LUCA - Her Ruthless Don (Ruthless and Obsessed Duet, Book 1): 50 Loving States, New York, Pt. 2 (Ruthless Tycoons 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  And I know what my father wants. For me to be a Ferraro, I’d have to either give up Amber or relegate her to some apartment in another state while I run the business with a nice Italian wife by my side. If it were up to him, he’d probably choose the girl himself, just like Jack Calson all but hand-picked Holt’s blonde society wife and like Zahir’s dad will one day pick a perfect Arab princess for his son.

  But I don’t want that. There are only two things I’ve ever truly wanted for real in my life. Revenge and Amber.

  One I’m never going to get because Amber’s dad is dead at our own duplicitous underboss’s hand.

  The other I have. But not if I walk my father’s path.

  So, I leave Holt behind at the office. Hail a cab instead of bothering with an Uber, and open the mirroring app as soon as I get in the back seat. Not surprisingly, there’s a lot of activity today. Unlike me, Amber actually has a bunch of real friends. The day before the wedding, everybody’s checking in and confirming details, including Talia, even though she couldn’t make the trip since it conflicts with her own mother’s surprise wedding.

  Talia’s excited for her best friend, even if she can’t be there. But my former biggest fan, Naima, has become another story. After the kidnapping, Amber’s bridesmaid decided she doesn’t like me as much as she thought she did when I was just a rich guy, providing her family with a lawyer at no cost.

  “Are you sure about this?” she texted Amber earlier in the day. “Can’t you just keep living together? Why do you have to get married?”

  “Because I love him, and he loves me,” Amber answered, within the same minute, according to the time stamp.

  She makes it sound simple, but the real answer is in the in-between. All the stuff she’s not saying to her friend. All the stuff I know about her that even her best friend Talia doesn’t.

  And I get it, even if Naima doesn’t, because I feel the same way.

  Like, in a whole world of girls, there’s not another one on Earth who will understand me the way Amber does. Accept me the way Amber does. Love me, despite everything, the way Amber does. I know that’s how she feels about me because that’s how I feel about her. Like we were built for each other. Perfectly matched, even if my family, and just about none of our friends agree.

  “Please stop worrying,” Amber wrote next. “He gave up everything to be with me, and I know I can trust him now.”

  Naima eventually caves but the next message is from Peter. Short and about as sweet as arsenic. “Got your invitation. Sorry, Bella, can’t come and stand by while you make the biggest mistake of your life.”

  My hand tightens around the phone. The only thing I hate more than Amber inviting that asshole brother of hers to the wedding is how the judgmental prick responded. Like after doing not one fucking thing to find or help his blind sister all these years, he thinks he’s got the right to judge her or her choices.

  The old fire flashes hot inside of me. Wanting to do something permanent and life scarring to the asshole who dared to insult my future wife. See how many bitch texts he’ll send after I cut off his thumbs—

  I stop myself from going there and close out of the mirror app, without reading the rest of the messages she got today.

  He gave up everything to be with me, and I know I can trust him now.

  My moral code’s just a few shades off completely black on most days, but even I know it ain’t right to keep on tracking her like this. Especially after she said yes to marrying me. I’m taking advantage of her disability, not to mention nursing the old obsession. I’ve got her now, and I promised her honesty from here on out.

  Thinking of the promises I made her, I tap down hard on the app’s icon to get the x at the top left of the box. The screen wavers, inviting me to do the right thing before I enter a new era of trust and complete honesty with the only girl I’ve come even remotely close to loving, but…

  Let’s just say old habits have got that dying hard reputation for a reason.

  I fix the screen with the icon still intact.

  After the wedding, I promise myself. Maybe I’ll confess everything to Amber and narrate me deleting the app from my phone. Call it a wedding gift.

  But tonight, with my fingertips covered in highlighter and the image of Peter’s text lingering in my mind along with the memory of Jack Calson, watching me walk out of Holt’s office like I’m the scum on the bottom of his perfect son’s shoe…. Tonight, I don’t.

  13

  All Or Nothing

  “This girl… she has changed you, has she not?” Zahir asks right before we get our drinks at Westside House, a Chelsea hotspot that hired his brother, Asir to DJ tonight.

  The question is so pointed, I’m glad when the bottle service girl shows up in a glittery bodycon dress.

  But Zahir continues to watch me, not the busty girl serving our drinks, even though she does everything but shove her barely contained breasts in my face as she places a standing ice bucket with a couple of bottles of Dom next to the table for us. She then showily pops the cork, giggling in a way I don’t think Amber could replicate if you gave her step-by-step instructions, and pours a glass out for each of us. My first, but I’d bet my next couple of paychecks that Zahir will make his one glass last, and might not be done with it by the time I empty the rest of the bottle. Which is probably one of the reasons the bottle service girl isn’t paying him nearly as much attention as me.

  Zahir’s not ugly or anything, but he’s got a cold way about him, that only makes him come off icier when you pair it with his unsmiling face and thick black beard. He can be quite generous with his money—hell, dude offered to pay for Amber’s and my wedding reception at the Benton Grand without blinking an eye. But when it comes to nightclubs, he’s not the guy in the corner, popping bottles and offering beautiful bottle girls four figure tips.

  And I’m not that guy anymore either, much to Miss Double D’s disappointment. Her anything else is answered with a “Nope, we’re good.” And her smile isn’t nearly so bright as she shuffles away to take drink orders for a table full of muscular Asian guys, with full-color sleeve tattoos. And it’s doubtful, Miss Double D will have much luck getting a big tip from that table either because they’re already surrounded by a shitload of pretty girls. Thirsty hanger-ons of all hair colors and skin hues, all dying to hook up with a rich bad boy from the wrong side of the track.

  It’s a familiar scene because I used to live it with my used-to-be-friends, back before I started pretending to be Jake. Only yellow-washed.

  Chinese mafia, I’m guessing, from the looks of those tattoos. Maybe even part of that Silent Triad crew. Their stateside operation is based out of Rhode Island, but from what dad tells me they’ve been setting up rackets all over the eastern seaboard, including New Jersey and New York.

  My eyes narrow with the old curiosity, even though new Chinese crews ain’t any of my business now that I’ve been kicked out of the family.

  “You still have not answered my question.”

  Zahir’s voice draws my eyes back to our much more serious table, and he repeats once again. “This girl has changed you.”

  I shrug. “Maybe, yeah, man, but it’s a good change,” I say, looking around the club.

  The Ferraro family uses a string of clubs throughout NYC to wash its money, but this isn’t one of them. I’m persona non gratis at those clubs anyway. But thanks to his regular guest star role on that hip-hop reality show, His Majesty, Zahir’s little brother, Asir, is an in-demand DJ these days, much to the disapproval of his family back in Jahwar. If not for him getting us into V.I.P. here, we’d probably be getting drinks in the hotel bar at the Benton Grand, where Zahir stays when he’s in town these days, now that my dad’s rented out the apartment I used to stay in for free.

  But speaking of one of Zahir’s least favorite subjects, “You gotta thank your brother for getting us in here,” I tell him. “He sounds great on the table. Is that a new track?”

  Zahir doesn’t take the bai
t, just sets his still untouched glass of champagne aside and asks, “You are honestly content with giving up your legacy and working for Holt?”

  I down the whole glass of Dom in one swig before answering, “I don’t work for Holt. We’re not even in the same department at CalMart.”

  “Still.” Zahir frowns. “This version of Luca you are presenting to me tonight does not seem like you. Amber is a nice woman, but…”

  Now it’s my turn to frown. “If you’re trying to ask if she’s worth it, then the answer is fuck you. Do you think I’d be here, drinking Dom I can’t afford at my sad excuse for a bachelor party if she wasn’t worth it?”

  Zahir shifts in his seat. “I am sorry Holt couldn’t make it tonight. Along with any of your other friends or family. I know I am poor company at such an event.”

  Inner sigh, cuz now I’ve got to deal with a guilt trip on top of nobody but Z showing up at my bachelor party.

  “Sorry, bro. I appreciate you coming out, I do.” I scoop the bottle out of the ice and take it straight to the head, not caring if it drips on my suit. “Let’s just change the subject, okay?”

  Zahir raises his hands. “Of course,” he says, in his smooth, polite way. “Forgive me for inquiring about your relationship. As you’ll remember, you did this when Holt suddenly decided he wished to be with the Jamaican girl, and I did not think I would be much of a friend to you if I did not do the same.”

  I freeze, eyeing him over the top of the bottle, because, “This isn’t like Holt and the Jamaican girl. Holt was literally on fucking drugs when he decided to shack up with that girl.”

  Zahir’s eyebrows raise. “So, you have not been, as they say, dipping into your own supply?”

  “No,” I answer, my voice frigid. “I’m not on drugs.”

  Zahir regards me for a long while, before carefully answering, “We have known each other longer than we have not known each other, Luca.

  “Yeah, we have, but why do I sense a ‘but’ coming now?” I ask.

  Zahir demurs with a simple nod of his head. “I only mean to say, you will always have my support. No matter what. Even if you wish to marry the daughter of a sworn enemy and take on a corporate job, for which your personality and skill set are highly unsuited.”

  And just like that, whatever polite tone both of us have been trying to maintain disappears. “You know what,” I say, setting the bottle down. “Thanks for paying for the bottle service, man, and the wedding. We can call it even for all the girls I sent your way. You know the ones I got you because I never judged you the way you’re judging me for trying to live a normal life with a girl who has more reasons not to want to be with me than I have not to want to be with her.”

  Zahir doesn’t curse, but he looks like he wants to, as he expels a long, audible breath and runs a hand through his pitch black hair. “I wish Holt hadn’t canceled at the last minute. This would be much easier if he were here.”

  And that’s when I tilt my head back, suddenly understanding… “So, this is, like, what? Some kind of intervention, disguised as a bachelor party?”

  Zahir’s jaw tightens at being called out, but then he says, “Luca, it’s not too late to call this wedding off, and we’re only trying to protect you from—”

  I stand, sending the chair banging backward against the half wall separating VIP from the rest of the club. “I’m going home to my girl. Maybe I’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow, maybe I won’t. Either way, it’s happening.”

  “Luca,” Zahir calls after me.

  I stop short. But not because Zahir’s calling my name.

  There are two men headed my way. They’re wearing black t-shirts with huge crosses hanging off long gold chains, and I haven't seen them since the Sunday dinner when I announced I’d be marrying Amber.

  “Heya, Luc,” Rock says, reaching a hand out.

  “Rock! Stone! What’s what?!” I answer, pulling the both of them in for the bro hugs. I’m touched and happier than anything that not every person in my family would be boycotting my wedding after all. “Did not expect to see you two here.”

  “Would’ve been here earlier,” Rock says, “But there was a shit ton of traffic on 95.”

  Stone’s lips turn down even more than his resting bitch face usual. “I would have gone faster when we finally made it to the city, but Rock didn’t want any traffic cops getting wind of our wedding present.”

  I raise my eyebrows, “Wedding present?”

  For the first time since I decided to move to New York, Stone actually smiles. “Yeah, come outside and see what we got for you.”

  14

  They Can’t Take That Away From Me

  Rock’s and Stone’s wedding present is just waking up when Stone opens the back doors of a conversion van parked in an alley a few blocks from the club.

  Mikey Deltano groans, probably getting hit full force with whatever drug or blunt instrument Stone used to knock him out. I watch with cold eyes as he struggles onto his knees, only to yell and tip over when he sees the still passed out body of his older brother, Greggi Jr. The one who decided he’d rather spend his twenties partying in Miami than freezing his ass off in Jersey, working himself up through the ranks like his Dad and younger brother.

  The smart choice when you think about it. Least he got to have a little fun before he died.

  Mikey gets back up but starts yelling again when he sees me at the van’s back entrance. At least he tries to yell, the sound slams into the tape covering his mouth, like a bird face planting into a glass.

  Stone comes to stand beside me, then sighs and shakes his head like a disapproving grandma at the sight of Mikey looking around for a way out. “Found the stupid fuck partying in Miami with his brother—might want to stand back, Luc.”

  Guessing what comes next, I get clear, giving Stone plenty of room to do his thing. My cousin disappears into the van and reappears a few moments later with the collar of Mikey’s shiny shirt inside his hammy fist.

  “They were checked into a five-star hotel with a couple of cards from that ATM racket we had going a few months back,” Stone tells me, voice barely straining, as he drags the youngest Deltano brother out of the van, kicking and trying to scream.

  With what looks like only a smidge of effort, Stone pushes the dumber Deltano down to his knees in front of me before saying, “Anyways, congratulations on your wedding.”

  “Yeah, congratulations,” Rock says behind me, but his cheer sounds forced. Like he’s trying to congratulate me and not throw up at the same time. Poor Richard—he never has managed to live up to the nickname Uncle Tonio pinned on him before getting sent west. He pulls out a Marlboro red, and I suspect it’s got more to do with covering his shaking hands than his pack-a-day habit.

  Mikey’s still screaming behind the tape. His mouth can’t form words, but I can tell he’s begging for his life from his eyes alone.

  “Mikey Deltano, son of Greggi Deltano, father of…”

  I pause, not remembering the name of the son that came along about six months after he called it quits with that high school chick he was dating for a while—probably because he knocked her up.

  “Frances,” Rock supplies. “But I don’t think Deltano gave him his last name.”

  Good. Less chance his kid will come after me, I decide before finishing with, “Frances. This is for what your father did to my father and me.”

  Tears are streaming down Mikey’s face now. And the yells have become short and stunted. A bunch of “no’s” and “please don’ts” dumbed down to desperate, muted grunts by the duct tape.

  Considering this level of pleading, maybe I should be feeling something other than ice cold intent right now.

  But I don’t. I just hold out my palm.

  And Stone hands me a gun. A Colt 1911 with a cold metal AAC Evolution suppressor attached. I jolt, recognizing the pistol’s custom ivory handle with a swirly-ass GD engraved into it.

  “Is this…?”

  Totally in his element, Ston
e lets loose with another uncustomary grin and nods.

  Deltano’s gun. Stone’s given me back the gun I handed to him when I sent him to handle Deltano’s car and any other necessary clean-up duty in that woods in upstate New York. This is Deltano’s old gun, which means I’ll be using the same gun Deltano tried to kill Amber with on his son.

  At the sight of his dad’s sidearm, Mikey sinks back on his heels. He’s ugly crying now, and I bet he’s swallowed the dime Stone stuck in his mouth before covering it with tape. We stuff our enemies’ mouths with one-hundred dollar bills, a ritual derived from the late 1800s when the Ferraro family first emigrated to this country. Back then a one-hundred dollar note was the reward we paid out as a bounty when an enemy was brought to us dead or alive. And we use the hundred now to remind both ourselves and our enemies who the Ferraros are, who the Ferraros have always been. But traitors don’t get nothing but a single dime, metallic and bitter under their tongue as they take their last breaths.

  It ain’t a pretty scene. And I have a moment of pause, because the thing is, I’m serious about this new leaf I’ve turned over to be with Amber. I’m legit now, no longer on track to become the Ferraro family’s next don. I’m fully committed to Holt’s 8 to 5, no vice. And I plan to put in extra hours on top of that, earning like a regular motherfucker until I make it back to Manhattan, without my family’s money.

  Making Amber happy. Keeping her safe. That’s my intention. My only intention in life.

  Starting tomorrow.

  But tonight, the old feelings surround like a familiar blanket. Tonight, that moment of doubt only lasts a few moments. I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget.

  Or hesitate even a second longer. My arm raises, and I stick Deltano’s silencer between his youngest son’s eyes, then pull the trigger. Without another moment of thought.

  Mikey’s head kicks back with the impact, and he slumps sideways in a dead instant.