Page 235 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
It wasn’t toxic rage filling my veins but bruising betrayal, inching its way to my throat until my breaths halved, and I had to cough to breath again. She returned to the table, the ring long gone, and the torn and buttered check clutched between her white-knuckled fingers, like she thought I would toss that off the building, too.
I was tempted.
I’d never loved anyone before. I saw past thinly-veiled advances and the mafia bunnies who wanted me for my money and status. But Elsa was different. The wholesome girl from the wholesome family who never knew a world of corrupt Senators, Made Men, celebrities, penthouses, and designer clothes existed. Untouched by the Romano syndicate I was heir to.
She’d inched her way beneath my skin, little by little, and I’d let her because she was supposed to be different.
How hadn’t I seen the signs?
She opened her mouth again—probably to beg—but I cut her off. “I never loved you, Elsa.” The lie tore past my lips, unapologetic as I ignored the fact that I would have given up everything—my family, money, and the entire Romano lineage—for her. “We were good for a bit, but it was just entertainment.” I stood, wiped the tear off her cheek with her butter-stained panties, and patted her head. “You’re not capable of providing anything other than a warm cunt to fuck, and I’m not capable of love.”
Chapter Two
BASTIANO ROMANO
Eight Years Later
Everett: I have career day for summer school. Billy is bringing his dad. Can you come?
Instead of replying no, I took a pull of my drink. I’d missed Everett’s seventh birthday party, too.
“Hey, Bastiano.” The mafia bunny’s low voice rasped. She probably meant for it to be seductive, but she sounded li
ke a pack-a-day smoker with double lung implants. “Wanna get out of here?” Her acrylic-tipped finger trailed across my back before she took a seat to my right.
A condom filled with Icy Hot. The vise grip of a pissed-off orangutan. Two things I’d rather have on my dick than her.
“Leave,” I replied, not bothering to see who it was or what she wanted. Wasn’t it obvious, though?
People had a tendency to get distracted by exteriors. I had a nice one. One that, had I not already been born with a gold-coated spoon dangling from my lips, would have afforded me opportunities I hadn’t earned.
A body layered with muscles. Intense dark eyes. Sharp jawline. Thick, coffee-colored hair. A gentleman’s cut that could cover your car payment and then some. Look past that, and I was a thirty-year-old—almost thirty-one—who didn’t know what he wanted in life.
If there were a female version of me, I sure as hell wouldn't date her. Still, women fawned over me like my cock was made of gold and they were looking to strike rich. Their mistake.
I downed the rest of my scotch as my dad sidled next to me at the bar. I knew it was him without looking. I could count on him to always carry around a god-awful scent of pussy and alcohol—two things a son should never have to smell on his father, but it wasn’t like I was any better.
He rapped his knuckles on the bar table. “I didn’t raise you to be an asshole.”
I snorted and picked my brain for something that would provoke him. “I know five nannies that would argue you didn’t raise me at all.”
Not that I minded. As a kid, I’d seen him often, lived a cushy life, had everything I needed. We’d never had problems until he paid Elsa off.
I lifted a finger, signaling for the bartender to send another scotch my way. He didn’t glance in my direction. Fuck. When did the service get to be so bad at L’Oscurità? I made a mental note to handle it myself or tell Asher, who had opened the bar I managed when he’d left the mafia. I’d decide later when I wasn’t two-thirds of the way to getting shit-faced.
My dad turned to face me. “That was Benny’s girl. Good kid.”
“Benny know his daughter’s whoring around, Gio?”
His eyes flared. He hated when I called him Gio, but he hadn’t regained the right to be called Dad. “Was that what she was doing? Offering herself up to you?”
“Do you really need to ask?” I reached over the bar top, selected an opened bottle, and poured myself my own goddamn drink.
“Hey! You can’t—” The bartender finally turned to face me. His words caught in his throat when we made eye contact. He looked torn between averting his eyes and sending puppy dog eyes my way in the off chance I’d show him mercy. Fat chance. He took a step toward me. “S-sorry.”
Too. Late. It wasn’t my job to teach others how unforgiving the world could be, but I liked the taste of chewing people up and spitting out their hope. Also, my tolerance for incompetence was a whopping zero when it came to my employees. I ran a business not a charity.
“Mr. Romano, sir…” He faltered for words like a husband caught with his pants down.
