One Step Closer (Erotic Romance) Book 1 (The DeLuca Brothers)

by Lucinda DuBois

  One Step Closer

  DeLuca Brothers Book One - Frank

  by Lucinda DuBois

  www.LucindaDuBois.com

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Lucinda DuBois

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Other Books

  Chapter 1

  Ten years.

  A decade.

  That’s how long it had been since thirty-five year-old Frank DeLuca had been home. It was strange how little had changed in the old neighborhood. He glanced in the rearview mirror. He supposed he didn’t look much different than he had back then. His coal black hair was still thick and free of gray. A few small lines had appeared at the corners of his mouth and his dark blue eyes, but his six feet, four inch frame was still lean and muscled, courtesy of his athletic lifestyle. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected the neighborhood to have changed so much. Things here rarely did.

  His childhood home seemed smaller, somehow, even though it looked exactly the same: a two-story, four bedroom, two bathroom, brick Cape Cod with a small front yard and a slightly larger fenced-in back yard. His mother’s prize azaleas filled the flowerbeds under the two front windows, a wash of pink and fuchsia and red that had only shifted in spectrum. The sidewalk that led up to the front steps was clean, the grass around it neatly trimmed. At least his little brother was keeping up with the yard work. Frank couldn’t see it from his car, but he felt safe in assuming that the third stone from the steps still had a small chip out of one corner where he and his brothers had dropped their Uncle Leo’s bowling ball one hot summer night. Uncle Leo had been furious but their mother had just laughed.

  The blue-and-gray Cape Cod to the left of the DeLuca house looked a bit shabbier than it had before, but if the same people were living there as had been when Frank had left, they had to be getting well into their seventies. Charles and Lydia Rizzo had always been nice enough, but a bit odd. Maria had often referred to them as having only half a deck of cards between the two of them. The house to the right, where the DiNozzi family had lived through most of Frank’s childhood, appeared to belong to a much younger couple now, judging by the sheer volume of toddler toys cluttering the porch and front yard. Whoever they were, they’d kept the same black and white color scheme even though the paint seemed new. A few other houses on the street had changed colors, but there was still a sameness there. No additions or removals. Some new cars, but nothing that seemed out of ordinary in the middle-class neighborhood. If it wasn’t for the abundance of satellite dishes, Frank would’ve sworn he’d stepped back into his childhood.

  One house, in particular stood out as being unchanged. It was smaller than the DeLuca house, but there had only been one child in the Bianchi family. Frank shook his head. He didn’t want to think about her, the girl he’d last seen eight years ago. Still, unbidden, her face rose in his memory, the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her as fresh as it had been all those years ago. Her long, dark brown waves still mussed from bed. Her dark violet eyes full of love. Or, as least what he’d thought at the time was love. Frank raked his hands through his hair and then flexed his fingers. He could still feel her silky skin beneath his palms, the way her body had curved to fit his, as if they were two halves of the same coin…

  “Pull your shit together, DeLuca,” Frank muttered. It took more concentration than he liked, but he was able to turn his thoughts from her to his family. Well, his immediate family anyway. He didn’t want to think about his cousin Gio. That led right back to her since they were both responsible for what had happened.

  Instead, he thought about his mother. Maria Russo-DeLuca, a northern Italian with thick blond curls and navy blue eyes. In her early fifties, Maria had been widowed young. Frank had been only ten, his youngest brother still two months from being born, when their father died. The life insurance had been enough for Maria to pay off the house and she’d continued teaching and doing after-school tutoring, whatever it took to put food on the table. Frank had always thought his mother was a superhero. After his father had died, he’d known it for certain. After all, only a superhero could raise the five DeLuca boys and stay sane. They were all strong-willed, stubborn and intense, a dangerous combination to have under one roof.

  He was the oldest, the protective older brother who was the only one allowed to torment his younger siblings and the only one other than their mother who was allowed to boss them around, even if they didn’t like it. And, for the most part, they’d listened. He helped them get ready for school, had walked with the younger ones to and from the bus stop. Even though he’d lost his faith in his religion, every Sunday, he made sure his brothers were ready for mass. He went through the motions of catechism because he knew how much it meant to his mother, and when his brothers came to him with their own doubts about the Church, he never steered them away. As far as he knew, all four still attended mass regularly.

  Despite his extra responsibilities, he’d set the bar both academically and socially – honors classes, valedictorian, captain of the football team, star quarterback, senior class president and prom king. His grades and athletic ability had earned him a full ride to NYU and he’d used it to get an MBA and make the contacts who helped him start his adventure business. His career path had also been something to which his brothers could aspire. When he’d started his ‘plan your own adventure’ business, only his mother had thought he’d make anything of it. Now, it was a global company that made him worth half a billion dollars. The only reason he hadn’t moved his mother to a million-dollar home was that she refused to go. Part of that, Frank was sure, was that all of her memories of his father were in this house. They’d married when she was just seventeen. She’d never expected to be a widow before thirty.

  Of his four brothers, two had at least attempted to follow in their brother’s footsteps to make their adult lives be something of which they and their mother could be proud. One was still trying to figure out what he wanted to do. And then there was Anthony.

  Two years younger than Frank, Anthony had generally resented his older brother’s authority after their father had died and, as he became a teenager, had turned to other members of the DeLuca family for guidance. With his short jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and rugged good looks, he was the spitting image of his father. He was the same height as Frank, but wider. His bulk had made him a prime candidate for an enforcer with a known crime family.

  The crime connection was a major source of contention for the middle DeLuca child and his older brother. At thirty-one, Vincent was among the youngest Special Agents in the NYC branch of the FBI. He seemed to strive to distinguish himself from his brothers by keeping his blue-black hair nice and neat, though not as short as Anthony’s. While he had the light brown eyes of his father’s side of the family, his features were much more fine like his mother’s. He was the shortest of the brothers at just under six feet tall, but had an authoritative air that garnered him respect. Out of all
of his brothers, Vincent was the one to whom Frank was the closest, and they hadn’t spoken in nearly eighteen months.

  Two years younger than Vincent was the DeLuca’s most eligible bachelor, Sergio. As the pediatrician assigned to the emergency room at Mount Sinai Medical Center, he made a decent living but wasn’t wealthy. However, the prestige that came with the job made up for the extra he would’ve made elsewhere. Add in wavy ebony hair and chocolate brown eyes, a tall, lean frame and rugged good looks, and Sergio was constantly fending off passes from single – and some not so much – moms as well as offers from Maria’s friends who wanted him to meet their single relatives. Frank seriously doubted if that particular brother would ever settle down.

  Then there was the baby of the family. Salvatore, called Sal by everyone but Maria, was a full ten years younger than Frank and looked almost like a younger carbon copy. His coal black hair was wavy and his eyes bright blue rather than dark, but the resemblance was eerie. As the youngest, Sal had the burden of following his successful, ambitious and, to an extent, intimidating brothers, but he seemed to take everything in stride. While he had his less than gracious moments, he was, by far, the most easygoing of the boys. Maria had always referred to him as her blessing, a final gift from her late husband. The four older boys had just rolled their eyes and picked on Sal all the more. After all, what else were brothers for?

  Sal had been only fifteen when Frank had left home, a sophomore more interested in having fun than doing his schoolwork. Sergio had left for college earlier that year, still a year away from declaring himself pre-med. Like Vincent, Sergio had opted to live in the dorms rather than at home. Anthony hadn’t gone to college, rather he’d already been in the city working with the family. Frank had refused to leave at first, making all of the same excuses he’d made since graduating from college: he could run his business from home, Ma needed someone to help with Sal, to help around the house. Maria, however, had calmly told him that she was perfectly capable of handling one fifteen year-old boy. In the end, it had been her insistence that had prompted Frank to finally leave New York and follow his financial backer to Los Angeles to take his business idea global.

  Frank had called home every week that first year, always promising to come back for a visit, but never able to make a trip fit into his busy schedule. His mother had understood and never tried to make him feel guilty for not coming. He still had though at the beginning, and Anthony had never missed an opportunity to press the issue on the few occasions they’d spoken. The other guys hadn’t said much on the subject at all. She had been his main contact with the family those first couple years. By the time he’d flown her out to California that least time, the guilt at staying away had mostly gone, replaced by the desire for bigger and better things. She hadn’t understood it, but his mother had. Maria never complained, not even when the calls dwindled to once a month or once every few months. Finally, he’d stopped promising to come home and she’d quit asking when she’d see him again. He did send her cards with flowers or gifts on Mother’s Day and Christmas and Valentine’s Day. For her birthday, he always made sure to call, even if his assistant had to remind him.

  Frank wasn’t sure why he’d finally decided to come back after all this time. It wasn’t a holiday, though those weren’t far off. His family was, as far as he knew, happy and healthy. None of them were ill and none were in any sort of trouble. Anthony, while still involved in less-than-legal activities, was smart enough not to get caught. Sometimes, Frank thought that Vincent was the only one who’d be able to put together a case on Anthony, which was probably why Vincent steered clear of the organized crime unit. Vincent may not have approved of Anthony, may have even been ashamed of their familial connection, but unless he knew for sure that Anthony had pulled the trigger on someone, Vincent would never go after his brother. Likewise, Anthony would never have sent anyone after his little brother. None of the DeLuca boys, no matter how much they may have disapproved of what the other ones did or how pissed off they got at each other, would ever do anything that could hurt their mother.

  As his thoughts came back around to his mother, Frank was surprised by the sudden wave of guilt he felt. His mother had never said anything, true, but he’d known, hadn’t he, that she was hurt. Wasn’t that the real reason he’d finally come back after all these years? To show her why he’d stayed away, to show her all that he’d accomplished? It wasn’t like there was anyone else he wanted to see. He’d told himself that lie often enough that he was starting to believe it.

  Chapter 2

  He glanced at his watch. So many people used their phones to tell time today, and while he appreciated the convenience of a clock on his phone, there was still something to be said for the look and feel of an expensive timepiece on the wrist. Something that said he’d arrived.

  It was still relatively early. He wanted to talk to Vincent first, get a feel for where everyone stood about his visit. Frank pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and scrolled through his contacts until he came to the end.

  Vincent answered on the second ring and didn’t bother with a greeting. “Calling to say you’ve changed your mind about showing up?” His tone was dry enough that Frank wasn’t sure if his brother was harassing him or serious. Then again, Vincent wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humor, so Frank felt fairly confident that it was the latter rather than the former.

  “Shut it, ass-hat,” Frank retorted good-naturedly. “I’m here.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  Now Frank could hear a tinge of humor. “Yeah, well, what can I say, I missed our brotherly banter.”

  “Why’re you calling me, Frank?” As always, Vincent got straight to the point. “Why aren’t you with Ma right now?”

  “I’m assuming you’re not stopping by the house to see me.” Frank figured he’d take his cue from his brother.

  “You assume correctly,” Vincent replied, a defensive edge to his voice.

  Frank didn’t bother trying to argue that point. “I want to see you too while I’m here. Want to meet for some coffee? I think there’s a little café near your place.”

  Vincent gave a snort of laughter. “Mr. Big-Shot, you should know better. We don’t do coffee. You want to talk to me, we’re going to do it exactly where a pair of DeLuca brothers should meet.”

  Frank couldn’t help but smile. “Delancy’s it is then.”

  There was one bar that the DeLuca boys frequented, though Vincent and Anthony now kept to different schedules. Their father had been a regular at Delancy’s since before the boys had been born, running errands for the owner, doing odd jobs, anything to make a buck and keep him out of his house. From the time he was little, Frank had been taken into Delancy’s on Sundays to watch whatever sporting event was playing, though his father had told his mother that they were going to the movies. As each of the boys came along, they joined Frank on the father-son(s) days, learning to play pool and listening to the older men in the neighborhood complain about the economy and politics, referees and umpires.

  The Sunday after his father died, Frank found himself walking the streets, oblivious to the rain, and ended up in front of Delancy’s. He’d gone inside, old enough to understand that they should’ve told him to leave, but they hadn’t. The owner had brought him soup and the neighborhood men had taken turns telling him stories about his father. Without needing to be told, Frank had realized that he and his brothers would be allowed to continue the tradition of their Sunday visits. When, the following week, Frank had asked his mother if he could take his brothers to the movies, she’d given him a knowing smile and agreed. They never talked about the fact that she knew where they were going, and every Sunday, Frank would say the same lie.

  As they’d grown older, the tradition had slowly faded. Sometimes they had gone weeks without visiting Delancy’s and sometimes there had only been two or three of them, but it had still been their place, and it always would be. Many of the old-timers had passed on and new ones had taken their
places, but all of them knew the names of each DeLuca boy and each had a story to share about their father. And even if it was one they’d heard a million times before, they would stop and listen, and thank the old man for taking the time to share, to remember. Delancy’s was one of the things that Frank had missed the most while he’d been gone.

  The bar was within walking distance of the house, on the very edge of where their neighborhood turned from residential to business, so Frank climbed out of the rental car he’d driven from the airport and started down the sidewalk. The wind was more brisk than he’d anticipated and he pulled his wool coat more tightly around him. As he let his feet carry him along the remembered path, Frank had the thought that his friends back in Beverly Hills would be shocked if they saw him now, walking through the city alone. In California, they’d driven everywhere, safe behind their tinted glass, and he’d been one of them. But, the moment he’d arrived in the city, something had changed. Frank had felt it as he’d turned down his street and he’d felt it when he first stepped out of the car. Now, as he made his way towards Delancy’s, the feeling was almost overwhelming. He was home. He wasn’t afraid to be walking here, even with his expensive clothes and watch, because he knew these streets. He knew the respect that his name would bring, the more recent fear that came with being the brother of Anthony DeLuca. This was his city.

  The outside of Delancy’s looked the same. Dingy brick with dirty windows and a half-lit sign. The same letter – the ‘y’ – was out. Frank headed inside. A quick look around told him that Vincent wasn’t there just yet, but Frank walked up to the bar anyway. His brother would know where to find him. He slid onto one of the stools and unbuttoned his coat.

  “What can I -” the bartender’s question faded as he saw Frank. The old man’s eyes widened in recognition and his face broke into a smile. “Frank DeLuca!”