Page 6 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
Two
Massimo
Ten in the evening and I am right where I always am at this hour. Settled deep in the leather wingback by the window, some contract spread across my lap, phone perched on one arm of the chair and my Macallan on the other. The restless city glows through the glass beside me, but I stopped noticing years ago.
I shuffle through the papers before reaching for my drink.
I've read this contract so many times now I can quote it from memory.
The Whitmore trust restructuring has a clause on page forty-seven that doesn't belong. Harrison's trust. Harrison's money. Harrison's mess for me to untangle, same as it's been for twenty years. The man is my oldest friend and the worst judge of legal talent I have ever met.
My attention falls to page five again.
Section 12.4(b). A subordination provision buried where no one would think to look, contradicting the primary beneficiary language on page twelve. Sloppy or deliberate. Either way, hisattorneys should know better because I've trained them to know better. I circle it in red, make my note, and move on.
I toss the red pen on the coffee table in front of me where another stack of contracts waits for my attention. I reach for the Macallan 18 and take a slow pull. Caramel, oak, and a burn that settles warm in my chest.
My only company most nights. Pathetic, but brutally fucking honest.
I drain the glass and pour another.
Like every other night, silence fills every corner of this place. It always does. Thirty-three floors above Michigan Avenue and the only sounds are my pen on paper and the ventilation pushing warm air through rooms nobody uses. The kitchen is spotless because I cooked for one and cleaned up after. The second bedroom has never had a guest. The couch still holds the dent from my body because I fell asleep there last night reviewing Drake and Katriana's postnuptial amendments at two in the morning.
That is what I do at two in the morning. While other bastards are tangled up in sheets and their wives, I'm wrapped up in their amendment clauses. Guess which one pays better yet feels a fuck of a lot worse.
I have built marriages out of contract law for nearly every one of my Syndicate brothers. Rafael and Persia. Drake and Katriana. Luca and Ilona. Kon and Onyx. Four marriages. Four contracts. Four ceremonies where I stood beside men I've bled with and watched them find the one thing I have never been able to put in writing for myself.
Someone to come home to.
I take another pull of whiskey and swallow my disgust. Pressure builds between my eyes and I press my thumb into the bridge of my nose. Forty years old. Harvard Law. Fifteen years keeping this family out of prison and in power. I have stared down federal prosecutors, rewritten custody agreements at three in the morning, and made problems vanish with a single phone call. I am very good at solving other people's problems.
Mine sit in a pile I dread examining too closely. I have to say, it's not the turn of events I saw for myself this late in life. A tangled web of crime, lies and late nights has a way of killing a man's love life. Fuck, I know my brothers made it work, but their wives were already in the life. Or at least knew about it. I would have to find someone...
I stop my mental roll in its tracks. I'm not going down that rabbit hole. I don't need some mafia princess because I sure as shit am not anyone's knight in shining armor and this isn't some fairytale. The life I live is brutal. Period. Wedding vows and happily ever after are for other fools. I'm stuck with one-night stands and empty beds come morning. I'll just have to learn to live with it. I don't give a shit anymore.
I grab my glass and hammer back the last mouthful and refill.
My phone vibrates on the arm of the chair. It better not be Harrison. I swear to God above if he fucks up one more time...
I look over to seeunknown numberflash across the screen. I mentally run through names of possible callers. The list is endless, really. Just about everyone I know dumps burners for new ones all the time. A lot of shady fuckers have my number locked into their memories.
It's a Chicago area code. That narrows the list to a handful.
I glance at the preview and my hand stops halfway to Harrison's contract.
Never mind the number. I grab the phone instead and flick the message open.
I sit up and blink a few times, forcing my eyes to focus. "This is a first." I reach for my drink and swallow back a mouthful, then read it again.
I'm tired of spending my birthday alone. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to be touched and taken so hard I forget my name. I'm tired of being good when being good hasn't gotten me anything except an empty apartment and a cold bed. I want one unforgettable night where someone makes me feel like I'm worth worshipping. I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball. That's it. That's my birthday wish.
I read the last line again and my chest tightens. A dull ache spreads through me. I swear it feels like my soul recognizes the loneliness in the message and reaches for their pain.
A longing runs through me.
I read it again. Slower this time so I can digest the weight of every single word.I'm tired of being good when being good hasn't gotten me anything.That sentence sinks into my gut and stays. I set the whiskey down and my grip on the phone tightens enough that my knuckles ache. I know what that exhaustion tastes like. I have been good my entire life. Disciplined. Controlled. The man everyone calls because Massimo will fix it. Massimo always fixes it. And at the end of the night Massimo goes home alone to expensive whiskey and brutal silence.
This woman just put my loneliness into words I've never had the balls to say out loud.
