Caruso;
The more I sit here doing nothing, it drives me over the edge. Can't think, can't fucking function.
Romano was right. She's not mine to bother about. But I do. That doesn't stop me either way.
Blood keeps thrumming hard in my veins, an unsettling sensation assaulting the balance of control I believed I had on my emotions.
Well, fuck it.
"Sir?" The Colombian bastard murmurs, a reluctant call slipping out.
My gaze sharpens on him, chin lifting slightly. The earlier monologue that sounded like whispers and whining a while ago snaps into loud, actual speech.
A shaky smile lifts his mouth, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. "I said the next shipment, when would you like it to be?" he asks, eyes glistening with the euphoria of being in a one-on-one conversation with a Giordano. Precisely, me.
I can tell he's a new recruit.
Irritation chafes at my insides, my jaw ticking once. "What's your name again?"
"David," he answers, a little too eager.
"David," I drawl, dragging the name out, "My men will handle that," Already rising to my feet, I brush imaginary dust off my sleeve. The salty wind slams into me, tousling my hair and shirt. "I have somewhere to be."
He scrambles up with me. Disappointment dulling the sheen in his eyes. "Okay, I'll report the update of the progress to my boss, hopefully, you'll get back to us?"
Impatience coils tight in my muscles as I regard his outstretched palm with an infuriated raised brow. Slowly lifting my gaze to his face, I flash him a cavalier smile; but the way he shrivels and awkwardly retracts his hand would make one think I'd bared my teeth instead. Maybe I did.
"Michealo, head of my team, will." I tell him, already striding out of the canopied sit-out blocking the scorch of the angry winter afternoon sun.
Like a summon, Michealo steps forward. And they exchange nods.
"And," before I veer off, I pause, glancing over my shoulder. "Tell your boss I said, next time, when dealing with me, he should send someone more experienced."
I can't listen to a yapper for two hours straight and still get no fucking directives.
David's smile falters, making my lips tug into a smirk.
I stride away, sand crumbling beneath my heavy steps. Sticking out a palm for my keys—yet I don't get it.
Swerving around, I spot Michealo clutching it tightly, knuckles faintly whitening. "I think I should drive, Boss."
My glare sharpens, eyes narrowing. "Keys, now."
His shoulders rise and fall before he reluctantly tosses it to me.
"You can sit in the back like a fucking passenger princess," I mutter, snorting at his caution as I stalk towards my car.
Of course he doesn't take the bait. He joins me, settling into the passenger seat, clicking his seatbelt in place. "Where to, Boss?"
"The Casino."
He doesn't question me further, bracing slightly as I pull us out of the port and into the main road.
Unlike the last time—when rage blurred my vision and waged war against my restraint—I drive carefully. Jaw tight. Grip firm. Ignoring flashbacks from that aggravating encounter with the useless kid.
He was lucky I was composed enough to miss.
And I don't miss.
Minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Romano's downtown Casino. Neon lights bleed into the evening sky, flickering gold and crimson across polished surfaces. The low thrum of bass, laughter, and clinking chips hums even from outside.
Spotting his signature Rolls Royce sitting right outside.
Which is odd. Other than confirming he's in, it signals he had to park impromptu—he usually makes use of the VIP section.
"Wait outside," I snap, tone clipped, already stepping out before Michealo responds.
Pushing through the doors, the atmosphere hits instantly—thick with smoke, money, and desperation. A crowd spills across the floor, bodies brushing past each other, voices overlapping in heated bets and sharp curses.
Cards slap against tables. Poker chips clink and stack. Roulette wheels spin in a blur of red and black, dealers calling numbers over the chaos. Lights flash, drinks spill, and somewhere, someone laughs too loud—too forced.
I ignore it all.
Heading straight for the elevator that takes me up to the floor of my brother's office.
Once in front of the door, I land a rapid knock against it.
"Come in," Romano's voice comes off cold and firm.
And I step in.
He lounges behind his big-ass desk, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Luca, our cousin, sprawls on the couch at the corner of the office, one leg thrown over the armrest. A bottle of whiskey and two half-filled glasses sit on the table before him.
If my unhealthy indulgence is smoking joints and the likes…my brother's is drinking.
His brows furrow in surprise at the unexpectedness of my presence, fingers pausing mid-tap on the desk. "It's you."
Yeah, because in all the years we've known each other, this is the third time I've made it into his private space in the Casino.
"Salve, cugino." Luca says in plain Italian, lifting his glass lazily.
Disregarding the bastard with only a glance, I cut straight through. "We have to talk."
Romano straightens slightly, forearms resting on the desk. "About?"
Fuck him.
"The bastard Fernandez and his shenanigans." I pace a step forward, dragging a hand through my hair. "If it hasn't gotten to you, well, news flash—it has to me."
His sigh comes off heavier than the muffled music and gambling shrieks echoing from below. "It's rare to see father hesitant to take action in cases like this…almost like he's scared."
My head tilts, expression blank, but my fingers flex at my side.
Taking my silence as attention, Romano continues. "I think we should trust him in this."
"That's your point?" My jaw grinds, a muscle ticking sharply.
"Is there any other option?" he narrows his eyes at me.
"You know…that's what Fernandez is counting on." I step closer, planting my palm on the desk, leaning in just slightly. "Father's fear."
"It means whatever it is father took from him is important to that extent. So important to have him behave." My voice comes out harder, mirroring the steel settling in my veins.
The look on my brother's face suggests he's had this thought before—it lingers in his eyes.
He brings his fingers to his chin, brows knitting together. Thinking. Calculating. He flicks his gaze back to me, eyes narrowing. "What's it to you anyway, Caruso?"
I rake my teeth over my lower lip, exhaling slowly through my nose.
"The Rossis haven't come at us for a week now, so what's keeping you on edge?" His tone sharpens. "It's my fiancée that was taken, not yours."
He'd asked that before—playful then. Now it lands like a blade.
"Uh, okay, this is getting awkward," Luca chuckles, pushing himself up with a stretch. "I think I'll take my leave." Cutting through the tension like a hot knife through plastic.
He glances at Romano. "A presto, cugino." Then flicks me a knowing smirk before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence settles thick.
So now, I meet Romano's gaze, scoffing like he can't see what's right in front of him. "Our reputation, brother." I answer, voice flat. Grounded.
Romano studies me—long and hard—eyes scanning like he's trying to peel something back.
Then he nods.
He knows I'm big on upholding the Giordano name. As it should be.
We are top of the hierarchy for a reason.
And apart from my obscene fixation on my brother's fiancée, that too feeds my hunger for retaliation.
Wearing that look that says he's deep in thought, his voice cuts through the steady tick...tock of the grandfather clock on the wall.
"Notice how father gets his hands on all the dirty secrets of his associates and business partners?"
Now that he's mentioned it…
"I think I know what it is that he took from the Rossis." His eyes glaze with dark realization.