Sins of the past
Situated at the heart of the city was The Qube—a luxurious nightclub colloquially known as "King-of-clubs" in Chicago and one of many Bertinelli family owned businesses used as a front to the government for their upscale money laundering scheme.
During the day the place was mostly empty and quiet but Roman could only imagine how busy and packed the venue would become at night when the party animals showed up.
Just as the "deal" had entailed, Saint assigned Federico to drive Roman to the club where Nico's office happened to be perched inside.
Roman took a deep breath as he made his way into the club, trying to prepare himself as he didn't know what to expect from Niccolo Bertinelli. The little to no information he'd gotten from Saint last night wasn't exactly helping to calm his nerves.
"Mr Bertinelli?" Roman called out nervously through the closed door of Nico's office. No answer. "Hello? Nico?" Still no answer even after knocking three more times.
Roman jerked the door open, tentatively, and cautiously stepped inside. Technically it was trespassing, but the door was unlocked and at some point he had to get on with his new job as a double agent for Saint if he wanted a chance at tasting freedom ever again. The faster he fished information out of Nico, the quicker he could forget about everything that happened in the last five months.
He looked around the place. The office was pristine and minimalist as it could get with a desk, a plant, a credenza, a lamp, and an artwork that complemented the neutral color palette of wood and plaster in muted tones. Nothing too personal tying the owner to the office.
Speaking of personal belongings, a digital photo frame propped on to the desk had momentarily caught Roman's attention. He went on to pick it up to see a stream of photos of two handsome men—a dark haired and a blond—rotating all day. Looking at the images, any fool could tell the two men were more than just friends.
He was about to start looking around when he was shocked to hear the sound of a sliding door at the balcony—and he realized he wasn't alone after all. For a few seconds, he waited with some degree of trepidation looking in the direction of the balcony and wondering if he was going to be confronted by a raging Bruce Banner type minus the awful green.
To his relief, the figure that appeared looked tamer albeit the sour-face and borderline angry look radiating on his features.
Like a deer caught in headlights, Roman stood there completely frozen as the blond guy from the photos stalked into the room—clad in a leather jacket that stretched over a well-muscled chest and shoulders with enough flex to throw a good punch without the jacket binding him up. The man was an iconic symbol for raw masculinity and rebellion in that pair of dark blue Levi's and high-cut boots Roman could never afford in this lifetime.
His eyes were empty, and his Teutonic-gold curls that complemented his scruff sat just as still as his expression.
"What on earth do you think you're doing with that?" He snarled.
Roman had long forgotten he was still holding the digital photoframe. With a small gulp, he managed to replace the frame exactly where he'd found it with the man's eyes honing lasers at him. Jesus, if looks could kill he'd already be dead by now.
"Are you Nico Bertinelli?" Roman tried.
"Who wants to know?"
Roman realized the man was just being a little melodramatic, but a little clarification was called for.
"I'm sure your brother has already briefed you on the issue of having me as your assistant starting from today."
"I don't remember saying I was hiring," he said, a low growl to his tone.
"Neither was I up for an interview," Roman replied trying to sound chummy. "But a man's gotta earn his freedom back."
"You must be the infamous priest." It wasn't a question.
"Well, that's me, the one and only."
His face remained sour as ever. Roman contemplated making a second attempt at breaking the ice but rejected the idea on the grounds that the humor would probably go over his head.
"So, are you Nico Bertinelli?" Roman asked once more, his smile betraying his anxiety.
"Last time I checked," he gruffly said.
From his mariner-blue eyes and that devil-may-care outlook Nico Bertinelli looked a lot different from his brother Santino. Roman wasn't the type of guy to pay a lot of attention to a man's mouth—except what he was doing with it. Right now he couldn't help but notice how Nico's lips were absurdly similar to Saint's. They weren't classically defined but the full bottom lip had potential to make a guy weep and that perfect bow at the top?
Almost looked broody on Saint and...he wanted to lick it.
Roman blinked at his unwarranted not to mention inappropriate thoughts about his enemy.
Since when did he want to lick Santino Bertinelli's lips?
Straightening his back, Roman cleared his throat. "So where should I start off?"
Nico stared intensely at the priest, no emotion on his face like he was some AI generated portrait.
His no response however didn't stop Roman from filling the silence as he stood tense wondering if the guy could read his wild thoughts about wanting to lick his brother's lips. In Roman's defense, even though Saint was a certified psycho the guy did have perfect kissable lips and Roman was a full blooded man who hadn't had sex in months also with functional eyes. No one in this world had the right to judge him for that.
Yeah keep on lying to yourself you may start to believe it.
"Maybe I could start by arranging some files or whatever," he mumbled while examining the meticulously color coded file cabinet that obviously didn't require his intervention. "Or maybe I could get you a coffee? Does coffee sound good to you?"
Once again, Nico didn't grant him with a bare minimum response. The silence was daunting and Roman was never known for doing well in silence.
He inhaled sharply, clasping his hands together. "You know I'm kinda walking on eggshells here." Roman let out a nervous chuckle. "So maybe try working with me on this one, please?"
The Bertinelli underboss silently moved to his desk and sat on top of it just a foot away from his visitor, trying to remain calm while Roman fidgeted.
Annoyance didn't even begin to describe how Nico was feeling. At the balcony he'd been trying to call Saint back for over an hour. At first it had rung a few times. After that it kept going to voicemail, almost like his brother was brushing him off.
Saint had hung up before Nico had even gotten the chance to argue about this whole assistant thing. And Saint knew he preferred working alone. Considering the fact that the priest required his constant supervision only made Nico a glorified babysitter and he didn't like the implications at all.
Fuck him. Saint was the one who wanted to keep the priest around, meaning he's the one who's supposed to be dealing with him!
The underboss took a deep breath and regained his composure, trying to read the priest's demeanor.
"This isn't going to be a problem for you, is it?"
"My problem is going to be you, Father, if you don't stop talking," Nico replied with mild attitude.
Roman scowled and immediately reached for the door to leave, he was officially fed up. As he went on to grab the door handle, Nico waved a hand to stop him and slid off his desk.
"Rule number one," he walked up to Roman, only to stop a few inches away from him. Roman's breath hitched inside his throat but feigned confidence as he stood toe to toe with the Bertinelli underboss. "Let me never catch you touching my shit ever again if you want to keep all your fingers."
"Okay..." Roman swallowed, left with nothing else to say. Still processing it all.
"Happy first day."
Roman's lips parted to speak but the huge grin on Nico's face was messing with his head. It was idiotic to think a shark showing you teeth was smiling.
For this reason, Roman ended up tensing up even more. He wondered who was far much more dangerous between the two Bertinelli brothers.
Nico or Saint.
***
The next few weeks were spent with Roman tailing his new boss everywhere, scheduling meetings and manually taking notes for him in a journal. Nico didn't trust him with any electronic devices yet and for someone who was against the idea of an assistant, he surely was making use of Roman's presence.
Besides Nico going off to the balcony for a smoke and staring into Chicago's skyline for hours and hours there really wasn't anything worth reporting back to Saint. It almost seemed as if the guy was hurting and Roman knew that look very well, the look of a man going through a heartbreak.
Today was a Tuesday morning and Nico, who had just walked in for the day tore his attention from his phone and stopped by Roman's work area. "I'm going to be traveling to Sicily for a week and Saint wants me to walk you through on how to run collections."
Roman perked up then hoping to fish out some useful information. "You're off to Sicily?"
"I've got some business I need to take care of." Nico stated. "I will be staying there for like a week or two give or take."
"I see, but what kind of business are you going to be taking care of?"
Nico quirked him an incredulous brow. "And why are you so interested in my private matters?"
"Maybe because I'm your personal assistant?" Roman tried to reason. "I should know stuff like this, just in case someone comes up looking for you."
"Well, in that case you tell whoever they are that I'm not available." Nico said, brows furrowed so deep. "You're going to be very diligent, and you'll do exactly what I tell you to."
"Alright..."
"You'll be collecting profits from eight of our nightclubs," Nico instructed. "When you get to each one, you're gonna count the money and you'll do it in front of them. Wanna guess why?"
Roman blinked. So still. So meek.
"Because if your total is even one-fucking-dollar short, you'll be in deep trouble." Nico said, his eyes solely on Roman. "But of course that won't happen if you wanna keep your balls."
"Seriously? Why is everyone obsessed with my balls?" Roman grumbled under his breath.
Nico ignored him despite his lips slightly twitching at the sides and Roman could've easily missed it if he wasn't looking.
"You go in the club, bring the money out, take it to the van, and put it in the safe at St. Francis Xavier."
"Are you sure Saint wants me collecting cash considering..."
"Considering how you have a track record of taking what doesn't belong to you?" Nico finished for him, a devilish gleam sparkling his eyes.
Roman's mouth slightly gaped but nothing came out.
"Federico and Moretti will be joining you but yes," Nico grunted, remembering the heated argument he'd had with his brother earlier this morning concerning the priest running this week's collections. He wasn't a capo, not even a made man and this disregard of hierarchy was pissing Nico off. "For some reason Saint wants you to collect for all eight clubs."
"Oh."
This was the last thing Roman expected but if running collections for the Bertinelli family would get him one step closer to Max and his freedom he wasn't going to complain.
Besides, what could possibly go wrong?
***
Club Paradiso was the eighth and final nightclub they had to collect profits from, and so far everything was going according to plan. "A thirty thousand." Roman counted the money loudly and when he reached 30, 500, he packed it up in a briefcase and said, "I'm gonna go take a leak. I'll meet you guys at the van in a few, okay?"
"And where the fuck do you think you're going with that briefcase, Father?" Federico's angry voice quickly halted Roman in his tracks.
"To the restroom," he replied as if it was that obvious. "Federico, I'm not taking any chances of a single dollar going missing because I'm the one who will get into trouble for it."
Federico glared at him. "If you try anything funny I have clear instructions from the top to take you out."
"Chill out, I'm not stupid," Roman said. "I won't try anything."
"Good, because I don't want to shoot you either."
Just one heist and they wouldn't let you forget it. He couldn't even use the damn urinal without being questioned about it.
While he was mid-stream, a familiar voice that made Roman's stomach turn in on itself sounded way too close for comfort. "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in today." Oh God it could've been any other day. "Word on the street was going around saying Roman O'Connor is now a priest in Chicago and I was the first one to call bullshit. Guess I was right after all."
In times like this, Roman wished he really believed in divine intervention.
This guy, Cruz González was Roman's nightmare brought to life—and he owed him at least a quarter of the money packed inside the very same briefcase he was holding on to for dear life.
Cruz immediately noticed the briefcase in Roman's tight grasp and grinned. He took it. "I'm gonna hold this for you while you finish up."
"Listen, Cruz, you don't want to do this." Roman said in the smallest voice. "Trust me on this one, the owners of that briefcase are not people you wanna be messing with. Ever heard of the Bertinellis?"
"Roman, Roman, Roman! How many times have I said your name? Everytime your mouth is running, just know lies are spewing out." Cruz tsked, shaking his head. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm being serious Cru—"
"I'm done with your crap Roman," Cruz was ragging mad and that's when Roman heard it, the unmistakable click of a gun safety being taken off. "Quickly finish up because you are coming with me hijo de puta."