Page 17 of His to Break

“Mamma wants to throw you a party at The Vicente.”

It’s the hotel Alessandro’s wife bought recently with some of the considerable inheritance she received from her grandfather. She named it after the small town in Italy where she lived before Alessandro snatched her away and made her his bride. It’s not the largest hotel in town, but it has a reasonably sized event space.

“I wanted to check you’re okay with it before Emilia starts organizing anything.”

“If Mamma wants to throw a party, let her.”

“You’re sure?” Alessandro gives me a look of incredulity. I rarely enjoy parties. It’s not because I’m antisocial. I’m just not a fan of environments where it’s easy to lose control of who’s coming and going.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” It will be a chance to show Vinnie off to the people who matter in our world and ensure they understand she’s to be given the respect she’s due as my wife. A bonus is that it will piss off Carlo Bianchi when I publicly stamp a claim on his daughter. “Tell Emilia I’ll pick up the bill.”

“Right, then.” Alessandro gets his cellphone out and sends a message, presumably giving Emilia the go-ahead to start blowing up balloons, or whatever. He gets to his feet. “I’m going to hit the gym. Want to join me?”

When he says gym, he means a facility we own that is used exclusively by members of our organization. Though I could definitely use a quick workout, I can’t be bothered answering the inevitable questions about me and Vinnie. The news of my marriage is bound to have reached a lot of the guys by now. I knew what I was doing when I called Cassandra Vecchio to tell her I was bringing my new bride to her store. The wife of one of our enforcers, she’s a sweet woman, but an incorrigible gossip. She’ll be delighted to tell everyone I’ve tied the knot.

“I can’t,” I tell Alessandro. “I’ve got to hang out here for a while.”

“Anything you need help with?”

For a moment, I consider delegating the problems here to my younger brother, but I can’t do that.

“Nah, it’s a staff issue.”

Alessandro raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to go on.

“Gino’s dropping the ball in the kitchen. I’m going to have to let him go.”

“Fuck! I don’t envy you.” Alessandro pats my shoulder as he moves past me. “Good luck.”

As he walks away, I drink the last of my espresso, wishing it was something stronger. I get up from my seat and head into the kitchen. Everyone stops what they’re doing when I enter. The air prickles with nervous tension. My presence is unwelcome, but I really don’t give a fuck. Let them fear me.

Ignoring the startled stares of the staff, I scan the room until I find Gino. He’s standing by a stove at the back of the room. The wooden spoon in his hand tells me he was stirring something in the large pot on the front burner. There’s a red stain on the front of his white chef’s jacket. Looks like he spilled some wine. His gray eyes meet mine.

“Need a word.”

He nods. I turn and walk back out to the dining room, taking a seat at a booth by the bar. Gino joins me a moment later, hovering next to the table, his hands clasped in front of him.

“What’s up, Leo?”

I’ve known this guy all my life and have never seen him so nervous. He’s usually one of the few people who don’t tremble in fear whenever I’m around. He remembers me as the kid who used to ask for his soda in a whisky tumbler so he’d look like his dad.

Today, Gino’s on edge, and I suspect he knows what’s coming.

“Take a seat.”

He does as he’s told, dropping onto the banquette opposite me. Now I get a good look at him. It’s clear he’s aged since I saw him last. His hair is thinner. There are deeper lines around his eyes. His skin is marred with liver spots. There’s a weariness in his expression that convinces me I’m about to do him a kindness.

“It’s time to retire, Gino.” I don’t beat about the bush. There’s no point in trying to soften the blow. It hits him hard. He reels back.

“No, Leo.” He shakes his head. “Come on. This place is my life.”

That’s what makes this difficult. I don’t know much about him other than that his wife and son were killed years ago. He puts in punishing hours at the restaurant and I don’t imagine he has much else going on. I can’t soften, though. How he fills his days from now on isn’t my problem. The restaurant is losing money, and that’s the issue I have to be concerned about.

“Decision’s final.”

“Leo, please. You can’t do this to me.”

I get to my feet. I love to hear assholes beg for their lives or a woman babbling incoherently, desperate for my cock. This sort of pleading, I can’t stand. It’s pitiful and I don’t have a lot of mercy to pass around.

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