Page 7 of Dirty Deeds

Pushing those bitter thoughts aside, I continue with the charade.

“I told you, this is a big event tonight. It can either break or make Brent’s campaign.”

The latest poll results show Brent is still trailing behind his opponent. If he doesn’t pick up a few endorsements tonight, then he’s not going to win, and all this pretending will have been for nothing.

My chest tightens at that thought.

The truth is there is so much more than just a congressional seat riding on this, but Ro doesn’t know that. No one does.

“I personally am voting for the other guy running,” Ro says, pulling me away from the dreadful thoughts that are trying to fill my head. Let it be noted that Ro doesn’t vote. Hell, I don’t think she’s even registered.

“Oh, yeah, what’s his name?”

“I have no fucking idea. Johnson…Jennings…something with a J. All I know is he isn’t a lying, cheating fuck and he’s single. Come to think of it, you should probably hit that after you’re done playing First Lady or whatever it is you’re doing. That would really stick it to Brent.”

I roll my eyes.

“His name is Anthony Jackson and he’s not my type.”

“Do you even know what your type is? For fuck’s sake, Dan, you haven’t gotten laid in over a year.”

I flinch at her words. Just like I never divulged the real reason I’m helping Brent, I never told my best friend about my night with Enzo—the construction worker Brent hired last summer to do some repairs on our boat. The man I conveniently ran into after my divorce was final. The God who ravished my body all night and left me in a constant state of longing ever since.

I have a type—or rather, I had a type, and he wore a toolbelt. He also had dark brown eyes, short brown hair, and just enough scruff lining his jaw that he left abrasions on the inside of my thighs. He said all the right things and made all the right moves, but his grin was the thing that did me in.

Well, that and the tattoos.

Brent didn’t have a single one, but Enzo Scotto had them in spades. They trailed up his muscular arms and decorated his broad chest. I was a big fan.

The doorbell to my condo sounds interrupting my trance and I lift a hand to my flushed cheek. It’s amazing how one night can leave such an everlasting impression.

“Someone is at my door. Blue or green?”

“I already told you, neither.”

Rolling my eyes, I disconnect the call and toss my phone on top of the bed. Still feeling slightly heated, I pull my hair away from my face, and fix it into a messy bun as I make my way toward the door. Without looking in the peephole, I pull open the door and my lips part in shock as I take in the big, burly biker standing on my doorstep.

The first time I met the president of the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club was not too long after me and his son got hot and heavy between the sheets. Brent had already announced his bid for congress, and I had told him all about the non-profit the Scottos were running in honor of Mr. Scotto’s youngest son, Frankie. I figured if I was going to help Brent win, I needed to find something to ease my conscience, and all I could think about was how Enzo’s eyes lit up when he shared the Scotto’s vision for Frankie’s House. I donated my entire settlement to the charity and Brent and I have been raising additional funds while campaigning with silent auctions at every campaign fundraiser.

We’ve toured Frankie’s House together and have sat in on meetings with Mr. Scotto and the board. For Brent it’s always been about the good press but for me it’s the genuine desire to help troubled kids. Kids like my brother, Derek, who slipped through the cracks of a broken system.

I shake those thoughts from my head and smile at the man, ignoring the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Mr. Scotto.” I push open the door and step aside. “Please come in.”

He brushes a hand over his beard and jerks his chin before accepting the invitation into my home.

“Thank you.”

I close the door and lean against it, glancing down at my attire. It’s a step up from the way his son found me on the boat, but the marinara sauce stain on my t-shirt doesn’t do me any favors.

“Excuse the way I look I wasn’t expecting company. Can I get you something to drink?”

He turns to face me, piercing me with a complex look.

“I’m not here for a social visit, darlin’.” He cocks his head to the side. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

My brows pinch together as I try to make sense of his words. Any time I’ve been in this man’s company, he has been overly gracious. So much so that it has been easy to ignore all the talk about him and his club. But right now, I have a feeling I’m about to see the menacing side of Alfonse Scotto and as much as I like to think of him as a grieving father who has made it his life’s mission to honor his beloved son, that is only a part of him and if I’m being totally honest, it’s a very small part. He’s a criminal. He’s left carnage on the streets of New York and though he prides himself on being a man of faith, he’s a sinner first and foremost.

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