Arranged love

BONES

Twelve years old

“DILLAN, LET ME tell you what will get you through this life.” My father sits across from me at the table while I eat a snack. “Show me a man in love, and I’ll show you his greatest weakness.”

I frown. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, he will put her first before anything else, even himself.” Picking up his glass of scotch, he throws it back. My father is always drinking. Doesn’t matter if it’s six o’clock in the morning or midnight. “You and your brother will have a lot of enemies, son. And every one of them will know this.”

“Why would we have enemies?” I’m not dumb. I’m old enough to know that my father does some shady stuff with very powerful men who are as rich as they are evil.

He smirks as if what I said was funny. “Because you two will have what others want.”

“Love?” I question.

“No.” He snorts. “Kingdom.”

I don’t want it, but I keep that thought to myself. He already knows how I feel about the hotel and casino he owns with his two partners-the Three Wisemen. My father just doesn’t care. None of them do. I, along with my little brother and two best friends, will have no choice but to take it over one day.

My father holds up the empty glass and stares at it while speaking to me. “Love makes a man weak. Because a man in love would rather save her than himself.”

My eyes drop to the table, and I think about his words. “But you married Mom,” I say, looking up at him. I would never consider my father to be weak.

The corners of his lips turn up into a sinister smirk. “I didn’t say a man didn’t need a woman. I said a man in love is a vulnerable one. Although, women are useful for few reasons.” His eyes meet mine. “You’ll figure those out later in life.”

BONES

Fourteen years later

I SIT AT my desk on the thirteenth floor of Kingdom when my door flies open, hitting the interior wall with a loud bang. I look up to see Luca Bianchi, a longtime friend, barging into the large space.

“Hey …” I trail off when he shoves his hands in the pockets of his black slacks and begins to pace. His shoes slap on the marble floor. “Luca?”

“What would you do if Grave was in trouble?” he asks, his voice sounding rough.

I place my cell on the desk and lean back in my chair, crossing my tattooed arms over my chest. I get mad at my brother, but he’s still my baby brother. “I’d bail him out.” No matter the cost or situation. I’ve been doing it all my life. “Is he in trouble?” I ask, getting worried.

I just saw Grave last night when we had our Sunday get-together at April’s and his house. He seemed well. Better than well, actually. He and April announced their engagement. I believe with every part of me that woman saved his life. Grave was headed down a road that would lead him to his death sooner rather than later. But he fell in love, and she demanded better of him. He loved her enough to give it to her.

“No. This isn’t about Grave.”

I frown. “Is it about Nite?” Oliver Nite-Bianchi is his adopted brother. Luca’s parents took Nite in when they found him on the streets. I believe his father did it to grow his army, but in the end, he’s provided Nite with a life he could only dream of.

“It’s about me.” Luca sighs heavily.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

My frown deepens. “You need me to bail you out of something? Just name it.”

Luca has been a best friend of the Kings since we were young. His father-John Bianchi-is a Don; the ringleader of the Italian-American Mafia. Our fathers were business partners in a sense. We furthered that tradition. I even went into business with Luca-Glass is one of Las Vegas’s elite strip clubs-as his silent partner. Well, I say silent, but I’m pretty sure everyone knows and just lets me believe that they don’t.

He rips his Armani suit jacket off his shoulders and throws it across the room, where it lands on the black rug. Then he’s unbuttoning his white dress shirt.

“Luca …” I sit up straighter. “What the hell is going on?”

He ignores me. Instead, he continues to undress, kicking his shoes across my room and undoing his slacks while throwing his shirt. Within seconds, he’s down to his black boxer briefs.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, getting frustrated as to why my friend is undressing in front of me. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I’m proving to you I’m not wired,” he rushes out.

My body tenses at his words. Being part of the Mafia, he knows what’s required of him when he’s about to spill some information. The Kings use this method too. You never know who might be listening in on your conversations. If you want to be trusted, then you prove your loyalty.

What has he done that he can’t get out of? And why in the hell would he come to me for help? Surely, I’m not his only option.

He bends down, digs his cell out of the pocket of his slacks on the floor, and types away before setting it on my desk.

I stare up at him, ignoring the phone. His dark eyes meet mine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they are watery.

I stand, my concern growing by the second. “Is Haven okay?” His wife is the only person who can make him feel. He’s got bodies buried in the desert. For fuck’s sake, I’ve watched him torture grown men without even blinking. It’s got to be his wife. She’s the only person he gives a fuck about.

Instead of answering, he leans forward and presses play on the video he has pulled up on his cell.

“Number thirty-six,” a man on the video calls out.

My eyes fall to watch the screen.

Someone is recording a small room. Several spotlights on the dirty concrete floor shine up on a black brick wall with a single hook.

I sit in my chair and pick up the phone, wondering what in the fuck he’s gotten into.

“I said number thirty-six,” the man snaps. The phone begins to move around before he holds it steady once again.

A woman is dragged into view by another man. She wears what was once a white lace bralette and matching underwear. They look like she rolled around on the dirty floor. But that’s not what makes my heart begin to race. No. It’s the fact she’s got a black hood over her head, and her wrists are tied together in front of her. The guy slams her back against the brick wall and yanks the excess rope above her head to tie it around the hook. He secures her in place and then steps out of view. She struggles in the position, kicking her bare feet out and twisting her body from side to side the best she can, but it’s not much of a fight.

I pause it and look up at my friend. He has his back to me. “Luca … this is sex trafficking,” I say bluntly. “What the fuck are you doing? Selling or buying slaves?” He flinches but doesn’t respond.

I know his dad deals in it, but this isn’t something Luca would ever agree to.

I go back to the phone at his silence and push play again. She struggles with her arms stretched above her head. The pointless fight makes her tired, and her movements slow. The hook is high enough that she’s standing on her tiptoes. Her ribs are showing, and the underwear is falling off her narrow hip bones. She’s petite. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe five two and a hundred pounds. The way her ribs protrude through her tan skin makes her look malnourished.

“Turn her around,” the man recording calls out.

The guy who placed her there grabs her waist to spin her around, and she begins to fight him again. Listening closely, I can hear her mumbling words. They’ve either gagged her, or she has tape over her mouth. She manages to kick him in the groin, forcing him back.

“Bitch,” he growls. Grabbing the hood, he shoves her head into the brick. Her body hangs there-knocked out.

“Hurry up,” the guy filming orders.

The other one rubs his dick and then spins her around so her back faces the camera. He steps away while she slumps against the wall. The guy filming snaps, “Remove her underwear.”

The man returns to the shot and yanks them down her legs before shoving them into his pocket like it’s a souvenir.

I take a quick look at Luca, and he’s moved over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. He’s got his head on the glass, and his eyes are closed. I can clearly see his chest rising and falling with each breath due to the fact his button-up lies on my floor.

I go back to the video.

She still hangs there, unconscious. Now naked from the waist down. Her tan skin would be flawless other than the bruises on her thighs and upper back. Some dot her frail arms. I don’t see any visible scars or tattoos.