Page 27 of Unorthodox
It will.
I don’t think about him anymore.
Dante steps through the door and I force myself to relax my grip on my handgun. As always, Dante’s hazel eyes go briefly to the weapon, even though he’s the one with an AR slung around his chest.
He nods once to me, then to whomever is waiting outside of my office door.
Luca steps through, his dark eyes on me, ignoring the gun in my hand. Instead, he strides forward as if he’s used to being surrounded by deadly weapons in what should be mundane settings, like a home office.
And he is.
Luca Mendoza controls most of the movement of cocaine on the east coast, and he’s one of the people that got fucked with Christopher’s mishandling of my product. I already made amends with Luca—I have enough capital to do so, and I don’t like owing anyone anything.
That’s not what Luca is here for.
He’s here because, on some level, in the only way men like he and I can be, we’re friends.
He nods toward me but doesn’t offer me his hand. He knows I won’t take it. Instead, he smooths down his charcoal suit jacket, adjusts the collar of his white dress shirt—contrasting sharply with his brown skin—and then sits in the black leather chair across from my desk.
I nod again toward Dante. “Ensure she’s with Mamie.” He doesn’t need to ask what I’m talking about. After our misunderstanding in the shower, I knew I needed to give Addison something. I was aggressive and scared the fuck out of her, which ordinarily wouldn’t bother me. But her buyer needs more time, and I can’t have her trying to escape again and causing a scene, or I might kill her before I get what I’ve been promised.
I gave her privileges to roam the house, as long as my housekeeper, Mamie, is with her at all times.
Dante pulls the door closed, and I know he’ll take care of what I asked before he comes back to his primary duty of guarding me.
Luca flashes me a white smile, glances at the silver watch on his wrist to check the time, and then places his palms on his knees.
He has homes in Miami, Charleston, New York City, and Texas.
I know which one he’s staying in this month, because in two weeks, it’s Luca’s favorite day.
His birthday.
He enjoys celebrating in South Carolina because he has the most “friends” here. Or maybe just less people who want to kill him. And the only thing Luca loves more than his birthday is his mother. Good to know, in the event I ever need something from him that he isn’t willing to give.
I place my gun on the desk, barrel aiming toward the closed curtains, and sit down, resting my hands on the arms of my chair. The chandelier overhead is the only light in the room.
“Heard you got the girl.” There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and he scrubs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw.
I’m not surprised he heard, but I still ask, “From whom?”
“Christopher himself.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “That fuck,” he mutters under his breath before his amber eyes meet mine again.
I don’t say anything, but Luca knows my body language enough for me to not need to waste words. He’s known me for nearly two decades now.
I met him after I came back from Pretoria. I was a teenage boy with more money than fucking sense, my father’s body an ocean away, buried in a shallow grave right by the shed he loved to torture me and Ollie in. Luca was the first person I did business with. One of the few willing to give a “kid” a chance.
I didn’t fuck it up.
Anger makes you grow up fast. And finding my mother dead, my brother missing—living with the knowledge that wherever he was, he might’ve wished he was dead—I never felt like a teenage boy ever again.
The thought of where Ollie is still brings a physical pain to my chest. It’s a sharp ache that never goes away. What little solace I have in that is that I killed my fucking father, and no matter where Ollie is now, he’ll never have to see that piece of shit again.
Having that much power, the ability to end a monster’s life with one pull of a trigger, it got me addicted to this world.
When my mother stole Ollie and me away from my father, I intended to leave crime. I intended to go to college, become a psychologist, work with kids like my brother. I had a lot of good intentions then, despite my upbringing.
Once more, my father shattered them by showing me the world for what it is—cruel.
