Page 17 of Toxic

"So, what are you going to get her?" Gianni asks.

I groan. "No clue."

"Better be something amazing after promising her that," Massimo warns.

I ignore him and open the door to the gym then go to the mat and stretch.

My brothers follow.

"What do you think Tully wants?" Gianni asks.

"Don't give a shit, but I'm sick of changing my life every time Tully comes over," I fume.

"So dramatic," Massimo teases.

"Shut up," I bark.

"You do sound dramatic," Gianni adds.

"Both of you can fuck off," I snarl, pissed with how everyone keeps making me think of Bridget and especially on today of all days.

Massimo leans over his body and pulls on his toes. "Hope your attitude is better tonight for Giorgia's sake."

"Jesus. Shut up," I roar and jump off the mat. I go to the treadmill and jump on, turning the speed up higher than I usually do at the start.

I run, jump rope, and punch the bag so many times, my hands begin to hurt. I do push-ups and sit-ups until my muscles shake. I battle the ropes, pounding them into the ground so hard and for so long, I can barely grip them anymore.

When Massimo and Gianni leave the gym, I step back on the treadmill and run some more.

Nothing makes Bridget's face or the sound of her laughter disappear.

Nothing lessens the dread of going to the event tonight with Giorgia.

Nothing dulls the nagging feeling I have that I'm never finding anyone like Bridget. That no matter who I meet, they're never going to come close. And that makes me hate myself more because, at one point in time, I could have had her as mine.

When my alarm rings, I finally stop, full of sweat. I go to my suite, shower, then double-check my Glock is loaded. I call Rubio and reschedule my meeting with him.

The only brief moment of calm I feel is when I get in my matte black Gemballa Porsche Carrera GT. It's a rare car. They only made twenty-five, and I snagged one the moment I saw it, eagerly forking over the four-hundred-thousand-plus price tag.

I don't typically drive it during the winter months. The snow gets bad in New York, and it's easier to let my father's drivers take us all over the place. But today, I need some sense of something right in my life. And the roads are clear from the last storm we had.

I weave in and out of traffic then walkie-talkie my assistant on my Nextel. It's a newer phone that has both a walkie-talkie feature and the ability to call or text. My father likes it because he thinks the Feds have less chance of recording us over the walkie-talkie.

I'm not discussing anything the Feds would be interested in, but it's a more convenient feature in my opinion.

"Pina, order a dozen roses for Giorgia."

"Well, good morning to you, too, Dante," she chirps.

"Not in the mood."

She huffs. "Fine, Mr. Grumps. Where do you want them delivered?"

I ignore her smart remark. She's the only assistant I've been able to keep over the last three years. It's her nickname for me and not the first time I've heard it. The other eight women I hired didn't even last a month. I snap, "Her house. Where else?" Giorgia doesn't work or do anything besides spend her days at the country club and spa. It's something else that irritates me about her, but it's normal for many women whose fathers are in the mafia.

"Just asking. No need to bite my head off," Pina states. And that right there is why it works between us. She doesn't cry or back down when I say whatever the hell is on my mind. I don't have to worry about hurting her feelings because she calls me out on my mood swings. I don't have them all the time, but whenever I wake up thinking about Bridget, it seems to come out.

There's another beep on my phone. She asks, "What color? I assume red?"

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