Page 18 of Fallen Rook

That, unfortunately, required unblocking his number.

And intentionally putting up with his annoying persona.

I could do this.

I could lure the Camorra’s social butterfly into my web.

Watch him thrash, struggle, and beg as I swallowed him whole.

Chapter Seven

Tom

I hadn’t veered off course with my routine for the past eight years.

No vacations. No holidays. No birthdays. No days off.

I slept, trained, ate, and worked. I tried to visit my grandmother every month, my parents once a decade, and Silas and Iris every other weekend. Each encounter was meticulously planned and took place in a controlled environment.

The strict routine grounded me and gave me a sense of control. When I followed the rules, nobody got hurt. Nobody got disappointed or overwhelmed.

Nobody died.

More importantly—through my routine, I managed to avoid the unfortunate episodes that took over me from time to time.

Today was going to be different, and I had a certain Italian boy with whiskey eyes to blame for the occasion. I was walking into the unknown, no matter how well prepared I was.

In fact, I could write a dissertation about each and every one of the Ferrante brothers.

There was Luca, who wore a civilized veneer to hide the elegant chaos beneath the surface. I didn’t think anyone—including his brothers—knew his secrets.

Achilles was afforded no such mask. Nothing refined or pleasant about the man. His face told his story, and his story was a Greek tragedy.

And then came Vincenzo. Gorgeous. Sweet. Kindhearted. Diabolical. A conundrum.

The nicest, yet the deadliest. He was the only one I hadn’t figured out completely.

Yet.

At eight thirty sharp, I showed up at the Empyrean gym on Bryant Park. Also known as the hottest, busiest, most obnoxiously expensive fitness club in Manhattan, so of course it was the place Enzo chose for his workouts.

I knew his hours and days of exercise. Hell, I knew his A/B plan. Today was his chest and leg day. His least favorite, but I was about to provide entertainment.

A model I recognized from billboards greeted me at the front desk, and after parting ways with four figures, I became the not-so-proud owner of a ten-pass card to the fitness center.

As soon as I set foot in the place, I noticed everyone was in their early to midtwenties, and were the proud owners of breast implants, six-packs, and enhanced asses.

I stood in my Nike shorts and sleeveless DriFit shirt, pissed by the fact all the men seemed to adhere to a uniform of gray sweatpants and a muscle shirt.

It took me an embarrassingly short time to spot Enzo. Force of habit meant my gaze always gravitated toward him.

He was standing next to the restroom, holding a protein shake and chatting with some dudebro. If my gay radar wasn’t wrong—and it never was—said dudebro was checking him out.

My chest constricted with a notion that made me want to punch a wall. Hadn’t he learned to be more careful about hooking up with people?

No. Enzo was in the closet. He wasn’t going to exchange numbers with this guy.

Not that I gave a shit either way, of course.