Fuck them.
Corrado caught Alessio’s stare again, but he didn’t find playfulness reflecting back. Instead, he found the same silent intensity that had accompanied their relationship from the beginning. A conversation that wasn’t had with words because they never needed to say things to make sure the other heard what they wanted said.
Alessio gave Corrado a half smile. In response, Corrado’s hand lifted from Ginevra’s shoulder, and two of his fingers ghosted along the side of Alessio’s neck. Barely there at all, and yet he still somehow felt it all over.
Fuck.
He needed to get this goddamn Albania job done, come back home, and settle out all the shit they had left to work on. Which wasn’t that much, but more ... things left unsaid.
They needed to be out.
Tonight, however, wasn’t the right time.
When would it ever be?
Or there wasn’t a right time for this. Timing didn’t matter when something should be said, full stop. As long as they put it out there, wasn’t that all that mattered?
Alessio didn’t get the chance to think on that for too long. A sound behind him—someone’s disgust at something coming out as a harsh noise. Like a cross between a scoff, and a grunt, he thought.
Turning his head, his gaze landed on an older man. With a middle as wide as his shoulders, and his gray hair thinned on the top. Still, the fitted suit he wore, the lit cigar dangling from his fingertips, and the smug look of utter arrogance on his face told Alessio all he needed about the man.
Likely a Capo.
His choice in dress, and the attitude wafting from him gave it away. They all acted the same fucking way, but especially the older generation.
Alessio’s gaze darted to Corrado when he turned to look for the sound behind them, too. He hadn’t recognized the man, but clearly Corrado did what with the way his jaw tightened at the sight of the prick staring at them. Apparently, their chat and Corrado’s touch wasn’t missed by that fuck.
He didn’t even try to hide his disgust.
“Do you have something you want to say, George?” Corrado asked, his hand coming to rest along the side of Ginevra’s shoulder when she thought to turn around to join the conversation, too. His hand kept her facing the rest of their booth which had now gone silent. Alessio’s attention went back to the Capo in the booth behind them. “How long has it been, anyway? Three years since I last saw you? Could have done with another three, to be honest.”
George smirked, flashing yellowing teeth. “I feel the same way, Corrado. I prefer it when your father keeps you out of sight, if I’m being honest.”
Alessio tensed at that.
Where the fuck did this guy get—
“And why is that?” Corrado asked, stopping Alessio’s train of thought.
What was he doing?
Purposely trying to bait the asshole?
Why?
“Fucking queers,” George uttered, his gaze darting away from Corrado and Alessio. “Gian Guzzi ought to be fucking ashamed of what he’s allowed to happen with you, Corrado. Had you been my son, I would have beat your ass until you understood what I expected from you.”
Yep.
This time, the comment hadn’t even been underhanded, but right fucking out there. Alessio drifted away from Ginevra in the booth.
Alessio didn’t get offended at being called a queer, frankly. He was bisexual—he fit the bill of queer perfectly fine, even if he didn’t use the label. Some people needed labels because it gave them a sense of belonging.
Words were important.
People forgot.
“What did you fucking say?” Alessio asked, straightening to his full height as he exited the booth. George looked his way, gaze narrowing and still looking too fucking arrogant for Alessio’s liking. The man likely figured nothing would happen to him because of who he was, and his position. “Say it again ... go on.”
George sneered. “I said fucking qu—”
“Les,” Ginevra whispered, her hand reaching out to grab him.
Her, and those words, had him glancing her way. Not that it mattered, his attention flew back to the Capo behind their booth when Corrado turned, and launched himself over the back of the seat.
Nobody saw it coming.
Nobody planned for this.
Not when Corrado had always been the one with the calmer head between the two. He’d resigned himself for years to turn his cheek, and ignore the shit people liked to say about him, or them.
Not this time.
And nobody had time to react.
By the time Marcus decided to climb over the table at their booth, and head for Corrado, it was already too late. Someone else tried to jump in, too, but nothing helped.
Alessio stood stunned.
He heard every fucking punch.
Smack, smack, smack.
Bone hitting bone.
He saw the blood.
Spewing to the checkered floor. Spraying across Corrado’s silk shirt. Dotting his busted knuckles every time his fists slammed into the face of the Capo again and again. Marcus tried to pull his brother back by grabbing onto the back of his shirt, but Corrado would not move.
“Fucking help me here!”
“Corrado, stop! Stop it!”
Marcus’s shout echoed.
Ginevra’s ached.
Alessio cared nothing for Marcus’s demand, but Ginevra’s had him moving. And only because she looked like she would get out of the booth any fucking second, and Alessio couldn’t have that. She didn’t need to get in the middle of this mess.
Already a whole group tried.
And failed.
It was chaos. Men shouting. Corrado’s brothers holding back those trying to get to him to save the man on the ground. Pointless. In the background, Alessio seemed removed, somehow.
As though this had been inevitable.
Why were they surprised?
Alessio shoved between the semi-circle of people trying to yank Corrado from the man on the floor—who was no longer moving. He would have been fine to let Corrado get out years of frustration, hurt, and anger on the face of the asshole, but it only took one peek at a terrified Ginevra for Alessio to realize this wasn’t good.
“Corrado.”
His first shout did nothing, not that he expected it to. Alessio got down, wrapped his arms around Corrado’s chest, and pulled back hard enough to send them both tumbling to the floor.
“That’s enough,” Alessio muttered, forcing them over so he had Corrado pinned under him to the floor. The daze hadn’t left—fury stared back at him, written in heavy lines all over Corrado’s strong features, and exhaling in every hard breath he let out. “Fucking stop. That’s enough, Corrado.”
He didn’t fight him, though.
Didn’t shove him off.
No, he stared at him.
So goddamn angry.
And yeah, Alessio got it.
“Fuck,” someone—Marcus—hissed behind them. “He’s dead; someone call in the cleaner, this mess needs to go.”
Someone else cried.
Ginevra.
Alessio looked her way.
Corrado did the same.
That, more than even Alessio dragging Corrado from the dead man on the floor, brought him back to reality. Alessio sensed the change in Corrado’s body, how all the fight and tension and anger bled away when his gaze landed on where she stood just five feet away.
Shaking.
Crying.