Trapped (Sinners of Boston #5)

2. Santino

TWO

SANTINO

Vitale shoved the man forward.

Joe caught himself on the back of the chair, wincing. His shirt was torn. His lip, busted. Blood dripped onto his chin. Pathetic.

I’d seen that before too many times. My father used to stumble through the front door after losing everything at the poker tables. He’d head straight for the bottle. The electricity bill would sit on the kitchen table, unpaid, while my mother cried in the bedroom.

The sound of the door slamming meant my father was home. I’d take my little brother, Kill, into the closet and hide while my oldest brother, Romeo, took the brunt of my father’s rage. When Dad sobered up, he’d promise the big score was around the corner. It never was.

This guy was another loser who thought he could talk his way out of a hole he’d dug himself into.

I watched Joe mop up his face. “You remind me of my father.”

Joe perked up. “Oh yeah?”

“That’s not a compliment.”

Joe said nothing. He shifted in his seat like he knew the noose was tightening.

I looked him over. “You know what your problem is? You think I’ll forget that you fucked up. Somehow, you’ll convince me that things will get better. This is just a rough patch. I’ve heard that before, Joe. I grew up listening to it.”

Joe swallowed hard, but I wasn’t done.

“My old man used to come home like you. Face fucked up. Disheveled clothes. Talking about how he’d almost won thousands of dollars. Always the same shit. You know where he ended up?”

Joe paled, his head shaking.

I leaned back again. “I’m not in the business of giving second chances. Make this right, or I’ll take everything.”

If I learned anything from my dad, it was to never bet on people who couldn’t pay their debts. This was my favorite part of the job. When it dawned on them that it didn’t matter, the game was over, and I held all the cards.

I didn’t have to raise my voice for this guy to sweat bullets. I broke men like him, and they still came back to kiss the ring. That’s what it meant to be Santino Costa.

“I just need ten more,” Joe begged. “I have an opportunity lined up. Luxury goods. Double the investment, I swear. Just give me a little more time.”

“What’s your backup plan when your deal goes sideways?”

He wiped blood off his cheeks. “It won’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’ll—I’ll get it. I’ve never been late before, have I?”

”No, but I don’t trust people who bet on things they can’t control.”

His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. I watched him squirm, making sure he understood how thin the ice was beneath him.

“You want ten grand, fine,” I said after a long pause. “But it’ll cost you.”

He blinked. “How much?”

“Twenty points.”

Joe’s face fell. “Twenty points? Mr. Costa, that’s?—”

“That’s the deal. Twenty points on top of what you already owe. You miss one payment, and I own everything. Your business, your car, all of it. Take it or leave it.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Desperate fool .

I smiled, standing up. “You’ll have the money by tomorrow.”

Giorgio shouted.

What now?

I glanced at the velvet rope separating the VIP section. A beautiful girl walked past my bodyguard, ignoring his shouts to come back. Didn’t even glance at him.

Giorgio caught up to her.

I held up a hand. “It’s okay. Let her through.”

She wrenched out of his grip, smirking, and marched toward me. Confidence poured off her in waves. She knew exactly where she was going. A woman like her didn’t need permission to jump the line. Her looks were the ticket. Her bold eyes locked on me. They grabbed me by the balls.

I sat up straighter.

She stopped in front of me, beside the tool I’d made a deal with. I waved him off, and he disappeared. She wore a tight gray skirt that hugged her curves, cutting off above mid-thigh. Her legs seemed to go on forever. A black belt cinched her waist, accentuating her hourglass figure. But it was the top that got me. A polo shirt, of all things—something that would’ve been conservative, except she’d undone the buttons to tease her cleavage.

“I need to speak to you. Privately.”

Her frigid tone caught my attention. I leaned forward, taking her in. Most women who came through here wanted money. They’d flash me their tits, smile, and try to sit on my lap. She acted like she already had what she needed.

Now I was intrigued.

I motioned to a chair. “And who are you?”

She didn’t sit. Darkness lurked in her gaze. “Delilah Romanov.”

That name socked me in the ribs. I stared at her. The Romanov family carried a history I couldn’t forget. My chest tightened.

I gave her a hard look. I had every reason to hate the Romanovs. Old wounds I’d rather keep smothered in denial broke apart, stitch by stitch.

I sat back, crossing my arms. “So, you’re one of them .”

“I am.”

She wasn’t even trying to charm me. No attempt to smooth over the tension she must’ve felt radiating off me. She stood there, proud, as if she hadn’t dropped a name I’d spent my whole life hating. Why was she here? Why me?

“Let me guess. You’re here to make peace, right?”

She shook her head. “No.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because I need your help.”

I laughed. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out.”

She didn’t waver, and that surprised me. Most people would’ve buckled. Maybe tried to backpedal or offer some pathetic excuse.

“You won’t,” she purred. “You’re too curious about me.”

She put her hand on my arm. Her fingers skimmed my jacket, but a shot of adrenaline went straight to my chest. I watched her, heat twisting in my gut. Seduction was such a cheap trick, but damn if I wasn’t already imagining her on my desk.

I clenched my jaw. “You know what you’re doing, sweetheart?”

Her mouth twitched. “I do.”

My attention flicked to her deep red lips. If you think you can use me, you better be ready to pay up . I stood, palming the small of her back.

“Let’s talk in my office.”

She smiled. “Lead the way.”