Page 101 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
Why else would she apologize? Dad’s presence in me asked.
Elsa stopped my utensils with a palm on my left hand. “I love you.”
My eyes cut to her hand, then shifted to her other one, where she clutched a strip of folded paper. I reached out and plucked it from her hand. Her unrelenting grip tightened, and the paper tore at the corners as I stole it from her.
She gasped at the sound, her other hand shooting out to take the paper back from me but failing. I opened it up. A check. Five million dollars. Signed by one Giovanni Romano. He’d paid her off. To what? Leave me?
Ice-cold frost trickled into my body as I stared at her with dead eyes. “Five million dollars? Really?”
I flicked the check onto my plate. The butter from my lobster wet the edges, and she grabbed it, her eyes screaming guilt, but her hands reeking of desperation. I watched as she dabbed the check with the table cloth, trying and failing to dry the butter.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out her panties I’d pocketed earlier, and tossed them at her face. She caught them before they hit the ground. Her eyes widened when she realized what they were, but she used them to dab the fucking check anyway.
I’d never seen anything more pathetic.
With the check dried, she met my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, sounding so stupid, I couldn’t believe she’d graduated top of our class at Wharton. Couldn’t believe this was the woman who’d insisted she pay for her half of every meal. “I-I… You don’t understand. It’s a lot of money.”
“You would have had so much more, so thank you for reminding me how pathetic you are.”
She flinched at my words, and I let loose a dry laugh and reached into my pocket. Her eyes widened when I pulled out the velvet case. She had to reach out and steady herself on the table when I unleashed the sixteen-million-dollar ring inside.
“Bastian—”
I plucked the ring out of its case and tossed it over the side of the building like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. She whimpered, running to the railing with an outstretched hand as I stole a fry from her plate and dipped it in her fucking generic-brand ketchup. If I took the time to stop—to breathe in the betrayal from her and my dad—I would probably burn the Empire State Building with both of us in it.
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.”
Duty is what one expects from others.
—Oscar Wilde
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 like 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.
