Page 2 of Did My Heart Love Till Now?

“And what the fuck are you wearing?” He rolled his eyes, tilting his head at my appearance.

Shrugging, I grinned sarcastically. “I’m comfortable.” I fell back into one of the burgundy, leather, wingback chairs. It sat in front of his enormous, mahogany desk where he plotted the demise of many men. Throwing my feet up on the surface, I casually folded my hands over my well-toned abs, staring up at him.

He frowned, meeting my gaze. “Gavino,” he sighed, “get your feet off my desk.”

"Are you going to put a bullet through my skull if I don't?" Smirking, I challenged him. It was one of my favorite things to do.

He shook his finger. “You are going to regret pushing my buttons one day.”

“Okay, father.” I snorted. “What did you need?”

Leaning forward, he placed his palms on his desk. “It's time for you to take your destiny seriously.” He swept his arm, forcing my feet off the surface.

I leapt out of the chair, slapping my hands on top of his desk. Gritting my teeth, I leaned in his personal space. “I will never join the family.” I spun around, marching toward the door.

“You were born for it, Gavino.”

I turned, arching a brow. “Born for crime?”

With a cigar pinned between his teeth, he nodded, lighting it.

“And you said music and art were a waste of time.” Shaking my head, I crossed my arms over my chest. “But me robbing and murdering people is apparently acceptable?”

A grin inched on my father's face, and he began to nod slowly, glancing at his men for agreement.

Chuckling sarcastically, I slid my hands in my pockets. “That makes a shitload of sense, pops.”

His underboss, Giuseppe, stepped forward. Palm on my shoulder, he exhaled. “Gavino.”

Immediately, I lowered my eyes to his hand, before narrowing my gaze on his. “Don't put your hands on me.” Angrily shrugging him off me, I took a step to the side.

“I will personally work with you if you want to give the family a try.” He held his hand out.

Chuckling, I leaned around him, addressing my father. “Family?” I took two steps back, pointing at his men. “Funny you guys call it that because my father doesn't know what a fucking family is in this house.”

“Gavino, come here!” My father shouted.

Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes as I strode toward the exit. “I have to go to my studio.”

“You waste your time on music and art and will go nowhere with it!”

I froze. Jaw clenched, I spun around quickly. “As opposed to prison where I'll go if I work for you? That makes a lot of fucking sense, doesn't it?” I turned to leave, throwing up two fingers. “Arrivederci.” Without another word, I disappeared upstairs to grab a shirt, jacket, and shoes.

My best friend, Joey Russo, was waiting outside my art studio when I arrived, even though he had his own key. The building was a retired firehouse in the middle of the city. He leaned against the brick exterior, taking long drags of a cigarette while texting on his phone. Our parents were long-time, best friends. His father was Giuseppe, my father's underboss. We grew up together and sometimes forgot we were not related. Everyone mistook us for brothers when we were out. As I approached the door, he dropped his smoke on the ground and snuffed it out with the bottom of his shoe.

“Damn bro.” He crossed his arms. “Who shit on your pancakes?”

I grabbed the key from my backpack and unlocked the door. “Our dads ambushed me in the fucking office again.”

“I don't know why you won't join.” He followed me in, locking the door behind us. “Uncle Silvio will win this battle with you.” He had always considered my father his uncle.

“You're taking their side.” I complained most of the way as we ascended the three flights of stairs.

“If I can do it, you, of all people, can.” Joey took the lead, entering the grand, modern decorated living room.

We had spent many months turning the firehouse into a place where we could escape. The top floor was adorned with three large windows, providing a view of the concrete jungle around us. I set my belongings down and began to mix paints. Joey strode to the stereo, syncing his phone via Bluetooth. Bobbing his head, he sauntered to the fridge and pulled out two beers. With a bottle opener in his hand, he stepped over to the trash can, popping the tops off. Suddenly, his eyes were focused on something outside. Positioning himself closer to the window, he leaned on a metal beam, jaw clenched as he stared down toward the street. He remained silent but held my beer out.

Joey liked to people watch, so I did not think much of it when I grabbed the bottle and sauntered to a stack of blank canvases of various sizes that were leaning against a wall. Tilting a row forward, I rested them against my body then slid a large one from the back. Gently, I leaned them back.

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