Page 12 of Sinful Restraint

“Yeah,” he huffed, striking a match to light one of the ivory taper candles. “But don’t tell Cruz. That muthafucka is always hungry, and he already ate all the wings I made earlier even though he tried to blame it on the damn dog.”

I froze, my chicken wing mid-air. “I’ve only been gone a few hours. Since when do y’all have a dog?”

Titan grunted. “We don’t. He’s always makin’ up some shit when he doesn’t follow the rules.”

“Your rules suck ass,” Cruz yelled from the living room. “I’m a growing boy and I need to eat.”

“You’re thirty-four,” Titan retorted. “So act like it and quit eatin’ food that ain’t yours.”

Their argument continued for another minute, their voices like a track on an album that had the potential to be your anthem.

I finished eating and went to clean my plate, but Storm beat me to it and took the plate from my hands, his soft smile warming my insides. When he told me I looked like I needed some time alone, I took the out he was giving me and escaped to my bedroom, flopping onto the bed the moment I shut my door, while leaning on my elbows so I wouldn’t fuck up my hair.

“Shit. What is wrong with me?”

How was I supposed to function like a regular human being around them? They were like the perfect man. Cruz made me laugh. Storm made me think. Titan made me feel safe. And somehow, I liked all three of them.

This shit wasn’t healthy. Fuckin’ friends was not what I was here to do. Groaning, I dragged a hand over my face.Why can’t I forget what the ladies said?Or worse, why was the only thing I could focus on was figuring out how to test the truth behind the gossip?

Did they truly share women?

And if so, was there a world that existed where they wanted to share … me?

chapter five

“Damn, it smells good.”I inhaled the air after stepping out of my Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat Redeye Jailbreak and adjusted my navy suit jacket. I always loved how it smelled after it rained. Living in Miami was cool, but the city could get grimy, so rain washed away the filth. Or at least masked that shit so that we could pretend to breathe some semi-clean air.

Tonight was a big one for my location in Little Havana. Since I opened my first club in Miami Beach, and second in Wynwood, I had been working hard to open this space. Although cancer had taken her away from me too soon, my mom, Carmen, was half Cuban and had made sure that I knew just as much about herCuban heritage growing up as I did our Black one. However, due to her toxic relationship with my dad, Oscar Crowne, who had a few baby mamas and kids to keep track of, she felt it best that we move to Georgia where her best friend lived.

She never kept me away from my Crowne family, but she wanted more for me … a different life. I wasn’t sure at what moment she realized I was a Crowne in more ways than one, drawn to organized crime and a life in the streets.

However, I was also a Rodriguez, fluent in Spanish and well-versed in the struggles of both nationalities now that I had taken an active role in connecting with my mom from the grave. Raphael, my abuelo, hadn’t gotten a chance to rebuild his rocky relationship with my mom, but he and I were pretty close.

“Mi nieto,” my grandfather greeted, walking through the parking lot. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Abuelo.” I gave him a hug before he kissed my cheek like he always did. “What are you doing at Fetish tonight? I thought you had a poker game with Sal?”

Sal was my abeulo’s best friend, but they were always arguing about something.

“Ay dios mío,” he stated. “You-know-who came to my restaurant looking for you, so I took him here.” He pointed around back.

“Shit.” He didn’t say who the person was that had caused trouble at his restaurant, but I knew.

“I have to get back,” he said, already shuffling in the direction of his restaurant when someone called his name from across the street, “but come see me this week.”

“I will,” I confirmed, shaking my head as abuelo winked at Ms. Pat and Ms. Pam, two older women who were always into something and frequenting all the Miami hot spots.

Grandpa was a flirt and a wanderlust at heart, so while he had his restaurant, it wasn’t unusual for him to call me and tellme he was off exploring a state he’d never been to before, leaving his right hand to manage the place. Which worked well for me. We both stayed out of each other’s way, but I loved that ol’ man and he loved me, too.

Calle Ocho was buzzing with locals and tourists who finally discovered that there was life outside of Miami and South Beach. Eighth Street was the center of it all and the most vibrant street in Miami’s Little Havana, known for its Cuban culture.

Cubans settled into the neighborhood in the 1960s and many felt that if you couldn’t get to Cuba, you had to come to Miami and experience the culture.

I was barely a few steps away from where my abuelo had left me when low, tense voices ahead told me some bullshit was already waiting for me even if abuelo hadn’t told me shit. Ignoring the fact that the city hadn’t come out to fix the flickering parking light by the back door of my club, I went to put out the fire.

Mekhi, my head of security, had his hand gripped tight around the tall and lanky muthafucka’s arm. As I got closer, my leather loafers tapping against the pavement got Mekhi’s attention, while the dim light washed over the junkie’s face.

As expected, it was Baarbie, the man Mekhi and I had once considered one of our ride or dies, but that shit ended real quick when I found out he was using. I didn’t want to let him go, but I couldn’t have a cracked-out dealer moving weight under my roof. My clubs had an image to uphold, and Baarbie had been the perfect seller before he met Ken and got hooked on the shit.

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