Page 3 of Finding Denver
My smile is slow, and Taf chuckles while rubbing his hands together.
“Is that so?” I ask.
Vince points his thumb in my direction. “Alistair, who the fuck is this guy? Worried about getting mugged so you drag out a newbie?”
I take my time in standing. There’s no point rushing what’s about to happen. I’ve waited eight years for it, after all. Because once Vince Capelli knows who I am, and that I’m back at the forefront, word will spread.
Vince’s gaze travels up all six foot five of me, and he’s hiding what I imagine is a sensible amount of fear. I’m broad. Strong. I like to know I can kill, carry, and bury several men in a night, so my body reflects that strength and endurance.
The height was just lucky.
But Vince seems to remember he’s a powerful man in his own right, even if that power is borrowed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“That’s because I wouldn’t be dealing with you at all,” I say. “I’d be dealing with your grandfather. Who I imagine, given your manners, had jack shit to do with your upbringing. Because if Vincenzo found out you were starting fights over fucking tables”—I step forward, and Vince is forced back—“especially from me, he wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“You?” Vince barks out a laugh, and I unbutton the cuff of my sleeve and roll it up, taking my time with one and then the other. His eyes remain fixed on my face. “My grandfather wouldn’t even know you.”
One of Vince’s men takes a noticeable step back, and he whispers two words. I don’t know much Italian, but I know what he says.
Il fantasma.
Ghost.
Vince’s gaze drops to my forearms, to the tattoos of a veil of shadows that wrap around my skin like inked silk. Beneath that silk, skulls push through the material, hands grappling for one last chance of survival, mouths open in a desperate final scream. It’s not the first piece of art I got, but it’s the one that people know me by. One I’ve had to keep covered for almost a decade.
Vince’s brown eyes dart between my face and my arms. “You’re not him. You’re a wannabe.”
“Am I?”
But now, he’s not so sure. So he does what few would do when a phantom appears before them—he fights back. An interesting choice, but one I can almost respect.
His fingers have barely grazed his gun when I seize the back of his neck and do to him what he promised to do to Alistair. Vince’s nose cracks when it meets the table, and his men rush to action, but I don’t need to cast a glance in their direction. Alistair and Taf have their guns drawn, and the bar has fallen quiet.
I squeeze Vince’s neck, keeping his face pressed into the table.
“Had this been another day, Vince, I would have let it go,” I say as he struggles against my hold, his sweat dampening my palm. “But this is my opening night.”
He huffs, spittle coating his lips. “My grandfather?—”
“Your grandfather will get a call from me in thirty minutes apologizing for breaking two of his grandson’s bones. I haven’t decided which bones yet, so give me a minute on that,” I say. “And he can accept my apology, or not, but something tells me he will. In fact, given your attitude and general disrespect to other families, I think he might thank me for putting your ass in line. Now.” I lean close. “Let’s break some bones, shall we?”
Thirty minutes later, Vince’s men are taking him to the hospital, and I ready myself to make a phone call to Vincenzo Capelli Sr. I stand in the alley beside the bar, breathing in the cool air. Fall is close. It’s almost a year since my brother shot up a wedding and changed the course of our lives.
The thudding of my heart slows, the anger I’d contained to my fists ebbing away.
I’m stepping out of the shadows.
To go to war with Denver Luxe.
Part One
WEAKNESS IS A BULLET
Chapter 1
Denver
If someone calls me Deluxe one more time, I’m going to stab them with a fork.
