Mafia Casanova - M. Robinson Page 0,59

had with her father.

He’d been drunk.

She’d thrown out all the alcohol.

A bar?

The one shit hole that was closest to this neighborhood, our bar, the one that held all our good memories. I didn’t want to accidentally kill him during happy hour for being a jackass, and that was bound to happen if he opened his mouth.

I sped off, continuing to see visions of Eden’s tear-stained face, getting more pissed as I drove, and before I knew it, I was in front of the old dive bar staring down Tristian’s black Mercedes and plotting pain.

I killed the engine, got out, and slowly walked along the perimeter of his car, my knife held in my right hand as I drew a nice line into the expensive paint.

Piece of shit.

When I was done, I folded the knife and shoved it in my pocket. People were scattered outside smoking, groping. I sneered and yanked open the heavy wooden door.

Tristian was at the bar with a familiar face.

A woman.

Their heads were too close together.

Their lips even closer.

Tristian was clearly drunk off his ass, but even drunk, he knew better. He leaned toward her and placed a hand over hers.

She stood, murmuring something in his ear while he slid a hand down her lower back, pulling her between his thighs. He briefly expressed something and sent her on her way.

With a curse, I made my way through the crowd and sat on the empty stool next to him. “Playing with fire.”

Tristian did a slow double take and downed the glass of whiskey. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“You know the rules, brother,” I practically spat out the word; what weight did it even carry anymore? “No touching another man’s wife, no looking, and definitely no abuse of your own.”

The woman he had just been with started back toward him again, her eyes zeroed in on Tristian like a fucking snack.

“No.” I held up my hand. “Turn your ass around and go sit the fuck down.”

She gasped while Tristian shot to his feet and swayed a bit. “You can’t say that to her!”

She had brass balls; I’d give her that. She stepped forward, falling into my arms like she was a damsel in distress. I didn’t fall for her bullshit, shoving her away.

I sneered, “You disgust me. You’re defending that woman. And yet your wife flees her own home in fear? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I shoved his chest. “Now sit your ass down before I do it for you!”

“She’s not yours to protect, brother.” He lifted a finger to order another shot. “Remember who she married.”

“I protect family. And in a way, I’m protecting you. Fuck this up, and it’s going to be your head rolling down the street. You’re lucky I’m here, not her father, not Andrei, not our father! You’re breaking all sorts of rules, which means… there will be consequences.”

He gave me a sideways glance and tried to bolt in the other direction, but he was slower than hell. I grabbed him by the back of his shirt, then picked him up and slammed him against the bar top. Glass went flying around us, and people immediately scattered.

“Hurt her again. Threaten her again. Make her afraid, again, and I’ll personally take out the hit on your life, not because I need the money, or because you’re my brother and I should make it fucking quick, but because I want to be the last person you see before your descent into Hell because that’s where men like you go.” I threw a right jab into his gut, causing him to keel over. “So you remember…who holds your marker.”

With that, I kneed him in the face. He fell to the grimy floor, groveling in pain. I left him there, coughing up blood. Cussing me out like the drunk he was.

I always thought Tristian and I were different, but I was wrong.

We were pathetically the same.

Neither of us willing to grasp the gift that we’d been given.

I had given her to him.

And he was too chicken shit to accept her.

Just like I had been.

Both of us.

Fucking idiots.

Bastards who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

She loved us both.

And it still wasn’t enough for us to love ourselves enough to fucking receive it.

I shoved the wooden door open and stepped through. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked toward my car, making the call I’d been dreading to make since I saw the woman at Tristian’s side.

“Yeah?” Bartollo, Eden’s father, answered on