Page 15 of Ruthless Lord
If Grandfather didn’t send Albert, that means?—
We’re going to see my dad.
And that’s just about my biggest nightmare.
Chapter 4
Stefano
It’s quiet in the locker room of the arena. The hum of the crowd is blocked by twenty feet of cinderblocks and insulation. I sit on the hard bench, elbows on my knees, listening to death metal to psych myself up.
My heart is steady. My fists still hurt from my last fight.
This is the calm before everything good.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I flinch and look up, half standing in an instant.
Enzo’s there, holding his hands up with a cold frown.
I rip out my earbuds. Enzo glares at me, disappointment written all over him. “What are you doing here, Stefano?”
I let out a grunt and tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck. “Fighting.”
“I can see that.” He gestures at my shirtless torso and the simple black athletic shorts I’m wearing. My fists are wrapped with tape. “But I’m wondering what the fuck you’re thinking.”
“Not thinking.” I sink back down to the bench, my back turned to him. “Fighting.”
Enzo sighs. He paces behind me. I don’t pay him too much attention. He’s like an annoying fly buzzing in my ears.
The guy has no power over me.
Luca’s another story. He’s my Capo and I’d die for him. I’d rather kill, though. And there’s Adriano Marino, Don of the entire Famiglia. But he’s the boss of all bosses, and I never see much of him.
Enzo’s only Luca’s second-in-command. Ever since Luca got married and started focusing on different parts of the business, I’ve been stuck with the pain in the ass. Leo’s gone, working in New York, and Davide basically never leaves his computer cave. Which means I’m stuck with Enzo most days at the trucking depot where we run our operation.
“This is beneath you, you know that?” Enzo grunts as he lowers himself down beside me. The guy’s only thirty-four, though, and he acts like he’s ancient. I’m over forty with more scars, broken bones, and wounds than any human has a right to survive, and I don’t grunt and groan like he does. Even if every part of me aches all the damn time.
“I don’t agree.”
“You got a promotion, Stefano. You don’t need to be out here doing this sort of thing anymore.”
I frown at my fist. Promotion, my fucking ass. Now I sit in an office and make phone calls. Ihatephone calls.
“I like fighting.”
“God damn it, Stefano, come on. Stop doing the caveman routine for once and talk to me. What are you thinking?”
I look at Enzo. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s pragmatic, smart, and normally very calm. But we don’t agree on certain things.
Like risk, for example. He doesn’t like risk. Whereas I live in that gray area between a plan coming together and a job failing catastrophically. That’s where I feel alive.
But thanks to my promotion, I’m not out on the streets much these days.
“I really like fighting.”
He groans and leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this? You need money? More work or something? You’re not busy enough?”
“I’m fine.”
