My eyes tangle with Gemma’s before sweeping over her ankle-length black and white gown. It’s tight all the way down to the bottom, highlighting every luscious curve…the ones that keep me awake at night, tossing and turning and fantasizing, ones I had pressed against me only a few short hours ago.
I manage a return smile through my lust-clouded fog, my heart sinking as one of her friends grabs her arm with a loud shriek followed by a tight hug. The friend pulls Gemma into the crowd of dancers and for the time being, I’ve lost her to the Tarantella.
It’s definitely for the best.
I know how this whole thing plays out.
And there’s no scenario where I win.
What she wants, what I want…none of that matters because there are others who want different things, conflicting things.
“Hey, Tommy!”
I swallow a groan when the scent of whiskey assaults my nostrils and Gio swings himself around me, leaning back against the bar.
“When did you get here?” he asks, his dark eyes glassy. “I haven’t seen you all night.”
“The party just started an hour ago. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes.”
He peers at me, as if he’s trying to decode my very clear words. “Huh. You get a drink yet?”
I hold up my soda and he rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna need something stronger than that, bro.”
“If I’m driving your ass anywhere later, you’re gonna be happy I stuck with this instead of whatever the hell you’re bathing in.”
“It’s Macallan.”
Yeah, Macallan and his little white pills du jour. I shake my head. I don’t know how he drinks that shit. It makes my eyes water and my nose hairs burn before I can gulp down a single sip. “So what’s the plan?”
Gio’s eyes narrow as they flicker toward Gemma. I take another long sip of my drink, almost choking so that I don’t have to stare at the way her slim hips move to the beat of the song. But that smile…damn, it captivates me, and I can’t drag my hungry gaze away from the girl whom I want grinding up against me instead of that tool, Marco DeVito.
“I fucking hate that guy,” Gio hisses, taking a swig of the amber-colored liquid sloshing around in his glass. “Why the hell is he even here?”
I hate him, too. Not for the same reasons as Gio, but mainly because his hands are on Gemma’s waist and his lips are dangerously close to her teasing ones. Logic tells me she’s toying with him because she’s a maddening flirt who knows she can control any man with a snap of her fingers. But I don’t care about logic. I only care that he’s got his grubby hands on the girl of my dreams and my nightmares. My shoulders square at the same time my fist clenches against my side, and the urge to send him flying across the room with a thunder punch to the jaw grabs hold. I take in a breath before speaking. It does nothing to calm the rush of blood coursing through me. “He’s her friend,” I manage to choke out, well-aware that every one of her ‘friends’ is desperate for way more than just a wink and a smile.
“I don’t like her choice of friends.” Gio drains the remaining liquid from his glass. “I think we need to let him know that.” He nods his head toward the direction Marco is headed — away from the dance floor.
Away from Gemma.
Exactly where he needs to stay.
I stick close to Gio as we wind our way through the crowd, keeping my eyes focused on the large set of doors on the far side of the room so they don’t deceive me and stray back to Gemma. I can’t let myself get sidetracked now. Gio is too much of a loose cannon, and he’s the reason why I’m here in the first place.
Well, him and Marco.
Gio grabs another couple of guys as we exit the room in search of Marco.
Poor bastard.
He has no idea what’s about to happen.
Me? I have some idea.
And it’s not good.
We loiter outside the men’s room for a few minutes until the door swings out and Marco struts into the dimly lit hallway. He stops right in front of Gio, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you that desperate to pick up someone that you need to hang outside the bathrooms waiting for some bitch to fall at your feet?”
Gio’s jaw twitches and sparks of anger crackle behind his menacing gaze.
I know that look.
Shit’s gonna get ugly real fast.
I take a quick look around and we’re alone…for the moment.
“You’ve got a lotta nerve showing up here tonight,” Gio seethes through clenched teeth. “After what you did.”
“Just because you couldn’t get the job done doesn’t give you the right to come after me.” Marco’s lips curl into a sneer. “I’m better at delivering for your father, and you know it. That’s why you don’t want me around. You know I make your sorry ass look bad.” He leans closer, his voice low. “Son of Freddie Cassarella, pathetic fucking loser who can’t get out of his own way. It’s no wonder your father picked me to join his crew. He knows what I can do…what you can’t.”
Gio lets out a guttural roar, digging his fingers into Marco’s tuxedo jacket and dragging him to a glass door a few feet away. He kicks it open with his foot and drags Marco out behind him as his friends cheer him on.
The blind leading the fucking blind.
I peer back down the hallway, but nobody else has left the party.
Freddie isn’t gonna be happy about this, but I’ll deal with that later. A small part of me wants to see Marco pummeled into the ground for thinking he can have a shot with Gemma.
Not on my watch.
Not on my goddamn life.
But still, I grit my teeth and take my spot next to Gio so that he can release all the stress and frustration and anger that plagues him…all because his father thinks he’s a royal fuck-up and doesn’t trust him for shit.
He’ll kick Marco’s ass because he’s drunk and high and pissed off, and then we can get back to the party.
I expel a breath and watch Gio go to work on the guy.
Marco holds his ground, grunting and spitting blood as Gio lands punch after punch. But he never backs down. I think that’s what Freddie likes about him. He laughs in the face of danger.
And Gio is exactly that.
Danger with a capital D.
“You can beat the shit out of me, Gio,” Marco rasps. “But it won’t change anything. Your father still picked me to work with the Mexicans. He picked me over you, his own son!”
Gio’s eyes widen as he registers what appears to be a new tidbit of information, and his crew falls silent, watching for his next move.
Oh Christ. Why would Marco say that?
Does he actually have a death wish?
Fuck.
“What are you talking about?” he hisses at Marco’s bloody face. I narrow my eyes, assessing the damage while Gio takes a breather to find out exactly how much more torment he needs to inflict on Marco. It’s always a dick-measuring contest with these guys. Who gets more jobs, who collects more cash, who Freddie respects more.
I, on the other hand, hang back when they swing their cocks around. Not that I’d ever get hit because let’s face it, if they had anything serious hanging between their legs, they wouldn’t have anything to prove.
Besides, my job is to observe and control, not to attack.