Page 9 of Filthy Little Regrets
Luca’s nostrils flare. “I thought we were friends.”
Friends? No. There’s only one reason I’m here, dealing with this shit.
Glaring at him, I toss the gun onto the desk. “See you in a week.” Without looking back, I turn, button my suit jacket, and stride out of the room.
I really fucking hate the mafia.
My golden Aston Martin Valiant idles outside the gates to the Astor compound. Tonight is our weekly family dinner. The rumble of my Valiant’s engine is almost as deep as the anger simmering in my veins after that meeting with Luca. I skip the river-rock paved lane to the right, that leads to my mansion, and head up the longer driveway straight to the home I grew up in.
Everyone loves the Georgian-inspired mansion. The facade is elegance given life, with gray brick turret walls on either side of the flat front and a four-tier,brick-laid staircase leading to the double-entry front doors and a fountain in the middle of the driveway. Water spills from the vases the sculpted angels hold.It almost looks peaceful.
Fighting a derisive snort, I turn off the car and get out. There’s no peace to be found within these walls. The atmosphere is thick with petrichor, but the storm clouds are holding the rain, waiting to unleash hell.
Thomas, the family butler, opens the door as I jog up the porch steps. His once brown hair is peppered with gray but still perfectly slicked back, and his suit is starched, not a wrinkle in sight. Can’t say the same for his pale skin. At sixty, age is quickly catching up to him, but even with the wrinkles, he’s a good-looking guy. “Mr. Astor, looking quite dapper.” Even though Thomas is from Jersey, that doesn’t stop him from talking like he grew up overseas.
“Hey, Tommy.” I clap him on the shoulder as I pass. “Are they treating you well?”
“The pay keeps my belly and fridge full.” That’s always his response. Even when I was little, and he ushered me and my sisters out of the dining room while Dad flew off the handle, he never complained.
“Glad to hear it,” I say, stepping onto the foyer’s shiny marble floor. I spot a giant vase of fresh flowers on the round entry table. My pulse spikes.They got into a fight.Dad only gets Mom flowers after he hits her. As far as I know, he hasn’t touched her in years, not since I moved out, but the bouquet has my muscles tensing. The breath I take does nothing to help me relax.
When I lived here, I would intervene, knowing he’d turn his anger on me instead. Mom begged me to stop, and eventually, I realized I was the thing that set him off and left. I still wish she would leave, but she’s too afraid. Dad has all the money and power to hire the best lawyers in theworld. If he didn’t decide to have her killed, Dad would rip her to shreds, destroying the family in the process. I hate the helplessness that hollows out my stomach. All those years of fighting in a cage, and I can’t even use what I’ve learned to protect her. Not without killing my dad and getting sent to jail, leaving my sisters to pay off his debts to the mafia. Those made men would gladly destroy my sisters.
That won’t happen.
Thomas pauses at my side, and it’s only then I realize I stopped walking. “It’s not what you think. He only yelled at her.”
Dad has a way of flaying people with his words, but relief courses through me. Releasing a harsh breath, I curl my fingers into a fist and nod. “You’ll call me if it escalates.” It’s not a question.
“Always,” Thomas says.
I make my way toward my sisters’ voices in the living room, giving myself a few moments to feel the full brunt of my rage and despair before locking it all down. My sisters already deal with one asshole; they don’t need to tiptoe around my anger too.
“—think Mace will be mad?”
“Be mad about what?” I turn into the living room. My sisters are cozied up on the oversize leather couch, clutching glasses of wine. A line cuts across my forehead. “Who said you could drink?”
So much for not being an asshole.
Melody, the oldest, at twenty, flips me off and takes a pointed sip of her wine. Her blonde hair is wrapped in a ballerina bun, as usual, and her eyes—the same dark blue as mine—dare me to stop her.
She’s the troublemaker.
Adalie, at least, has sense enough to set her wineglass down and shoot me an apologetic grin. Her eyes are hazel, leaning more gray than blue most days, just like our mom’s. She also has Mom’s rich brunette hair, but there’s no mistaking that Adalie and Melody are related. They have the same nose, eyes, and lips. They could be twins, and they almost are at only a year apart.
“Don’t let him stop you, Adalie,” Melody says. “Mace was sneaking me beers when I was nineteen.”
“Snitch,” I grumble, scooping up Adalie’s wine and downing it. “Besides, you’re supposed to be better than me.”
Melody scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Please, we all know I’m the degenerate here.”
Hardly. Melody is doing everything according to plan. It’ll be interesting to see how she handles the arranged marriage my dad is no doubt scheming. I’ve gone out of my way to ruin the various arrangements he’s tried to force on me, because they only benefit him. Another power grab. Another alliance made. Another brick laid on the path to world domination.
“What am I going to be mad about?” I poke Adalie in the side.
She smacks my hand and glares at me. “You’re twenty-seven, act like an adult.”
“He’s practically ancient,” Melody says with a shit-eating grin.
