Page 29 of On Ice

I seethe all night after my run-in with Evan. Part of my anger is because I was tempted to give him what he wanted. He was right. Waiting until the Ice Hawks get into the playoffs to start throwing games makes perfect sense. But I can’t have Evan telling me how things are going to be. That isn’t how I operate. You don’t let the horse rideyouto victory.

The look on his face when I grabbed his throat still bothers me. I can’t understand why. I’ve done that same move on countless assholes, but I felt sick and uneasy after Evan left my office. I’m haunted by how surprised, but also hurt he looked, when I put my hands on him. It’s completely illogical to give a damn about his feelings. Not counting family, I don’t usually care about another human’s feelings.

But ashamed or not, I liked having my hands on him again. The memory of his skin beneath my fingers and his clean, citrusy cologne make my pulse speed up. I’m frustrated I can’t have more of him, even as I hate the little prick for being so goddamned stubborn.

If he’d just play ball and be nicer to me, we could have a lot of fun together. I’d love to get him back in bed. Instead, Evan is fighting me at every turn. I could make his life so good, if he’d just do what I tell him to do. It’s aggravating how hard he’s fighting me.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of obsessing over Evan right now because I have a quarterly meeting with someof the other syndicate bosses in Seabrooke. My driver Danny parks my Mercedes in front of the Italian restaurant where the meeting is set to take place, and Marco and I exit the vehicle.

Vittorio’s facade hasn’t changed since my grandfather’s time. It still has the same understated brick exterior, and the same cameras hidden in tasteful copper sconces. The security cameras catch every face that enters, every car that passes. In our world, you can never be too careful.

Marco walks half a step behind me as Paolo, the owner’s son, leads us through the main dining room. The regular customers, judges, politicians, old money families, pretend not to notice us. They’ve learned the art of selective blindness. It’s how they sleep at night while profiting from our protection.

The private dining room lies behind the wine cellar, through a heavy oak door that’s been reinforced with steel. A massive table of Italian marble dominates the space, its surface gleaming under vintage Murano glass chandeliers. The chairs, fourteen of them, are antiques from some Florentine villa, their red velvet recently reupholstered.

Three of the five syndicate heads I’m meeting this afternoon have already arrived. Vincent Russo lounges in what should be my chair at the head of the table, his first subtle fuck-you of the evening. I’ve given him control of the construction Industry where he skims off contracts, controls the unions, and uses construction projects for money laundering. He’s also in charge of waste management. That’s a cash-heavy business that provides opportunities for extortion and illegal dumping. At sixty, he’s the oldest among us, silver-haired and designer-suited, Miami tan proving he spends more time on his yacht than overseeing operations.

“Luca.” He rises slowly, making me wait while he buttons his Brioni jacket. “Sorry. I forgot and took your seat.”

“No worries.” He didn’t forget. He did it on purpose. That’s okay. It’s always good to remember that while these people are friendly to me, they’re not my friends. “So long as you move your ass out of my chair.”

He studies me, sucking on his teeth. “You look… tired.”

I am tired. But Vincent doesn’t need to know that. I smile and narrow my eyes. “The chair, Vincent?”

He chuckles like it’s all a game, but he moves and that’s what matters. Message sent, message received. We both know he’ll try something bigger some other time. He can’t help himself. I take my rightful seat and Marco stands behind me, arms crossed.

From halfway down the table, Dmitri Petrov watches my exchange with Vincent with cold amusement. His massive frame squeezed into Italian silk that barely contains his muscles, and this throat adorned with gold Orthodox crosses that match his many rings. He runs the ports for me, but also dabbles in high-end escort services through the club district. He wanted to move into human trafficking as well, but I wasn’t a fan of that idea. I’ll do a lot of things, but selling humans isn’t one of them. If he wants to do that shit, he’ll need to move to another part of the country. His attention needs to be on the ports.

Dmitri eyes Marco. “You should sit too, Marco. It’s probably going to be a long meeting. There’s a lot to discuss.”

“I’m good.” Marco says, not budging from his protective stance behind me. He can watch everyone from that spot. He’s not about to sit down and pretend there are no threats in the room.

Smirking, Dimitri says, “It’s almost like you don’t trust us, Marco. That’s not very nice.”

Marco laughs. “I’d trust a hyena with my lunch before I’d trust you guys with my life.”

Vincent and Dimitri chuckle.

The third person at the table is Jimmy Chen, newest to our circle. His tech expertise launders money through a maze of cryptocurrency and digital fronts. He’s younger than the rest of us, wearing a casual black turtleneck and black jeans. He looks more like a cat burglar than a mafia boss. Still, he’s a valuable asset. Last month alone, he moved fifty million through NFT art sales that didn’t exist. The feds are still trying to figure out how.

Paolo returns with some wine, a 1997 Brunello di Montalcino. As he begins pouring, the door opens and Maria Calabrese enters. She strolls into the room like she’s the queen, wearing a red dress that shows off her voluptuous curves. She took over the Calabrese family’s gambling operations when her husband had an unfortunate accident. None of us can prove she arranged it, which is why she’s still breathing. Her dark eyes find mine immediately.

“Hello, Luca,” she purrs, taking her seat. “You’re looking delicious. Nobody wears a suit like you do.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “Aren’t you going to tell me how delicious I look too?” She looks down at her mostly exposed breasts. “I was hoping you’d like my dress. I put it on thinking of you, Luca.”

I laugh. “You already know you’re gorgeous, Maria. You don’t need me to tell you that.” I’m not kissing her ass. Neverhave. Never will. I’d much prefer Evan was sitting there shirtless instead of her.

She smiles slyly. “A girl still likes to hear compliments.”

“Oh, well.” I smirk, taking a sip of my wine. The mouthfeel is silky, with notes of dried cherries, blackberries, and plums. My father would have loved this wine. Sometimes, I wish he were still here and in charge. Then I could relax a little and just really enjoy the delightful wine I’ve been served, instead of being on edge in case someone tries to assassinate me during my meal.

Maria pushes her full, ruby-red bottom lip out in a pout when I don’t give her what she wants, but then perks up. “I heard through the grapevine that you bought a hockey team. I didn’t know you were into sports.”

“I’m not.” I smile, figuring she doesn’t need to know personal details about me. “I’m into making money though. They’re going to be a gold-mine.”

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