Page 102 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
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.
My dad ignored me. I could count on him to do that, too.
I lifted a finger, signaling for the bartender to send another scotch my way. He didn’t even 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, but I didn’t bother returning the favor. “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.
&n
bsp; 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.
I stared at him for a moment, drawing out the tension, amused by the trail of sweat dripping from his forehead to his collar. This was his last shift here, and he knew it. Almost nine million people called New York City their home. I could find someone more competent to replace him within the week. At the very least, it would give me something to do while Asher played doting sap to his fiancée Lucy and Elsa continued to keep Everett away from me.
Gio grabbed the bottle from me after I finished pouring myself three fingers’ worth. He took a long swig straight from the rim that would have made a frat boy proud. “What’s wrong with Benny’s girl? She’s a good-looking gal. Sweet, too, if I remember correctly.”
“You fuck her then.” I paused, my glass inches from my lips. “Or have you already?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, son. I love your mother.” His jaw ticked at my obvious amusement. It tempted me to list the affairs I knew about, but I didn't for civility’s sake.
I wasn’t even sure if I loved my mother. I almost forgot what she looked like with how little we saw one another. Looking in the mirror wouldn’t help. I didn’t get any of my features from her.
I had my dad’s high cheekbones. His strong jawline. The full lips and fawn-brown eyes. All of his strong Italian features. Whereas Mom’s stature veered on the short and slim side, my dad and I towered several inches over six feet, built like Navy SEALs moonlighting for the WWE.
I slid a glance to Gio. “Sure.”
“I do,” he insisted.
