“Don’t answer. You’re punishing me for something. I’ve known you all my life. We’ve always had each other's back.”
He sighed, running a hand over his dark hair. His lip tipped up at one end, then his thick lips flattened in the blink of an eye.
“I don’t think you had sex with the women.”
Bracing my elbows on the white tablecloth, I balled my fists, bringing them to my lips. A ragged breath released from my lungs. “Thank you, Deacon.”
He quirked a brow, tossing his brown linen napkin on the empty plate. “You’re welcome.”
I knew my best friend. His odd behavior told me he knew about me and Lakelyn.
“Do you want to talk about why you’re pissed at me.”
“Not now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” He stood, glaring into my eyes.
My fingers stroked my ink black hair. “Say what’s on your mind.”
Nostrils flaring, he pointed his finger in my face. “You betrayed me. Broke up the perfect brotherhood. I’m tired of pretending you didn’t toss a grenade into our friendship. If I mention it...” he paused.
“...I’ll jump over this table and kill you.” His lip curled as his chest heaved. Deacon’s grip tightened on the top of the wooden chair.
“Despite your fuck up, I want to watch your ass play the first football game of the season. Tell uncle Bo and aunt Aria thanks again for a great lunch.” He spun on his heels and stalked out of the restaurant.
Yup, I’d say he didn’t accept Lakelyn and I together. And he had to witness the pain I caused his sister. Thankfully, he didn’t hit me the second he walked in. If he did, we would’ve destroyed my aunt and uncle’s restaurant.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WYATT
Sitting in my gray and orange Lamborghini that doubled as my office, I combed through more statements Nancy’s PR team created and the legal forms my attorneys prepared.
Hunched over my laptop in front of Lakelyn’s condo, I hoped to catch her walking to her car. Calling was a bust. She blocked my number.
Sylvie said I should give her time to calm down. No chance of that ever happening. Lakelyn would never forgive me.
Taking a deep breath, I entered her building one night. Standing outside her door, I turned my baseball cap to the back and leaned my forehead against the thick wood.
“Lakelyn, open the door. I need to talk to you.”
“Go away, Wyatt,” she yelled.
“Tend to the other women in your life.” Her voice became clearer as she stepped closer.
“There aren’t any other women, just you. Open the door so we can talk.”
Her open palm slammed against the door. “No. So you can sweet talk me. Get in my head, then between my legs like you did in L.A. You said you didn’t have sex with the groupies, but you did.”
I braced my hands against the door. “Deacon and I hung out that night. He can vouch for me.” But he wouldn’t.
Silence.
“Were you together all night?” My heart beat in my ears.
I exhaled. “No, I texted you from the party.”
Clenching my eyes shut as the words left my lips, I realized that was the wrong choice of words.
“I told you I was coming over─”
Lakelyn cut me off. Her bitter laughter filled my ears. “Oh, and that’s the same night you never showed. You’ve never stood me up, Wyatt.”
She was right. Johnny got in my head and the scotch whisky became my companion that night. “Lakelyn, I can tell you everything that happened play-by-play that night. Baby, please let me in,” I paused.
“I love you.”
“Leave,” she growled. “Before I call the police.”
My heavy fist pounded on the door a final time.
**P**
Uncle Bo and a tall bulky guy who looked to be in his early thirties, sat in the middle of the restaurant deep in a conversation.
I opened the glass door, stepped over the threshold, and sauntered in their direction.
“Hello Uncle Bo and...” I stretched my hand out toward the man.
They stood. That slick smile my uncle often produced appeared. What the fuck was this guy up to?
His rough, callused hand shook mine.
Gripping the football and lifting weights over the years, left my hands rough. Lakelyn never complained. She loved placing my palm against her face and smiling into it. I fucking missed my woman.
Forcing a grin across my lips, I placed thoughts of Lakelyn in a corner pocket in my head.
“Nickulas Pitucco.” He released my hand.
Was this guy in the construction business? Because his hand felt like sandpaper. His tailored blazer, dark slacks, and two-tone oxfords, screamed wealth.
The wheels turned in my head, then my brows lifted. “You’re from my dad and Uncle Bo’s side of the family.”
“Yeah, my dad is Julianno Jr. Your great uncle is my grandfather.”
I nodded, still piecing together parts of my family tree in my head.
“We live in New Jersey.”
Great uncle Julianno’s family. The family no one spoke of. The ones you only heard whispers about.
The mafia.
“Didn’t know I had cousins in Jersey.” I peeked at Uncle Bo.
“Guys, sit. I need to tend to the soup on the stove. I’ll prepare a bowl for you both.”
“Thanks.” I returned my attention to Nickulas, who sat next to me at the six top oval table. His green eyes studied me.
He removed his phone from his inner navy blazer pocket and placed it on the white tablecloth between us.
“You’re a great fucking wide receiver. I haven’t lost a bet I place on you, yet.” His lips tipped up at one end.
My brows wrinkled again as I sipped the glass of water.
“Before we get started, what questions do you have?”
“I heard uncle Julianno had mafia ties. My dad and Uncle Bo brushed me off. Is it true?”
He flashed a cocky grin and glanced at the bar. I followed his line of sight.
A buff guy in a dark suit sat in the shadows, laughing behind his dark sunglasses before taking a sip of whiskey.
My skin heated. The mood shifted in the restaurant. Everything felt heavy and ominous. I noticed Nickulas sat across from me. His back was to the wall. He had a perfect view of the street and the entrance to the kitchen.
Yup, he was a mobster.
“You have a problem I can fix in a couple of ways.” His hand swept over his dark, curly hair.
“I can break his legs. Or, he can take a walk.” He turned up his lips and shrugged.
“You decide.” He rose, then walked to the dark wooden bar lined with top shelf liquor and wine. Nickulas patted the large man’s shoulder before rounding the counter.
I met his sinister gaze in the mirror behind the bar. He was fucking serious. I knew what taking a walk meant. I’d watched enough mafia movies over the years. He’d whack Johnny.
And to think this guy killed for a living? He reminded me of a well-dressed guy who graced the cover of GQ.
Nickulas returned, placing a bottle of Jim Beam and two short glasses on the table.
I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “Who’s the guy at the bar?”
“Donnie’s my muscle. The chance that I travel without him, is slim to none. I hold a very powerful position in my family.