As dawn broke, I emerged from a haze of alcohol, greeted by the merciless grip of a hangover. My night had been swallowed by the shadows of the hotel bar, my mind consumed with thoughts of her—why she had omitted Angelo from her tales of Sicily. Was it fear of my wrath, knowing he was my cousin? Or did my presence now, an outsider encroaching upon her newfound alliance, threaten to destroy whatever bond they shared?
But amidst my throbbing headache, one thing remained clear: Angelo's identity needed deciphering, as he might not even be my cousin, which I knew was unrealistic hope. I had my methods, a direct confrontation with the woman herself, though not at this moment. There were pressing matters at hand—the impending release of her book, a disruption I intended to orchestrate. Only then could we address our distressed affair.
However, with me in the picture now, their secret meetings would come to a halt, which I relished more than any fact. If he truly was my cousin and had sinister intentions, my presence alone would surely deter his advances.
I had summoned men to Sicily just this morning, recognizing the magnitude of the task at hand, especially with Xenia under my protection—a duty I could entrust to no other.
With a quick stretch to loosen my muscles, I laced up my sneakers. Since I'd taken a break from the liquor bottle, I wanted to take a break from my overly active mind. And hitting the gym downstairs was the only option I thought of entertaining.
The scent of sweat and iron greeted me as I entered the space.
It seemed like a quiet morning at the gym with only a handful of people, or we all here were unreasonably early. The early morning light flittered through the window, bathing the room with a warm glow. The walls were a soothing shade of blue, and a few few dedicated individuals dotted the space, hard at work. One was a blonde woman in the corner, gracefully holding a yoga pose. A man grunted as he lifted a weight not too far from the woman. And another diligently pounded away at the punching bag, mirroring my own intentions.
I wasted no time in setting up my routine, the weights calling to me like old friends. With a clouded head, I began my workout, each repetition pushing me closer to my physical limits.
My thoughts were punctuated by the sharp impact of my fists against the punching bag. With each strike, I wanted to release a pent-up frustration but felt like I was hitting my own gut, getting a reality check, understanding that Xenia and I no longer existed as an entity.
I found myself in a bind, realizing that any move I made could potentially drive her away once things settled down. I'd never been in the position of pursuing someone who wasn't interested, so I was unsure of how to proceed. However, I suspected that resorting to forceful tactics would only result in me appearing desperate—a strategy I knew wasn't wise. Despite this, her current behavior didn't merit the showering of sweet treats and praises.
The word "ecstasy" had clawed at my thoughts relentlessly, a riddle I didn't want to solve. Why hadn't I broached the topic with her? I had once prided myself on my dominance over anything, but yesterday's test had shaken that belief. It revealed a reservoir of submission within me, waiting to be tapped. Perhaps I held back, hoping for her to confess first, yet deep down, I knew I dreaded delving into the depths of her and Angelo, alongside "ecstasy".
Part of me wished it was all just some stupid prank. I refused to accept that he was discussing ecstasy pills or that Xenia had anything to do with it, let alone Angelo. But doubt crept in, fueling the anger that surged through me, urging me to pummel the leather bag hanging in front of me.
Then, finally, my thoughts shifted to my father. That was the breaking point. Rage and vulnerability surged within me, propelling me forward. Each blow I landed on the bag felt like striking my father's lifeless body. Again and again, I unleashed my fury, seeing only crimson. My vision blurred, whether from the remnants of a hangover or sheer paranoia. And I knew, deep down, it was the latter.
Every time I closed my eyes, Rossi's presence invaded my head, a wicked souvenir of our ongoing rivalry even beyond the grave.
As my phone rang in the corner, it offered a brief respite from my riotous way of thinking. I paused my punching to retrieve it, knowing it could only be Ottavio. Without hesitation, I answered the call.
"Roe," Ottavio's voice tore through the line. "Did Max pass along my message?"
"About Vitriol?"
"Yep," Ottavio replied, and I echoed his sentiment. "Any updates?"
Not technically. Max had spent the entirety of last night at Nova, only to report that Vitriol's activities mainly involved indulging in hedonistic pursuits, with more attention to receiving lap dances than the DJ's beats. Angelo, unsurprisingly, was overseeing the club's operations, a detail I shared with Ottavio.
"I bugged his phone before he left Bologna," Ottavio disclosed after a pregnant pause. He would have, he was that mistrusting. "He's onto the book." Fuck. "Six calls this morning to Taormina and Palermo, spreading the word. Want to hear the juicy part?"
I scoffed, and Ottavio pressed on, "He believes you're clueless, and he's moving quickly. If news of Xenia's book reaches our associates and the rest of the family, it'll be his chance to—"
"Assert his authority and potentially take over," I finished grimly.
"I'm relieved meeting Xenia again hasn't dulled your intellect," Ottavio chuckled, but his laughter cut deeper than any words could convey. He was warning me: I was in trouble.
Morelli still remained unaware, but if he found out, the consequences would be dire. The same Xenia, but a greater offense, likely leading to harsher consequences. I wasn't prepared for that.
"I've isolated Morelli from your uncle and cousin. In fact, I've isolated him from everyone for now, to keep this information from reaching him." I wanted to thank him but he continued anyway, "But soon enough, he'll want to reach out himself, and I won't be able to stall any longer."
"Dipshit," I muttered under my breath, though my mind was preoccupied with other concerns. "Is Vitriol implicating the mastermind behind the book?"
Ottavio retorted with a hint of sarcasm, "What do you think?"
"I'm not in the guessing business, you idiot!"
Half the room turned to look at me, and I instinctively faced the emptier side of the gym. It was best not to stir up trouble.
"Well, well," Ottavio continued, "from what I've gathered, they haven't been able to uncover Skylar Vance's identity. But you know, with a woman of her reputation, it's probably the easiest thing to do."
So Vitriol got wind of the book, made his way to Sicily, spread the word, and now he was banking on my silence to prove I was unfit to be Don. Everyone would buy into it, including Morelli himself, leaving the door wide open for Vitriol to take my place. How cunning. But what if they discovered it was Xenia behind the book? That would be even more devious. That's why instead of pounding a leather bag, I should have been pounding an actual person. Perhaps the manager or owner of the publishing company.
"Gotta go, Ottavio." I hung up the call before he added any more bad news to my predicament. Within minutes, I was striding down the corridor toward my room.
Enough with the dilly-dallying, the diplomacy, and trying to understand everyone's point of view. I needed a damn iron grip, or I wouldn't have any grip left at all.
As if to stamp my decision, Xenia's door forced open and there she was, standing at the threshold, gawking at me like she wasn't the root cause of all my goddamn problems.
"Good morning..." her words trailed off, lost before she could finish, but I didn't wait for her to find them again.
"Follow me."
My gruff tone provided no opportunity for resistance. She was suddenly trailing closely behind me, matching my pace as we made our way to my room.
I threw my phone, keys, and wrist wraps onto the bed, then said, "Close the door and get comfortable," before turning away as she sat down. Without much thought, I tossed my T-shirt into a ball, and then asked without looking at her, "Who calls the shots at the publishing company?"
"The Executive Director," she responded smoothly. "He's in charge of all major decisions about book releases, marketing strategies, and where the company's heading. His name's Jerry Keith." Wanting more, I turned back to her. "Alongside him are the Chief Operating Officer, Carlo De Luca, and the Vice President of Publishing, Sofia Moretti."
Her chest was heaving, maybe from fear or holding back. Ignoring it, I inquired, "Can you give me any insight into the company's internal structure or hierarchy?"
Xenia promptly outlined the company's organizational chart, explaining the departments, their roles, and their interactions to the best of her knowledge. Knowing this might be of help if I wanted to get into the company.
"Are there any security weaknesses or vulnerabilities that could be exploited?"
"I'm not sure."
"Hmm," I pondered. I hadn't expected her to have all the answers anyway. "Who's responsible for the printed book copies?"
"They're with the Warehouse Department," she replied and blinked innocently. "A guy named Mike Orson, but everyone calls him Mikey."
"Mike Orson," repeating, I hummed in thought. "And are there any internal conflicts or controversies?"
This time, she hesitated before answering, suggesting she was considering her response. Then she shrugged and said, "Does involvement with staff count?"
"Dig deeper. You're the one familiar with their company policies. But who's fucking staff?"
"Jerry Keith." Her smile carried a portion of dismay and disgust. "He's involved with my editor, Vera Lenci. And,"—her focused expression intrigued me—"there was a scandal involving leaked manuscripts recently. It's stirred up quite a bit of chaos. I'm not sure if that fits the bill."
I wasn't sure either, but I gave a nod, acknowledging her effort. It might not have settled a damn thing, but it was a good place to start. "What's your work schedule?"
"Haven't been needed for days. But I can stroll in whenever I please. Jerry's been too preoccupied with his own security mess to give a rat's ass about my whereabouts."
Same old Jerry. He seemed to wield significant influence in the company, earning himself a quick spot in my mental blacklist. "About Jerry," I began, purposefully adjusting my pants below my brief's waistline. It was a calculated move, and the way Xenia's expression morphed into one of keen interest made me realize just how quickly and deeply it gripped her attention. "Know where he hangs his hat, his blood, anything I can use to tighten the noose?"
"I can dig that up for you if you want," she offered and crossed her leg in the most suggestive way possible. Her partly exposed left thigh reminding me of moments when I used to run my hands up her thighs.
"I want it."
The weight of my words seemed to freeze time, trapping us both in suspended vigor. I hadn't meant to sound suggestive or send any mixed signals, but Xenia wasn't sold. She stared back, daring me to rephrase my request, to insinuate something else. I could've danced around it, but I doubted that's what she really craved.
Up until this moment, I hadn't taken the time to truly assess her, but now, with the opportunity at hand, I began from the top down. Her locks cascaded like crimson curtains framing her face—a vivid flashback to the first day I laid eyes on her from the hallway during my inauguration. Red, dangerous, captivating.
Moving down, my gaze fixated on her deep brown eyes, evocative of the dark alleys I prowled in my line of work. They held a suggestive bait—a hunger veiled behind a thin veneer of innocence, tempting me to explore deeper. In those eyes, I saw shadows of his our past. I saw the subtle power of persuasion.
Though the neckline of her dress was modest, it left little to the imagination, as my hands had explored this form countless times before.
Tracing my gaze downward, I noticed her feet in flat skippers, her perfectly manicured toes peeking out. My dark stare shifted to the tattoo adorning the left side of her shoulder. I'd noticed it yesterday but was only realizing it wasn't exactly gibberish but something hidden beneath a caustic font.
Closing the gap between us, I leaned in to examine the sophisticated design, absorbing its significance. It stirred within me an emotion I had almost forgotten—passion. "Tough times build tough people," I mused aloud, and she instinctively glanced towards the tattoo, lost in her own contemplations.
It wasn't presumptuous to consider that she may have chosen that specific tattoo with me in mind, given that it was the most meaningful quote in my life. She had been exposed to it in my space during the days she spent under my roof, and she had seen it etched into my skin. Having it permanently inked on her own body made me feel as though she was solidifying her place as the missing piece in my puzzle. I cherished that realization.
Unaware of my own actions, I found myself reaching out to touch the surface of her tattoo. Xenia flinched instinctively, and for a moment, we both stood frozen, as if sharing the same surge of electricity. Maybe we were.
As my thumb grazed the inked surface, she closed her eyes, holding her breath in anticipation.
"You're beautiful," I murmured, more to myself than to her, before hastily retracting my hand as if the tattoo had suddenly become searing hot.
In reality, the inability to touch her, to have her, felt like an unbearable torment.
Her breathing steadied, but she kept her eyes shut, opting instead to nibble on her bottom lip—a dead giveaway of her carnal thoughts. When she traced her finger along the spot where mine had lingered moments before, it gave me a fucking hard on.
As I knelt down to her level, she finally opened her eyes, locking her dangerously burning gaze with mine.
She began to speak breathlessly, "Why—" but my mind lagged behind, unable to halt the question that escaped my lips.
"Who's Angelo? And why did you keep his name out of your experience in Sicily?"