Bloodied Hands (Bellandi Crime Syndicate 1)

"You're an idiot if you say no," I informed Rev, and he chuckled in that easy, laid back manner he learned from his Southern daddy.

"She a good cook?" he drawled, and Ivory smiled at me smugly.

"A chef actually. The best, but I might be biased."

"Then shit yeah, I'll stay. Won't pass up a good, home cooked meal."

"Great," Ivory agreed with that smile that made my breath catch. She retreated from the office, closing the door behind her and letting us get down to business.

"So, what brings you by?" I asked, sitting down behind my desk and leaving Rev to get comfortable in a chair in front of it. He steepled his hands over his knees, leaning forward to look at me intently.

"I'm retiring."

"Okay," I nodded. Thirty-five wasn't an unheard-of age to retire from pro-sports, and I wasn't an unreasonable man. While Rev's contract with my father had ensured a small cut of Rev's pay came to me, I by no means required it.

I had plenty of money of my own.

"That's it?" he asked, and I chuckled.

"You've more than paid off your school loans at this point. Out of curiosity, what prompted the retirement? I thought you'd play until you dropped dead."

He sat back in his seat, a smile of disbelief flitting across his face. "My kid's in high school, man. My ex just moved to this new town in Colorado, and I ain't gonna miss another minute of his life, you know? Time to settle down."

"Admirable," I agreed. "I wish you the best of luck, Rev. You deserve it. Let's go see what my woman is cooking up."

I wasn't a good man. Was far too hard most of the time. But for a man who did everything he could to hold up his word? A man who worked his ass off and just wanted to spend time with his son?

I could pretend for an hour or two.

Twenty-Nine

Ivory

I was going crazy.

Literally.

I could feel my sanity slowly slipping away the longer I spent in that house. The more days I spent cooped up like a prisoner.

I hated feeling like the world wasn't a safe place and wondering if I'd ever look at it the same. How could I? When I was set to marry a mob boss of Chicago.

Fuck, that still sounded insane.

I shook my head, snapping out of my trance when my engagement ring clinked against the mixing bowl I pulled from the cupboard. I slipped it off my finger, setting it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet for safekeeping while I cooked.

Wearing jewelry was one of those things that I couldn't overlook, even if I rebelled against my culinary training in a lot of ways. Because it was unsanitary and made me feel gross.

Matteo had a sick sixth sense about when I took that ring off.

If I didn't think it would make me paranoid, I'd suspect him of putting a sensor in it.

But that was crazy, right?

Sure enough, he stepped into the kitchen and snatched my ring out of the cupboard in favor of shoving it back onto my finger. He stared down at me, eyes full of rage that we were about to have that damn conversation again.

Yeah, well, I was sick of it too asshole.

I tore it off my finger, shoving it back into the cupboard. "It bumps into everything," I protested. "Not to mention it's gross. Do you know what germs get on rings like that? Nope. Not happening."