What are the odds of bumping into him again off campus?
The thought suddenly occurs to me that I was rude to the asshole who busted my face, and he could be someone important at the school.
Dammit, if I have to see him again, I don’t know what I’ll do.
The man in front of me slips off his mirrored aviators. His dark eyes are like expanding ink pools as he drinks me in.
Trying to avoid the awkward stand-off, I dodge around him, but he anticipates my movements and mimics them.
“You’re the ballerina with an attitude,” he says, devouring my face with his lingering gaze. His voice is amused, but it rubs me the wrong way all the same.
I didn’t have an attitude. I was responding to how I was being treated. “And you’re one of the suits with no manners,” I quip, wincing inside.
If he is part of Swan, I could end up sabotaging my place there, but I’m done sitting back and taking other people’s bullshit.
New city, new me. Or maybe this is the real me…finally.
His grin is stunning, showcasing straight, white teeth. “I like you. This will be interesting.” He chuckles, holding the second set of doors open for me to exit through.
Maybe he isn’t mannerless after all.
I attempt to turn around to ask what will be interesting, but the door is already closing behind me.
Chapter Eleven
Luca
Marching into Antonio’s room, I yank the covers from the bed, sending a couple women screeching toward the bathroom, their fake tits jiggling.
I’ve warned him about using this house as a party spot. His pill-popping, waste-of-space friend, Carlos, lays at the other end of the bed in only socks and shoes, a bottle of vodka curled under his arm like a teddy bear.
I pull my gun and bring the butt down on his crooked nose.
Blood sprays up, decorating the white bedsheets. He whimpers and squeals, rolling out of the bed, his skinny frame dropping to the floor.
I grasp the discarded bottle and stalk the bastard around the bed. “What did I do?” he cries, piss leaking from his flaccid cock.
I hate this prick—and Antonio knows it. He’s known him since school, so I’ve tolerated his presence here and there, but I don’t like seeing him in this house with such blatant disrespect.
This isn’t a frat house or nightclub.
This was my mother’s home.
Where my dying father is being taken care of.
Where I live.
“Luca…” he whines, trying to cover his ugly face. Blood drips down his cheeks like tears.
Swinging the bottle, I bring it down over his head. The contact makes a soft thudding sound. His eyes widen before closing as his limp body slumps against the bedside table.
Night, night, asshole.
“What the fuck?” Antonio groans, wincing when he lifts his head from the pillow.
Slipping my gun into the back of my slacks and dropping the bottle to the carpet, I kick the mattress and pat myself on the back for booting the piece of shit in the face.
“Tell that waste of life to clean up his mess when he wakes up.”
“Luca?” Antonia calls out, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I know you don’t like me being here.”
Gritting my teeth, I inhale a frustrated breath. “I’ve warned you about bringing whores into this house. Do you know what type of business is conducted here?”
“Yes. I know I fucked up.” He sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist.
He’s lost weight. The body he used to take pride in is wasting away, abused by drugs and alcohol.
“I hate being at home.” It’s almost a whisper. “I see her there, in every fucking room, in every piece of furniture. I loved her. I know we didn’t start out the right way,” he fists the sheet, his eyes glossing over, “but we got there.”
I think back to their wedding day, it was an honor for her father to have her marry a Leto—a steppingstone to a higher rung on the blood money ladder.
He didn’t care whether she wanted to be married to my brother or not. Hell, no one but Marcello cared, but even he didn’t stop it.
We all watched as she choked out her vows, shaking as he placed a ring on her finger.
“It wasn’t your fault, Antonio,” I tell him for the hundredth time.
Who fucking knows what goes through someone’s head that makes them feel they have no other choice but to kill themself.
It’s a mental illness. Most doctors don’t understand, how the fuck are we supposed to?
“Do you not think it’s weird that she died, then Mom, and now Serena?” He shakes his head, his face twisting into a sneer. “I think someone killed them all. A show of power to—”
“Stop,” I order, my tone firm, my eyes slicing through him. “No one would come at us that way. No one has the fucking balls. Why would they go after our women?”