Page 7 of Veil of Obsession
Like I give a fuck. He’s got a stick so far up his ass, it’s a miracle he can walk straight.
He didn’t want me here tonight. Said I’m too green. Too reckless. Said Pops only gave me this one because he’s sentimental about firsts.
Too bad. I’m here, and I’m not leaving.
“Hurry the fuck up, Lucio. I don’t have all night to wait for your slow ass,” Eli snaps, pocketing his phone and turning to glare at me like I’m the problem.
“You’re talking like you’re miles ahead, asshole. It’s two steps,” I mutter as I shoulder past him, brushing against his arm just to piss him off.
The bass from inside thuds through the pavement, pulsing up my legs like a second heartbeat. When the door swings open, the heat and noise swallow me whole. Music, shouting, laughter, screaming. The scent of sweat, perfume, liquor, and blood. Some girls are dancing on the tables, heels kicking over empty shot glasses, completely fucking hammered.
Eli’s nostrils flare like he just walked into a fucking brothel.
“Get them off the fucking tables!” he barks at the bouncer near the entrance. “And if they don’t come down willingly, toss them.”
The bouncer nods and moves.
We push through the crowd, past the bar. I spot a bottle of Belvedere out the corner of my eye and slow my pace.
Eli doesn’t even look at me. “Try it and I’ll tell Pops you’re relapsing.”
I flip him off behind his back, but don’t stop. The last thing I need is a lecture from our father aboutdisciplineandimage.
The second floor is quieter. Dimmer. Velvet ropes and heavy bass muffled behind thick, soundproof walls. The VIP lounge smells like leather, cigars, and expensive cologne. Two men from the Outfit are already seated, hands resting near their holsters, eyes tracking every move we make.
They look nervous. Good.
We’ve been at war with them since before I could crawl, and now they’re in our territory acting like we’re the ones who should be afraid. The only reason they’re breathing is because Pops wants a fucking meeting.
Eli offers his hand. “Gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen,” one replies smoothly, standing.
The guy in the blue suit—blond, twitchy, fake smile—turns to me and extends his hand. I just stare at it.
“I don’t shake hands,” I say, tilting my head. “Especially not with rats.”
His face stiffens, and Eli elbows me. I flash him a grin and flop onto one of the plush leather chairs, draping my arm across the back.
Eli clears his throat and buttons his jacket like he’s trying to reassert control. “Let’s get to it. You said you had the conditions?”
The taller of the two Outfit men nods, reaching into his coat. “Meetings to take place on Outfit territory. No weapons. Only two guards.”
Eli scoffs, leaning forward. “What, should we show up in body bags too? Not happening. Neutral ground. Both Capos are unarmed. Guards stay in the cars.”
The blond one shifts. “That won’t do. Our Capo’s safety has to be guaranteed?—”
“Don’t act like anyone in the Outfit would cry if Moretti caught a stray,” I cut in. “You all hate his guts.”
Blondie’s hand slides toward his belt. “Watch your fucking mouth, kid.”
“Touch that gun,” Eli growls, “and I’ll decorate this room with your teeth.”
The tension reaches a boiling point all at once. Guns are drawn. Instinct kicks in. Eli lunges, knocking the taller guy’s wrist sideways. The gun fires harmlessly into the ceiling.
I go for the blond, but he’s quicker. The shot grazes my bicep, hot pain searing through muscle.
Fuck.
