Page 7 of Toxic

Especially for me. My birthright, being born two minutes before Gianni, makes me the future head of the Marinos. The bloodline needs to be pure to ensure our family's reign.

Those two minutes are why I kept listening to Gianni. He wasn't telling me this to be a dick. He was trying to stop me from starting something with Bridget that has zero chance of ending well.

My father would kill me if I ever hurt our alliance with the O'Connors. He and Tully have been friends for as long as I can remember, but they also have our backs. And while my father let my brother and I have our fun in high school, we were immersed in the business as soon as we graduated. I'm fully aware of the dangers of severing our alliance. If Tully ever found out I hurt Bridget, there would be blood to pay.

My blood.

We're no different from any other crime family regarding our activities. We don't just murder our enemies. We have a dungeon below our house. Extortion, corruption of public officials, loan sharking, tax fraud, and stock manipulation are all part of our wheelhouse. Add in labor racketeering with the unions and the infiltration of legitimate businesses, and we're the textbook definition of the Italian mob.

Our orders come directly from Giuseppe Berlusconi, the true godfather of all Italians. Everyone except for the Abruzzo and Rossi pricks abide by his law. They splintered off once they got on American soil and tried to take over our territory. But here in New York, Tully is king of the Irish, and my father is king of the Italians. I'm the prince next in line, so I don't have the leeway Gianni, Massimo, or even my youngest brother Tristano has.

Still, I push past Gianni. "Drop it," I order, making my way to the gym. I'm ready to have my training session and wish I could plant a few right hooks on his face.

Gianni mutters, "You're asking for a death wish."

I storm past my trainer and pick up the jump rope, ignoring him. All I see is Bridget's face. Her green eyes glow with happiness, then confusion, then sadness. I've seen all those emotions from her, and I know I caused them. It only makes me angrier.

My trainer yells for me to move to the speed bag. I do it without adding my wraps or gloves, ignoring his orders to put them on. But no matter how hard I hit, nothing calms the fury or makes Bridget's face leave my mind.

All day I'm anxious, a jumbled mess trying to figure out the right thing to say when I see her. When it comes time for the party, I put on my black pants, a form-fitting red T-shirt, and a black sport coat. I'm the first one downstairs, which isn't normal. I usually appear an hour or so after the party starts.

My mamma smiles when she sees me. She loves parties, especially at Christmas time. Our house is decorated everywhere, with trees in every room. And she always has fun activities for the children.

"Need any help?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Everything is done. You look nice."

"So do you," I reply, scanning her maroon velvet cocktail dress as my seven-year-old sister, Arianna, runs into the room, followed by my papà, who is chasing her. She's wearing an identical dress to my mamma and is the spitting image of her.

"Dante! Save me!" Arianna squeals, jumping in my arms.

For a moment, my nerves over seeing Bridget fall to the wayside. I love my little sister. I swing her around and move her in front of my papà.

He tickles her stomach.

"Papà! Dante!" she says on a giggle.

I kiss her cheek and set her down. She runs behind my mamma.

Papà kisses Mamma on the lips. "You look stunning, amore mio."

Mamma's cheeks slightly heat, and her eyes twinkle like they always do whenever Papà compliments her. She runs her hand over his shoulder. "And you."

Papà raises his eyebrows. "Dante. You're down here early."

I shrug. "I'm ready for a drink." It's not a lie. I go to the bar and pour myself three fingers of Macallan scotch then take a large swig. It's a smooth burn coating my throat, down to my stomach, but it doesn't help my nerves.

One of my father's advisors comes into the house with his wife and two young daughters. Arianna runs over to them, and within minutes, more guests arrive.

My hands turn clammy, watching the entrance for Bridget. It's well into the hour before she, her father, and brothers arrive.

The moment she walks in, my breath gets caught in my lungs. Everything about her looks the same but different. The only way to describe her is that she's glowing. Her eyes have always morphed from green to blue. Right now, they seem bright blue. Her cheeks have a radiance about them, more intense than before. The red sequin dress she's wearing hugs her body in perfection, and she looks curvier than I remember. Her blonde hair hangs in curls, with one side pinned back in a blingy clip, showcasing her high cheekbones and red lips.

My dick turns so hard, I don't move for several minutes, grateful I'm in a boring conversation with the men and no one's looking at my lower body.

For over an hour, I pretend to engage in the conversation, nodding at times yet barely hearing a word. Too many times to count, I force myself to tear my eyes off her, only to pin them back on her. And then she catches me.

My heart almost stops beating. She's mid-laugh when she sees me. My stomach drops when her face falls. She clenches her jaw then turns back to her conversation.

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