Page 6 of Devil's Last Dance

This man was certainly different.

Chapter Two

Antwone sat alone in his home, staring up at the ceiling. He was drinking another glass of whiskey, only this one was very different from the others he had before. This one was expensive. It was a nice drink.

He tried not to think about Candice. She had no place in his thoughts. It had been three days since he had walked her home—three days, when he had brought the conversation to a close. He took a long drink of his whiskey, finishing the glass.

He should have known his brother was going to make an appearance.

Draven didn’t knock on the door, but stormed into his office as if he owned the place. Technically, as far as Antwone was concerned, he did own half of everything that was his. If Draven wanted it, he could have it.

“Why are you not answering my calls?” Draven asked.

“Busy.”

Draven took the empty glass from him and put it down on the table.

The calmer Draven appeared, the angrier he was. “What the fuck is going on with you?” Draven asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Antwone. You and I both know you’ve got some problems.” Draven paced in front of him and then sat down on the coffee table. “Talk to me.”

Antwone sighed and looked at his brother. “What is there to talk about?”

Draven ran fingers through his hair. “Tell me.”

He leaned forward and stared into his brother’s eyes. “There is nothing wrong. Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife and kids?”

His brother stopped and looked at him.

Antwone stared right back. He didn’t have a care in the world.

“Is that what this is about?” Draven asked.

“What?”

“I’ve heard the rumors, Antwone. I know what people want.”

Antwone burst out laughing. “If you’re going to start paying attention to all the rumors, brother, we are fucked.”

“They want you to get married. They want you to settle down, have a couple of kids, and for everything to be roses and all that shit,” Draven said.

Antwone stood up and he was about to make his way over toward the drink as he needed another.

Draven stopped him, putting a hand on his chest. “Don’t do this.”

“What? Have a drink? Please, I think I’ve earned a drink, haven’t I?”

“Cut me off. Don’t do this. Don’t treat me like I’m one of them.”

“Ah, but to everyone, youareone of them, Draven,” he tutted. “You and I both know that. Have you agreed with them? Are you already lining up my virgin wife? Asuitablecandidate.” He wrinkled his nose at the very thought. He hated all things to do with the tradition.

For the past five years, he heard the whispers, the suggestions that he needed a wife and to produce an heir. Not having that status was starting to make his claim as The Boss weak.

He knew the men—his capos—were trying to prepare their daughters to be his wife. All of them were young, nineteen or twenty, children in his eyes. Antwone wasn’t interested in girls, never had been, even as a young man. He always wanted a woman.

He also didn’t want to deal with a virgin. Draven had gotten a virgin, but Antwone did not want one.

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