“Where is this motherfucker?” Wilder rubs his palms together, bouncing on his feet to get the blood moving.
While it feels like we’re alone, private security surrounds the building, tracking who comes and goes. The constant presence of protection has eased since the night that left us fatherless and Giovanni and Luca Coppola dead. With the girls by themselves, we’ve doubled back down. Our relationship with Nicolai has … progressed. I let him believe that his debts to the Ridge family are paid in full.
Blood for blood,we agreed.
Another fucking lie.
Despite the oath we took, Nicolai grew up just like we did, and outside of our women, we don’t trust anyone. If he’s having us tailed, and they’re hiding in dark corners right now, Nico’s searching for something he won’t see coming.
Headlights suddenly streak across the circular driveway like lines on the highway, and Nicolai Coppola opens the back door. “Get in. What the fuck are you waiting for? We got a plane to catch.”
I sit between Wild and Nico like we did when we were kids on our way to school, but it’s not our parents behind the wheel. They’re gone, we’re grown men—made men—and some errand boy with mob ambitions is in front, stuck with the shitty task of driving the boss and his advisors to the airport at two in the morning. He’s smart enough to avoid eye contact, doesn’t go a mile over the speed limit, and uses his blinker.
“I never went to bed,” Nico says. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “I was going to, but then I thought, what the fuck is the point? I’ll sleep on the plane.”
When we’re representing Ridge & Sons, we fly first-class commercial. We make sure our faces are on camera, our bags are checked, and we keep our seats in the upright position until after takeoff.
Tonight, there’s no need to empty our pockets or take off our shoes before stepping through a metal detector, because we fly private. The Boeing 757 waits for us at a secluded terminal, the jet engine fracturing the night. A customs agent follows us onto the plane. She goes through the motions of checking our flight information and identification, but she’s a family associate and knows the drill.
As far as the FAA is concerned, Talent and Wilder Ridge are not in the sky.
“Have a nice flight,” she says, passing the fake ID back to me.
Instead of spreading out in the plane that seats ten, Wilder and I sit side by side with the entire cabin in view. Nicolai takes the seat across from us, reaching into his coat pocket for a flask. He offers us a drink, and I shake my head. Wilder ignores him.
“Nervoso per volare, fratello?”Are you nervous to fly,Nico asks. His face scrunches after a long swig, and he swallows hard. “Or are you nervous to get there?”
“Just ready to get this shit over with,” Wilder answers.
“I’ll drink to that.” Lifting his flask, Nico downs another mouthful. He bares his teeth, giving the flask a hard look of betrayal before screwing the top back on. “You understand that we have people who handle this shit, right? We don’t have to fly across the country in the middle of the night.”
“Not this time,” Wilder says, spinning the band around his ring finger. “I want him to know it was me.”
The main lights in the cabin shut off as the hydraulics bark, and the plane taxis toward the runway. Our only flight attendant comes by to secure the overhead compartments. She stretches across Nicolai, checking and double-checking that we haven’t brought any luggage, pressing her chest and stomach against Nico’s head and shoulder. His eyes have grown heavy with sleep and glossy with alcohol, and he chuckles, not upset with his current circumstance.
There are worse things than having a beautiful woman rub her tits in your face.
Wilder can’t hold back a smile, and I cough into my fist, covering up a laugh. The age difference between us isn’t big enough to make a difference. There was a time after high school, before I joined Wilder and Nico in college, when I was old enough to know better but young enough to get away with murder.
Not in the literal sense.
Our families were still on their way to the top. Ridge & Sons wasn’t what it is today and hadn’t yet solidified the Coppolas as the wealthiest organized crime operation in the country. We were far from normal—there was nothing commonplace about the way we were raised, but there was room to mess around without consequence.
For one summer in particular, we partied, flexed our muscles, and fucked our way through Grand Haven because we could.
We were future kings.
We were friends—brothers.
Until we weren’t.
By the next summer, everything had changed.
Yet, for just a second, nothing is different.
“Babe … babe.” Nico slides his hand around the redhead’s waist and pulls her down to his lap. She yelps in surprise, a real damsel in distress. It’s such bullshit, Wilder and I lean into each other, laughing. “I enjoyed the show, I really did. But we have business to discuss. Be a good girl and fuck off.”
There’s not a chance in hell that girl is here on accident. No one gets near Nicolai by chance. I’m surprised he’s here without an entire fucking entourage. Then again, Wilder and Iarethe entourage now.
