Page 9 of Bloody Savage God
“We will discuss it tomorrow,” my father announces, and that is the end of that.
The rest of the meal goes by quickly. It really would be a shame to get distracted from the pasta Mellie made, the carbonara sauce made with the perfect mix of Romano cheese and pancetta that melt on my tongue.
After my plate is cleaned off, I get up quickly, despite the feeling of carb fatigue that Mellie’s meals tend to bring with them. I’ve got no interest in being pulled into the arsenide conversations that often follow these meals, none of which tend to be centered around business, plus I’m itching to head out for the night. Waiting around now would just drive me out of my mind. So, I kiss my father on the cheek and head out of the dining room.
I’m just rounding the corner, when I run straight into Uncle Mario, who must have left the room before me. He is standing in the entrance hall as if he is waiting for someone.
Dammit.
“Gianna.” His voice is full of his usual paternalistic tone. As a kid, I always ran to him so he could tell me stories. He’d always come prepared with some dragon or mountain troll that needed to be defeated. I’d never questioned why my aunt Maria had agreed to marry him. He’d seemed like a great guy. Cheerful where my own father was serious. Then again, my father’s sister had been happy to stay out of the family business. Only when I was a teenager had my uncle’s backwards, paternalistic attitude begun to show through the façade of his buoyancy. If my father can be overly protective, my uncle is downright suffocating.
“Uncle Mario,” I greet him, trying to remind myself that, in his own messed up way, he wants my best and isn’t intentionally pissing me off. Even as I think it, though, that pathetic attempt at an excuse isn’t really working.
“I expect you’re planning to have a chat with your papa?”
He is looking at me with disapproval, which is so ridiculous that I simply raise an eyebrow at him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the same effect on him as it does on the men who visit Club Steel. They’d be down on their knees already, while my uncle just huffs, entirely unaware, as usual, that I am no longer a little girl.
“Be careful,principessa. You have your father’s stubbornness, but if you’re not careful and listen to advice every once in a while, you might find yourself in a bad situation. You have a good life with everything you could ever want being given to you. Your aunt understood that.”
He’s got to be fucking kidding me. It’s like he’s trying to make me pull the knife I keep in the thigh holster. I’ve done more to expand the Bruno syndicate in the past five years than he has accomplished in his entire adult life, and he’s telling me that I’m being given everything I could ever want?
It takes me three full breaths before I feel like I’m able to answer in a reasonable tone. “I know what I’m doing, Uncle Mario. No need to worry about me.” I fake a smile, which he picks up on for once, based on his drawn eyebrows.
Oh well.
“Ah,cara mia, I’m not worried. It is you who will learn a difficult lesson if you don’t watch where you step. This life can be dangerous indeed, and you need more than eagerness to succeed.”
I nod. Sometimes that’s the best way to get out of a conversation, and to extricate myself out of this conversation is something I want very badly. “Good night, Uncle.”
Before he can continue his lecture, I quickly move around him, climbing the Scarlet O’Hara staircase that is one of my favorite parts of this house. There isn’t a better place in the world to make a grand entrance than these stairs, even if I’m currently using them more like an emergency exit.
Today has been a shit show, but it’s not over yet, and just maybe the night will have a good surprise in store for me.
Scars and tattoos.Oh yes.
Chapter Four
Mikhail
Mycockhasdecidedto emulate an extended Viagra trip. Not that I need that stuff, but the hard-on I’ve been sporting since watching Gianna strip in the parking lot is no joke. Not even jerking off to her image on the Bruno Properties website has managed to subdue my horniness much.
That is the Gianna Bruno I crave. I want the real deal. The woman who stabbed a man and drove off, not bothered that the kid might run to the police.
She knows he won’t. Knows that the little pisser is too scared, because she gutted him with no reservation. No hesitation.
He told me all about it as I drove his ass to the emergency room, which means my dick is now pressing against the tight leather shorts I’m wearing. My face is obscured behind a mask, hoping that Gianna got as horny as I did while she unleashed her violence.
I hope that tonight she will finally return to Club Steel, giving me an opening to do what I’ve been craving.
To make contact.
I’m wearing a leather trench coat over my clothes, since I’ve got no interest in drawing any attention to my unusual wardrobe outside of the club. My mask is on though, since what I want even less is anyone knowing who I am. Fortunately, my fake identity is solid, so not even the club owner has an inkling about whom he admitted to his club.
Heading through the drizzling rain, I step into the lobby of the unassuming building and show my membership card. Club Steel isn’t run by us, nor is it in the hands of the Italians. It’s a luxury club run by a man whose moral compass isn’t what the club’s website promises, though he’s not an actual part of the Toronto underbelly. Just a rich jerk who likes to dominate much younger women and is willing to overlook some of the riskier play as long as everyone’s membership fees are paid.
What more could I ask for?
I know from my last time here that the change rooms are on the lower level as well as a salon for people just coming for a drink and to mingle, but upstairs is where the good stuff goes down. I drop my coat at the coat check, ignoring the curious looks of the young woman behind the counter, and head up in the elevator. When the ding sounds and the doors open, the sounds of fucking, pain, and ecstasy greet me.
