billion book
3
Alessio
Fuck. That was Anthony Gonzalez’s daughter? That little bombshell I just bent over and had my way with in my depraved imagination?
Jesus Christ. I want to peel that clingy green dress off her and make her my absolute whore. I would do filthy, fucked up things to that tight body, things her father would probably have me killed for even thinking about. Fuck. Fuck.
Also, no. Also, absolutely not. Given my history with Anthony Gonzalez, separating myself was the only possible move. I did the right thing.
The frustrating tightness in my pants tells me I did the wrong thing. I bite my lip angrily, trying to make it go away. Grandpa Nazio naked. Grandpa Nazio getting a rectal exam.
“What’s on your mind?” Dominguez asks me, catching up as we reach the reception. “You know we’re allowed to talk to girls, right?”
“Not that girl.”
“Because she’s too young?”
“If that helps you.”
“You’re not going to tell me the reason?”
“Dominguez, do I look like I’m in the mood for pussy right now?”
He looks me up and down, then chuckles. “You do, actually.”
“Well, you’d be wrong about that.”
“Hey, I just call ’em like I see ’em. You weren’t exactly subtle checking her out. I can hardly blame you. I was certainly eyeing the other one.”
I scowl. “I’m not shitting where I eat.”
He lowers his voice. “You’re next in line to take over the entire Razone family. This whole fucking city is where you eat. You gotta shit somewhere.”
“Not in Gonzalez territory.”
Dominguez’s eyes focus on someone behind me, and he nods respectfully. “Don Nazio .”
My grandfather greets him, then puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me now, figlio mio. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Grandpa Nazio escorts me to a secluded area of the wedding venue, designated for staff only. We ascend a flight of stairs and enter a cozy room dominated by a large table adorned with a decanter of whiskey and several glasses. We sit in silence. I refrain from drinking or questioning our purpose here. Finally, after what my watch indicates is 18 minutes, the door swings open, revealing a familiar face.
“Good to see you, Don Antonio,” I greet Anthony Gonzalez, rising from my seat.
He approaches and embraces me, a gesture I hadn’t anticipated. “No need for formalities, Alessio! This is a joyous occasion.” He pours three whiskeys and distributes them to my grandfather, myself, and him.
I express my gratitude with a nod and feign a sip. “So, what’s the occasion? I must admit, I didn’t expect you to be pleased to see me. The past was tumultuous, and I want to extend my apologies-”
“Water under the bridge,” Gonzalez interjects, dismissing it. “What brings us together today is the union of two families.”
I shoot a quick glance at my grandfather, but his expression remains impassive. He locks eyes with Gonzalez, and I follow suit as the other mob boss elaborates:
“While I may not be as advanced in years as old Nazio here, I’m mindful of my legacy. Let’s be realistic. We’re the two dominant families in Bover City, and while we may spar over territory, I’m not keen on dividing the city in half for my descendants. And I suspect your grandfather feels the same way.”
Suppressing the urge to clench my fists, I remind myself that I consented to this. I agreed to fulfill my grandfather’s wishes.
“I have one grandson,” Nazio interjects, directing his attention to me. “Anthony has no sons, only a daughter. She’s of marriageable age, and you’re now a man of honor. You will wed her, and when Anthony and I have passed on, you will inherit both legacies for your progeny.”
For a moment, my mind goes blank. Panic sets in, but I maintain composure, controlling my breathing and keeping my eyes open.
“Is this your desire, Nonno?” I inquire, meeting his gaze.
His cold stare meets mine. “It is, figlio mio. This marriage will solidify our legacies.”
I close my eyes momentarily before reopening them. I’ll have time to rage in solitude later tonight. But here, I must project strength.
Drawing a deep breath, I acquiesce. “Then a wedding shall take place.”
“Fantastic!” Anthony exclaims, raising his glass. My grandfather follows suit, despite his usual aversion to alcohol. We clink glasses, and this time, when I bring the cup to my lips, I take a sip. To my dismay, it’s not whiskey but brandy, sickeningly sweet to my palate.
A fitting metaphor for the entirety of this cursed evening. And apparently, for the rest of my life as well.