“Albert told you revenue’s up, right?”
“I know that, but still. It’s a damn underground fighting ring. Not a fucking U2 concert.”
She snorts a laugh. “God, you’re so old. Even your references are out of date.”
“Sorry, Taylor Swift. Whoever that is.”
“Unreal.”
