Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) - Kara Hart Page 0,15

better look at me. “Are you eating a fucking quiche?”

“The locals would get angry if they heard you call it Spain,” I said. I took another bite of quiche and washed it down with my strong coffee. It was extra good today. “What’s it to you? What do you care if I eat a French pastry or not?”

“Just expected you to be at the bar down the road is all.” He said. “You going soft on me?”

I rolled down the window and tossed the rest of the quiche out. “There, you happy? No more quiche. I was in Catalonia because I needed to collect a debt that was owed to me, that’s all. I got my money and I came back. Brazil was a vacation.” I lied. Brazil was more than a vacation. It was a trip to the belly of the beast. I was convinced that if there was a Hell, it was in the area I stayed in for a month. The hard truth was, if you needed information, you sometimes had to risk everything to get it.

“You never invite me anymore! Remember how it used to be? I search the ends of the earth for you, and you don’t even give me a ‘hello, Ricky’? Not even a ‘I’ve missed you, big brother.’ Shit, I had some close calls out there! And I mean some really close calls!”

I knew what that meant. It meant he went to a few beach resorts, got a manicure and a tan for a high price, and got to know just about every local prostitute there was. He never understood the job, never did what it took to keep the family going. He was spoiled. And ever since his wife died, he had become such a huge liability.

“Yeah, well I’m sorry. I’ve missed you big brother,” I said, almost inaudibly. I did miss the family. I missed my father. And my Mom, with all her delicious cooking. There were all of the old made men--Jonas, Paulie, and “Little” Michael Sabello. But Ricky was a hothead. He didn’t have what it took to be a real leader. The new generation of Italian gangsters made us look like cheap knockoffs.

I looked at his outfit. A one hundred percent leather jacket, $300 pair of sunglasses, Italian-made boots, complete with at least ten gold chains, a Rolex, and solid gold rings. He looked like a walking advertisement. If anyone saw him out here, it would be obvious he was up to no good. He brought too much attention to my anonymity.

“Well, thanks for the apology,” he laughed. “So why you really out here?”

“A man’s got to decompress every now and then, right?” I eyed him to see if he bought my story.

“Bullshit. Dad’s got you on an assignment doesn’t he?” I stayed quiet, unwilling to play his stupid little games. When I didn’t answer him, he took that as a sign he caught me in a lie. “I knew it! God dammit, when is dad going to trust me? I’m the big brother!”

“Calm down. I’m not here on assignment. I’m here because the Basque Country job was tough on me. I need to relax for a second before I do get assigned another job.” I sighed heavily. He was going to give me an anxiety attack. “Look, brother. You should be happy. You have it made. Money, women, spa treatments up the wazoo. What else do you need?”

“I want to be a part of the action. Like you. All that angel of death shit. I read what you did up there in the papers. That’s some dark shit, brother.”

I frowned, feeling the creases in my forehead thicken. I ran my fingers against the collar of his leather jacket and then squeezed hard. “My business is my business. End of fucking story,” I said.

He looked worried. “Alright, jeeze. You didn’t need to mess up my jacket.” He began smoothing out the indent of my fingers where I had gripped it.

“Just let me out here,” I said. This town was small enough to walk at least eight times throughout the day. It wouldn’t take me long to get back to my place.

“Sure thing, brother. But before you go, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s Dad. He wants you back home tomorrow for a meeting.”

“A meeting? What for?” I asked, suddenly feeling sort of strange. Why would he interrupt my trip here for a meeting? There were plenty of other men ready to fill my shoes while