ChapterOne
Silas ~ May 18th, 2009
Unbuttoning the cuffs of my shirt, I roll them up in the sharp crisp way Lakshan likes before I punish him. I know it’s affecting him now, even while we entertain a room full of Italians. All three of them are ruggedly handsome. Does it come with the genes?
A thought drifts across my awareness. One of them is likely to give me grandchildren because I give Oliver every fucking thing he wants, even hot-headed Italian dancers who get themselves tangled up in dancing drama that’s going to cost me a lot of money by the looks of it. God help me. But those grandbabies, they’ll be the most adorable children the world has ever seen, and I’ll have to look into their big brown eyes while they sit on my lap. If I have to tell them Grampa is the reason their father’s nose is crooked, I couldn’t live with myself.
It's the only thing keeping Julius safe right now. I’d be willing to make him the example for the Bianchis if I knew Oliver didn’t want children, except he does. Lots of them.
“I want seven, Baba,” he told me when he was a little boy.
“Seven?”
“Yeah. You like little kids. They make your eyes smile.”
Oliver was the only little kid in my acquaintance when he said that. It was Oliver that made my eyes smile when my lips wouldn’t. “You shouldn’t have children for me, Eaglet.”
He shrugged and continued playing with his doll, but it didn’t end there. He brought it up a lot in various ways as he grew and while I know he’ll wait until he’s finished with dancing, they’re coming. I have enough money to hire as many surrogates as he wants.
Julius, Lorenzo, and Lorenzo’s father—Costa—are arguing in Italian. I’m letting them go at it because why not? Let them think they’ve got an ounce of authority in this matter. I finish rolling up my sleeves and prepare to deliver the news.
I’d much rather bend Lakshan over my desk and fuck him until he begs for mercy.
I snap my fingers. “All right, enough.”
Costa starts on me in Italian though I don’t know why. Nothing about me says I know Italian. I can get by in Hindi, which I learned for Lakshan.
Fuck.My grandchildren will speak Italian and especially if it’s a tiny Oliver clone, I’ll be bewitched.
God, what’s wrong with me?
Fine. I’ll probably have to learn Italian, but not today. Besides, there’s plenty of time to convince Oliver that love can strike more than once. Look at Darius. Once they sift through Asher’s bullshit, they’ll settle down—as much as Darius settles—and form a triad. Maybe even a … whatever you call five people in a relationship, knowing them.
“Mr. Bianchi,” I cut in. He finally shuts up, scowling and not even that ruins his perfect face. If I’m honest, it makes my dick hard. All that lovely silver mixed into the dark tresses. “As much as I like being shouted at in a language I don’t know, it’s counterproductive. How much money is it going to cost to make this go away?”
His accent is strong. It makes him more attractive even though every word is meant to con me. Maybe especially because. I like a good con man. “Cost? I donna think you understand. A dancer like Julius Vincenzo can’t be replaced.”
So, a lot of money then. Everyone has a price.
“I know Italy is a very big place, but I was wondering if you might know a man by the name of Stefano Bufalino?” Costa pales. Everyone knows that name from here to Mars. He would bemymafia connection. “That look says you do.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not, but you should care if I know him or not. Take a look at that picture over there.”
It’s of me, holding one of Stefano’s granddaughters. “That was when I became Isabella’s honorary Godfather. I’m not Catholic, but Stefano insisted that I was recognized in some way because he knew I’d protect her if need be.”
It’s not recognized in “the eyes of God” but it means a lot to Stefano. I could call upon a favor from him if I really needed it, but it’s better not to owe a Bufalino. I have others at my disposal, but this is the one that will mean something to Costa. It’s okay if hethinksI’d call Stefano. It will have this swept under the rug faster.
“I’ll settle for a million dollars.”
Truthfully, I don’t have to pay them a thing but while I’m not opposed to violence, I avoid it when I can. Money is good for that. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
Costa makes a series of hand gestures and there are a bunch of Italian curses I’ve become familiar with. “I can’t let him go for anything less than five hundred thousand.”
“I can’t believe you’re letting him pay you anything. We need Julius, Papà.”
Heneeds Julius. His father wants the money. “I’ll give you three hundred thousand and I won’t have Lorenzo’s feet mangled beyond recognition. If you waste any more of my time with this nonsense, I might do it for fun.”
