Page 10 of His Son's Brid
Luca Olivera.
We go back twenty years. Brothers in everything but blood. He took a bullet for me once, back when we were young and stupid and thought we were invincible. I took the fall for a job that would've put him away for life, spent seven years in prison so he could stay free, could raise his daughter.
I should visit him. Soon. Reconnect, rebuild the alliance.
But first, I need to stabilize my own house. Need to deal with Leo, with Dmitri, with the fifty other fires that have been smoldering while I was gone.
I pocket the phone, and head for the exit.
The club's main floor is still packed. I scan it automatically, looking for threats, checking exits. Old habits.
And I see her.
The girl in the red dress. She's leaving, flanked by two friends—a blonde and a dark-skinned woman. They're laughing about something, pulling her toward the door.
She glances back.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, everything stops again. The music, the crowd, the world. It's just her and me and this stupid, impossible pull that makes no sense.
Then she's gone, slipping out the door into the night.
I don't follow.
I'm not that man. Not the kind who chases girls half his age just because they make my pulse race. I've got control, discipline, decades of practice at keeping my wants separate from my needs.
But I watch the door for longer than I should.
Who the fuck is she?
My penthouse is on the fifty-third floor of the most expensive building in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows, imported marble, furniture that costs more than some people's houses. I bought it the year before I went to prison, barely got to enjoy it before the feds kicked down my door.
Viktor kept it maintained. Fresh flowers in the entryway, fridge stocked, bed made with Egyptian cotton sheets.
It's perfect.
It's also empty as hell.
Exactly the way I like my space.
I pour three fingers of whiskey, stand at the window, look out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, she's going home. Climbing into bed. Maybe thinking about me, maybe not.
Probably not.
I'm forty-three. Silver hair, lines around my eyes, scars from fights I barely remember. Seven years in prison didn't make meprettier. The last thing some young woman wants is a washed-up convict with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
Even if she looked at you like she wanted to climb you like a tree.
Fuck.
I drain the whiskey and pour another.
Before prison, I could ignore women. Could walk through a room full of models and not feel a thing. Sex was just sex—mechanical, forgettable, something I did when the urge got too strong to ignore. Faces didn't matter. Names didn't matter.
Nothing mattered except business.
But tonight?
