ANTHONY
Standingin one of Luca’s warehouses, I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes, waiting for Andrew to check in from Mads’ security detail.
We haven’t seen evidence of the stalker in three months, essentially since I took over his security and stopped all his foolishness. I’m proud but frustrated. Clearly, our change-up of his routine—despite his many protests—has been effective, but I still want to find the asshole.
Anyway, Mads has been a little slippery lately, sometimes popping out to grab a bagel without telling his security team. Showing him a few defensive moves and teaching him how to look for would-be kidnappers has made him cocky. I need to have a conversation with him about that.
A conversation that’ll test me in ways I’m not ready to admit.
I try to avoid him as much as possible, but it’s hard to do with our weekly card games, bi-monthly training sessions, and the various high-profile events he attends.
Andrew was right—I’d normally be his main security, but our chemistry is…problematic. While he’s never inappropriate, he loves to banter with me under the guise of disagreement, and he knows it spins me up.
It’s especially bad during our security training sessions. I mean, it’s not my fault he keeps his house like a damn Bikram yoga studio, so I’ve had to start wearing shorts to avoid overheating. Worse, the last time we trained, I sweat so badly I had to take off my shirt.
I literally had to snap my fingers in front of his face to get him to refocus.
I made the mistake of complaining to Andrew, who offered to take over the training sessions for me. I declined, feeling personally responsible for Mads’ education. After that, both he and Luca accused me of having some kind of high school crush on him, and they’ve been giving me a hard time ever since.
Assholes.
Never mind that the chemistry is definitely a two-way street. Or that the things his soft voice does to my eardrums are illegal in forty-three countries.
I mean…do I hate having his eyes on me? No.
Did I actually have to take off my shirt the last time? Probably not.
Did I purposefully wear the four-inch tennis shorts instead of the knee-length basketball shorts? Yes. I have to come clean because that was one hundred percent on purpose.
Fuck me sideways.
Which reminds me. One of Luca’s boys visited Mads last night. He initially protested using an escort service, but Luca’s boys are top-notch, fully vetted, NDA’d, and a damn sight safer than any hook-up apps. Apparently, he’s been making his way through Luca’s roster.
Guess he needs human contact as much as I do.
Seeing how much it bothers me, Luca offered to send over one of his guys to soothe me, but Luca knows I don't break the law. Even if Manhattan’s district attorney has essentially decriminalized sex work, it’s still illegal.
More than that, given my mother’s history with Luca’s father, I know exactly how bad it can get for sex workers. On the other hand, Luca’s people enjoy their work, are well-cared for, and have full autonomy, so who am I to say what people can and can’t do with their bodies?
I admit that I have occasionally taken advantage of a training loophole when Luca is incompatible with a new escort, but that’s only when my need for touch becomes a distraction. It’s…complicated.
As for Luca’s other complicated business adventures, have I seen things that aren't quite aboveboard? No, I have not, and fuck you if you say any different.
Which is why I don't see the boxes of nine-millimeter handguns or the entire fucking pallet of cocaine in Luca’s warehouse. I only see my childhood friend who asked me—last minute—to be backup as he meets our new extraction specialist. I don’t have a name, a description, a pronoun, fucking nothing.
It makes my skin crawl.
And I should definitely be thinking about that and not the fact that some fucking underserving rent boy was buried in Mads’ adorable little ass last night.
Don’t be like that, Edge.
“You look tense, Anthony. What’s going on?” Luca asks, smoothing out the expensive material of his bespoke, almost certainly Italian suit.
Understand—it’s not the gun strapped to his body that makes him dangerous—it’s the suit and the genteel manners. Smaller rival families keep underestimating him and coming at him like he’s an easy takedown. Too soft for mob life.
They never feel the knife as he quietly guts their organizations, making them obsolete in the time it takes for him to get his suit back from the cleaners.
I don’t involve myself with interfamily politics, but going after Luca Stefano is always, always a bad bet. He might look like old Hollywood, but he’s got a vicious streak, carefully honed and curated over years of being underestimated.