The Guzzi Legacy: Vol 1

by Bethany-Kris

  One of many training rooms here, really.

  People didn’t get an inside look at The League. If someone was brought in, it was because they were a client using one of the assassins for a job, or it was a prospect who had signed on to be trained.

  No one was allowed here.

  It was his home.

  Except, there came the fucking Guzzis like they owned the place, and that just rubbed him all kinds of wrong. But especially Corrado—who thought to speak to Alessio like the two were on equal footing in some kind of way. Like he wasn’t any different from him.

  They were not at all the same.

  He doubted a rich, spoiled mafia principe like Corrado had ever understood struggle, and The League certainly wasn’t a place made for someone like him. They weren’t here to coddle men and women—they were here to break them.

  So yeah, the guy just rubbed him wrong.

  The other thing pissing him off currently?

  The fact he found Corrado attractive, and that he might like the guy even more if he could shut him the fuck up by either kissing him, or stuffing something in his mouth. Like maybe his cock ...

  “Are we even supposed to be in here doing this?” Corrado asked from inside the boxing ring.

  Alessio made a harsh noise under his breath—the only sign of his irritation, really. He suspected Corrado believed it was because he questioned Alessio’s choice to have them spar for fun in the gym section of the complex, but that wasn’t it at all.

  It was that he’d interrupted a nice picture.

  He wasn’t about to admit that out loud, though. Thing was, just because he felt attraction to someone didn’t mean they felt the same way. Sometimes, it was obvious, and he could tell when a guy liked one thing or the other—or both. Maybe it was the way a guy would look him over, or when a hand on his shoulder lingered a beat longer than a straight guy would when it came to friendly actions. But with Corrado, he didn’t know.

  It was fucked up.

  He hated him on sight.

  And he didn’t hate him at the same time.

  It didn’t help that Corrado was attractive in a way most men weren’t. Something that Alessio recognized about him straight away—an air of confidence and cockiness followed him around whether he knew it or not. Like he’d been born with it. Most people had to learn that shit. And that was before Alessio got too detailed in Corrado’s physical features, from the strong lines of his face that made up an angular jaw line, to the dark brown eyes that didn’t seem to give anything away, not even when he smirked.

  Classically handsome.

  Disgustingly so, really.

  Add that to the whole confidence shit and Alessio had a big problem here. Mostly, the fact that he noticed at all.

  Dare was always clear when it came to Alessio and relationships or sex. As long as it didn’t fuck up The League and the shit they were doing here, he was free to explore and do what he wanted. He couldn’t remember how old he was when he figured out he liked boys as much as he liked girls—nine, maybe?

  He was lucky that he didn’t find confusion or pain in his sexuality swinging both ways like he knew some did when they realized they were bisexual. Here, he had been free to explore and find out what it meant to be a sexual being with varied interests. No one ever stepped in to shame him as long as it was consensual, and he was being safe. That was all Dare ever cared about when it came to Alessio.

  “Are you listening to me?” Corrado asked.

  Alessio clenched his teeth to stay quiet as he finished wrapping up his fists before slipping the leather, fingerless gloves overtop. Turning to find Corrado lingering in the far corner of the ring, ready to go, he used his teeth to tighten the wrist straps on the gloves.

  “Are you used to just saying something, and people jumping to give you what you want?” Alessio asked back.

  Corrado’s brow dipped before he scowled.

  Fuck.

  Why’d he look good doing that, too?

  Alessio ignored the clenching of his gut as he stepped up into the ring and dipped under the ropes to get into position. He figured this sparring match probably wouldn’t end well for Corrado, all things considered. He doubted the guy knew he’d been training with The League from the time he was twelve.

  Weapons.

  Fighting.

  Recon.

  Killing.

  All of it, he could do.

  And he was only seventeen.

  He doubted Corrado could say the same.

  “What is it that gets under your skin the most?” Corrado asked back. “The fact that I have money, or the fact you don’t?”

  Alessio sucked air through his teeth.

  Damn.

  That was a good one.

  Pretty boy mafia prince could cut with words, and Alessio liked that way more than he was willing to admit. His respect notched up a bit—this would have been incredibly boring for him if after everything, Corrado just laid down and took the shit Alessio threw at him. When someone became uninteresting to him, Alessio was quick to move the fuck on.

  Not right now, though.

  “You assume I don’t have money,” Alessio returned.

  He did.

  Probably not as much as Corrado, but he had enough to be more than comfortable. The longer he stayed with The League, the more money he would have, too. Not that money had ever been a motivating factor for his choice to train here. He’d gone for years without money—it was just paper to get someone by, nothing more.

  He’d be fine either way.

  Corrado shrugged before he tugged his T-shirt up over his head, and then tossed it to the side of the ring. Even from all the way across the ring, Alessio couldn’t help but admire the hard lines that made up Corrado’s body—or how those muscles shifted as he moved from one foot to the other.

  Shit.

  Yeah, he needed to move away from that thought.

  Now.

  “I say it,” Corrado returned, “because you keep needling at me like something about me pisses you off. Maybe it’s my money, privilege ... my last name. Which one is it?”

  Nope.

  He wasn’t falling down that rabbit hole.

  Alessio grinned, removing his own shirt and enjoying the way Corrado’s gaze drifted over the ink on his arms, and the Bible passage written in script down his rib cage. His stare lingered a beat too long, but he wasn’t going to point it out to the man, not when he still wasn’t sure. He waved two fingers at Corrado as if to tell him let’s go. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

  “No need. I have four brothers. If you think you’re the first person who thought they could kick my ass because you had a problem with me, you’re not even the fourth.”

  “Do you annoy your brothers just by being there as much as you do me?”

  Corrado smirked and cocked his head to the side. “Do I annoy you, or unsettle you?”

  That irked Alessio like nothing else.

  Because the asshole wasn’t wrong.

  Back to the sparring, he figured. It was better than where his mind was trying to go, not to mention the way he was sure Corrado was looking at him. Like maybe he didn’t need to wonder if the guy swung both ways like Alessio did ...

  “No cheap shots,” Alessio warned.

  “But your face is fair game, right?”

  “Just like yours, Corrado.”

  Corrado nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Alessio intended for this little sparring match to be a quick thing for him—a way for him to knock Corrado down a few pegs, and nothing more. Yet, when the two young men met at the middle of the ring and tapped fingerless gloves together, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy or clean between them at all.

  They’d barely even moved their hands apart before Corrado came in with a jab to Alessio’s right kidney. Who the fuck knew, but maybe he thought Corrado wouldn’t know how to throw a half decent punch to save his life.

  Ha.

  He’d been so wrong.

 
That knocked the wind out of him.

  “Shit,” he grunted, backing up a quick step.

  Corrado laughed, his tongue coming up in his sneer to touch his upper lip as he stepped back and forth from foot to foot.

  He just looked too arrogant.

  Too confident.

  Too good.

  It all looked too damn good to Alessio.

  A challenge, even.

  And fuck him, he liked those.

  “Just one cheap shot,” Corrado said, “don’t fault me for doing it. You deserved it.”

  Alessio nodded and pointed his fist at his opponent. “You’re going to regret that when I fuck up your face, asshole.”

  “But then what would you stare at when you think I’m not looking, Alessio?”

  Yep.

  So entirely fucked.

  “I told you, it’s Les.”

  Corrado nodded. “That’s nice.”

  All right, Alessio was done fucking around now. He wasn’t wrong—Corrado didn’t give up easily. And yeah, he didn’t have the sharply honed skills with hand-to-hand combat like Alessio did, but he could still hold his own. He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know to protect his face, and he was quick on his feet, moving from one side of the mat to the other when he really wanted to get Alessio pissed off.

  They were supposed to keep it clean, and Alessio fully intended on doing that until he realized this wasn’t going to teach Corrado shit. So, when he had the chance and was close enough after tossing hits back and forth for a few minutes, he made his move. Spinning a bit on his left heel, he raised his right foot from the mat, and came back around with a roundhouse that landed flat to the middle of Corrado’s chest.

  The force of the kick sent him hitting the mat, all the air rushing out of his chest in a loud whoosh at the same time. Alessio might have enjoyed the sight of the other man on the mat, blinking like he was trying to gain his bearings and figure out how this happened to him, but he didn’t get the chance.

  Corrado swung his leg out, and swept Alessio’s feet right out from under him. In the next breath, he found himself on the mat, too. A rookie mistake, really. He never should have gotten close to a man on the ground unless he was willing to get down there with him.

  Lesson number one.

  Not that Alessio had the time to reflect on his mistake. Corrado had rolled over just as fast to pin him to the mat as fists rained down on his face—one after the other; smack, smack, smack, smack. The guy was fucking relentless, never letting up for even a second. Through his gloved hands, Alessio was struck by the intensity that sharpened Corrado’s features as he focused on his goal.

  Alessio, that was.

  And beating the hell out of him.

  He’d be a damned liar if he said that hardness roughening the strong lines of Corrado’s face as he clenched his teeth—blood dripping down his full lips from an earlier punch compliments of Alessio—and the muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing with every punch didn’t do something for him.

  Because it did.

  Wicked things.

  Sinful fucking things.

  Godly things.

  Alessio used a common maneuver that he’d been taught to flip the two of them over by wrapping his legs around Corrado’s back. Now, with him on top, he focused his efforts on getting the image of Corrado on top of him out of his mind and replacing it with the sight of him beating the hell out of him, instead.

  Not that it worked.

  Of course, it didn’t fucking work.

  And unlike Alessio, Corrado didn’t use a move to try and right himself again, or to get the upper hand. Because he wasn’t trained, and he didn’t know how to get out of this. Instead, his body arched upward, all of his weight pressing against Alessio as he tried to force the man off. It didn’t work. Just like when he used his knees to push against Alessio’s stomach, it too was a dead effort.

  All it served to do was get their bodies closer.

  His fists rained down.

  Corrado protected his face and tried harder to get away.

  Still, hard lines met hard lines. Alessio was hyper aware of the way Corrado felt moving under him, never mind the fact that something felt hard against the curve of the backside of his thigh.

  Alessio pushed his fingerless gloves hard against Corrado’s chest, his breaths coming out hard and fast because fuck ... why was his body this tense—this hot? Beneath him, Corrado panted, too, his bloodstained teeth still clenched as he glared up at Alessio.

  Corrado shifted again.

  Alessio felt that again.

  Time slowed, or that’s what it felt like. There was no hiding the erection he was sitting on, or the fact that his own cock was pressing against the seam of his jeans. He swore if he moved again—or Corrado, for that matter—he was going to explode.

  What in the hell just happened?

  “I fucking knew it,” Alessio whispered as Corrado tried to force him off again, but it only served to have the ridge of his erection pressing against his body again. “I knew it.”

  Corrado’s gaze darted away. “Get off me.”

  He would have.

  But he leaned in close, instead.

  A bloody sneer answered him back.

  “Do you really want me to?” Alessio asked.

  Corrado let out a hard breath. “Fuck you.”

  He kissed him, then.

  Brutal, and fast.

  Unforgiving.

  He didn’t know what made him do it. God knew Alessio had more control than this, but here he was, and he couldn’t really complain when Corrado answered him back with a kiss of his own that had his whole body feeling like it was on fire.

  Corrado tasted like blood and heat. His tongue lashed against Alessio’s without shame, his fingers coming up to drag against the muscles of his chest like he wanted more. He understood that need—it was currently driving him insane, too.

  There was nothing easy about the kiss.

  Nothing soft.

  No sweetness.

  It felt like war.

  Teeth biting his lower lip, and stubble dragging across his skin. It all felt like a fight he wasn’t going to win but fuck him if he didn’t try. Kissing never felt like war before—it didn’t feel like his body was going to rip itself in half if he didn’t get what he wanted right now.

  Until this moment. With Corrado.

  It was then that Alessio should have known what was going to happen here between him, and Corrado when this was all said and done. Corrado Guzzi was a fucking problem. One he was never going to escape.

  Then, someone cleared their throat.

  Ah, fuck.

  4.

  Corrado

  A throat clearing would have made Corrado jump back from the man he was kissing fast. But not Alessio. No, he didn’t jump to get off Corrado, or even act like whoever had interrupted them bothered him in the slightest.

  Before he did climb off Corrado on the mat, he pushed his gloved fists one more time against his chest and cocked a brow like he was daring him to do something. More than anything, Corrado wanted to do exactly that, but given the fact he was still hard under his jeans, and his mouth now tasted like Alessio and blood, he didn’t think it would work out very well for him.

  Corrado drew in another sharp breath, because even as Alessio left him alone on the mat to go to the other side of the ring, it didn’t matter. His body still felt the man—his weight keeping him down, hard lines pressing into his, and those lips working savagely against his own. His tongue snaked out to run along his lower lip, and he willed his raging erection to go down just a little bit before he moved.

  Pride was a bitch.

  Corrado had too much of it.

  It was only the sound of footsteps approaching the ring that finally made Corrado roll over to his knees and stand up from the mat. He shot a look over his shoulder to find Alessio at the other side of the ring, slipping on a T-shirt like he didn’t have a care in the world. That irked Corrado a bit, too. How c
ould he be so flippant about what just happened?

  His fucking heart was still racing.

  Christopher came up to the side of the ring and rested his arms along the ropes. His brother arched one eyebrow at him, a mirror of his own reflection right there staring back at him. He didn’t need his brother to ask the question to know what Chris was asking him. What in the hell was that?

  Corrado could count on two fingers the amount of people who knew he was bi. His brother was one of them because one day, Chris outright asked, and Corrado had never been able to lie to his twin for some fucking reason. The two weren’t very much alike despite their identical features—Chris was more reserved, and Corrado wasn’t; his brother tended to think things through, and Corrado went in full steam on something if he wanted to do it.

  But lying?

  Nope.

  He never could.

  If Chris didn’t know he was lying right away, then Corrado felt like shit and eventually just spilled the truth to his twin, anyway. Because wasn’t life just fucking grand like that?

  Chris cleared his throat when Corrado stayed silent as he reached for his shirt hanging off the ropes of the ring. “Was that supposed to happen?”

  “Mind your business.”

  “I am—you’re my business.”

  Corrado shifted from foot to foot, punching his arms through the shirt before yanking it down over his head. All the while, he avoided his twin’s stare like the plague. “Just ... forget about it, Chris.”

  “All right, whatever. Papa’s down the hall talking with that Dare guy.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trailing behind you and ...” Chris tipped his head in Alessio’s direction, but Corrado refused to look that way. Not when he was still attempting to calm the semi hard-on he sported. “That one there. Did you forget I was here, too, or ...?”

  “Vaffanculo,” Corrado muttered.

  Chris smirked. “No judgement, if you’re doing what you wanna do and all, I’m just saying you’re not usually that obvious about it, you know?”

  “Would you fucking knock it off?”

  Laughter echoed from his brother.