Page 137 of Dominance

And there, sitting in the middle of a mass of half-naked women, is Dom, grinning like a fucking wolf.

“Adriano! My son! Congratu-fucking-lations!”

Instantly I’m inundated in tits and ass, smiling fake blondes and ebony beauties vying for a moment with me, offering me everything from dances to sex in the back room. I weather it, working my way back toward the railing, feeling my anxiety skyrocket in the tight confines of their attempted groping.

“I appreciate it, maybe later,” I finally pull free, gasping for a breath that isn’t choked with Dior and Guerlain.

Looking down over the dance floor gives me a moment before another round of well-wishers assaults me, every one of them offering me shots, drugs, girls. Soon, I manage to snag a beer from a passing waiter, holding onto it and waving it every time they try to get me to slam back another with them.

An hour slips by.

Then two.

I almost wish I could enjoy it. Let myself loose a little and dance.

If my brothers were here, if they had thrown this party for me as it should be, I would love a night out. The four of us wrecked shop all through Manhattan back in the day. And Prague, Milan, Ibiza.

It was our way of unwinding. But it was us.

Not a bunch of strangers invited by my greatest enemy and boss to an event that I can’t escape.

Especially since Dom is watching me, every time I turn around. He’s grinning. Toasting me with his martini. Hugging me like we’re the best of friends every time we pass.

And boy is he in rare form.

It’s a juggling act, a magician’s act even, trying to avoid the dozens of shots he thrusts on me. I pass some off, laughing and making a game of getting all of his bimbos drunk, a gift from the groom. Others I spit back into my beer bottle as I “chase” the shots with a swig.

And I don’t dare sit down.

Each time I try, I wind up with one or more asses planted in my lap, skirts so short that their lack of underwear is readily apparent. Ciro would be all over this.

Shit, I would have been a few years ago.

Except that I would have vetted and checked every one of them before they got near Alessandro, Ciro, or Ero. Or I wouldn’t have had to, because we could trust the people running our clubs to keep out the riffraff.

It’s like a parade of the city’s top-class trash, decked out in their finest.

With Dom at the center of all of the attention.

Because this party is certainly not for me. That’s just an excuse. This party is for the father of the bride, the proud Don whose daughter is marrying his consigliere.

It’s a joke.

It’s a fucking nightmare.

“Look at you, turning down all this snatch. I guess I chose well, for my girl.” Dom throws an arm around my shoulders, just shy of a headlock.

“I want to be a good husband.”

“And a good father too, huh?” he slurs, thwacking me on the back.

At that I keep my mouth shut, every fiber of my being wanting to grab him and toss him off the balcony.

Not here. Not now.

Because in every corner of this place there are guys with guns, all of them watching for a flicker of a threat on Dom’s life. I should’ve been more attentive to his guard. Gotten guys I could trust, or buy.

Another failing on my part, outsmarted by Dom’s erratic chess moves.

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