Her jaw drops. “Seriously? You don’t even know me, I had a lot to drink, and I was just thinking—”
I toss my hand up, silencing her. “But, I do know you, Shauna. You’re looking for a project, you’re thinking you can fix me. You want to hold the mighty DeAngelo’s hand through Central Park and show him off to all your gal pals over brunch. You want every photo opportunity at my side.” Her perfect brows pinch together as she snatches her purse from the couch. She doesn’t want me for me, she wants the name. I don’t blame her, the DeAngelo name is powerful and dangerous. Many have died in the wake of my last name, and many stand beside it to honor its strength.
“For your information, my friends would never like you. You’re an asshole.” She tries to insult, but she isn’t wrong, and frankly I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me, much less her so-called friends.
I might be an asshole, but it’s only because I say what’s on my mind, and don’t lie. People want the truth, but they can’t handle it. Therefore, I’m the asshole.
Slipping her feet into her red heels, she heads for the door. Thank God.
“Shauna, next time you climb in a bed for fifteen minutes of fame, you should think about the monster beside you. The way that man is able to make you come alive with a mere touch of his hands, the very hands that are tainted in blood.” A hardened look across my face with a devious smile, I tilt my head to the side. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
Should I have sent her away like this? Probably not, but do I care? Not a single bit.
Opening the door, she flips me off, and I silently laugh at how childish she’s being before she slams it shut. Because giving me the finger changes anything. She’s a clever one.
“Well, we will make sure and check Shauna off our fuck list,” I mutter before taking another smooth sip of my whiskey. Looking out onto the city that comes alive at night. I can feel the excitement in my bones, it’s going to be a good night.
My eyes flick to the clock on the stove that sits in the small kitchen to my right, it’s past midnight. Pops will be wondering where I am.
Setting my whiskey down, I head to my closet and pull out an Armani suit. Buttoning it up I lift my chin so I can fold down the collar, most of my tattoos are covered except the ones on my hands. My body a canvas of exquisite art both beautiful and bold.
Shutting the closet door, I make a mental note to text my house cleaner to wash the sheets. She comes and cleans at night, so when I arrive early in the morning I can climb into a clean bed. It doesn’t take her long to clean the place.
It’s a remodeled loft, new hardwood floors, gray painted walls with new light fixtures and appliances. There are no rooms divided by walls or doors, it’s just one big open space, besides the bathroom that is, that has its own room. But what really sold me on the place, was the pizza restaurant three floors down. It’s open twenty-four-seven, and I’ve come to know the owner quite well.
He’s older and still living in the eighties. His kitchen wasn’t up to code and he couldn’t afford to upgrade. Lucky for him I love his pizza and don’t want some fucking coffee place with a bunch of hipster bastards with their laptops coming in and out of the place, I knew a guy that passes his inspections and keeps him open. Of course he now owes me ten percent of his monthly profit for my help. He’s a good guy, it’s not personal, it’s just business.
A very important rule my father taught me is you can’t let your feelings get in the way of success, otherwise the other person gets what they want and they succeed.
They win, and you lose.
I never lose.
I snatch my phone and watch off the nightstand and grab a slice of pizza before heading to the yacht where my dad spends most of his evenings.
Slipping myself into my sexy BMW coupe, my body is cocooned by the soft leather, the smell of “New Car” still present, I start the engine and pull out of the garage located behind my apartment building. I keep the music off, the sound of silence enough for my ears as I move through the streets like fine silk all the way to the docks that align the Hudson River. We own a yacht that is modest compared to some celebrities that dock nearby, but big enough to house the DeAngelos when we need it.
The parking lot is pretty much empty except for a couple of trucks with empty trailers. Parking my car under the only street lamp, I step out locking my car up. Just because this is upper Manhattan doesn’t mean there aren’t wanderers looting about that wouldn’t take advantage of my car sitting here by itself. The smell of fish and dirty water hang heavy in the air and I lift my head into the breeze as I make my way down the wooden-planked pier. During the day, the hues of blue and browns are more than my eyes can process. Which is why I prefer the night.
Black.
Darkness.
Those are things I can comprehend. I find calm in the times most people fear. Passing boat after boat, bucket after bucket left on the docks with fish guts, or stale water that sat in the sun all day, I see the DeAngelo yacht parked all the way in the back of the docks. Its golden glow of lights like a siren I can’t help but be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
A man stands at the back of the boat, he looks inconspicuous wearing jeans and a button-up shirt. Just a guy out enjoying the warm night air on a boat. But hear me when I say if you try and step on that boat without permission, Matteo will turn into James fucking Bond and take you out before you even think about stepping foot on the Mistress. That’s what my great, great grandfather named the boat, the Mistress. Because he always spent his time on it and my great, great-grandmother thought he was away cheating on her night after night. She even hired out to have the woman he was messing around with killed only to find out it was a boat. His mistress was a boat. That was long ago though. Two years ago my grandfather passed on this very boat and my father took his place. It depends which life you live in to understand his position. To outsiders, he’s the boss of our family business. To the Italian American gangsters, he’s the Don; The godfather of life as we see it. Famously known as the Sicilian mafia stepping in an embossing over our families decades before my time.
“Mr. DeAngelo,” Matteo mutters, stepping to the left to allow me on board. He looks so young to be guarding, to be a part of our famiglia. Then again, I was ten when my father began molding me for the family empire.
“Thank you, Matteo.” I pat him on the back and take a step down onto the carpeted entrance, my Dolce and Gabbana shoes quite the contrast to his Nikes. Walking through the sliding glass doors, plush couches and golden fixtures make up the expensive lipstick and rouge of the Mistress. I hear men laughing from down below, the smell of cigar smoke conveying the presence of others. I head down below finding my father sitting at a table with my uncle Tony, Leo, and Gio. For a big boat, they make the space look small. All of them are overweight with their stomachs pushing into the table, Ashton cigars in each of their mouths, and glasses filled with the finest spirits. Tony always wears ugly Hawaiian shirts and has lips as big as a fish. Leo and Gio wear suits of the best quality; Armani. Gio always wears a hat, and Leo is younger and always looks flushed in the face. All three are my dad’s left-hand men, helping him make decisions, and keeping him company when he wants it. It reminds me of the pretty girl in high school who surrounds herself with others who are less attractive or popular, thus making her shine more and feel more precious. But that’s not the only reason my dad earned his respect and power. I’ve seen him aim a gun and kill two men at once with a single bullet, their bodies falling to the ground without even a flick of guilt.