I just smile. Calm through it all because I won a bar fight tonight— killed two guys fucking with me just an hour ago. OldOtetsisn’t too fond of the way I spend my days and nights. Ever since my older brother Kias died, I’ve been traveling the world. Taking risky missions, cutting throats, burning through women because there really is an endless supply of them, and why the fuck not when I feel so fucking empty inside? Being the one everyone looks to after being overlooked your whole life will do that to you.
“I won.” I shrug, looking down at my knuckles glistening with blood. Not mine, of course. The following blow to my stomach knocks the wind out of me, and I buckle over, coughing to catch my breath.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” He bends down to my ear. “This isn’t how we destroy the San Giovanni’s! You’re getting sloppy, and I won’t have my next in-line acting like a fool.” He spits out his words like slaps.
“I understand.” I grunt.
“You don’t.” He stands back up, crossing to his desk, as I lean against the wall to steady myself. “That’s why we’re collecting on this little contract I made with their family.”
“Contract?”
“Yes.” He waves it in the air and I stumble forward, grabbing it from his hand. I squint at the words that are jumbled on the page for a moment. When my eyes finally focus, I read the bold letters.
Marriage arrangement contract.
I glance up at my father, and he snatches the paper back.
“Marriage?” That word doesn’t feel like my own as it slips through my lips.
“Yes,” he sighs with annoyance. “To Esperanza San Giovanni.” That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while, but it’s a name I know well.
“You’re bluffing.” I scoff.
“Try me.” He raises a brow.
“I can’t marry someone.”
“You can, and you will.”
“I’m not Kias.” I blurt before regretting it instantly.
“Cleary.” He spits back ferociously.
“Pakhan, I didn’t mean—“
“I know what you meant.” He curls his upper lip, looking as disgusted with me as he has since knowing I’d be the one to take his place. “Go sober up and be downstairs in half an hour.”
“To…?”
“To meet with the Sicilian scum. Are you daft? Have you processed anything I just said to you?” He’s standing again, fist balled, and I think if I take another hit to the stomach I might puke. So, I jump back towards the door, finding the handle behind me and swiftly exiting.
I head down the hall and up the elevator to the top floor, where my suite is hauntingly quiet. All my brothers are in their rooms right now, everyone except Kias, who we’ve established is passed. Yeah, I know, it fucking sucks. It’s strange walking past his empty bedroom on the way to mine. Makes me want to open another bottle and keep it with me, so I can wash away the image of his head being shot into a million pieces every time I think of it. My stomach quivers at the thought as I lumber up the glass spiral staircase, up to my room— second on the right.
I shiver in the draft from Kias’ before stepping into mine and closing the door behind me. My bathroom light is still on, so thankfully my room isn’t pitch black. Stumbling over something in the dark would blow, and it’s definitely a possibility considering the spinning from the alcohol is beginning. It’s about now that I usually regret drinking, and am thankful for my codependent relationship with nicotine. I reach in the top right pocket of my leather jacket and pull out a pack of American Spirits.
I could burn through two packs of these in a day if I’m edgy enough– have done it a few times in the past few years. Today might be one of those days.
I light it up and take my first puff, letting the soothing feeling rush over me like a warm comfort. The cloud of smoke collects around me as I breathe out, and I step into the bathroom, turning on the sink. The blood from my hands washes down the drain, revealing slight bruising on the very edges of my knuckles. Nothing to get too fussed about, especially not after winning.
I scoop up some water and splash it on my face before taking another drag and turning the bathroom fan on. My brothers hate when I smoke in my room, so this is what I usually do to keep their hostility at bay. They say it stinks everything up when I smoke, but I disagree. The smell of cigarettes is a reminder that I have an escape always accessible to me. That I never have to fully suffer as long as I have them with me, and fuck them for not getting that.
After blotting my wet skin, I shove a hand through my choppy black hair, trying to tame it a bit before dowsing on some cologne and heading back to the elevator.
I hear Esperanza is hot, like immeasurably hot. Every leading man of the prominent mafia families is pining for her. Last I heard, she was being courted by that Yakuza guy. I fucking hate thinking that I’m about to be one of those suckers. The ones that get all wrapped up in impressing the girl, only to be rejected because she’s got a superiority complex. That’s what I hear about her anyway– that she’s easily deterred and extremely choosy.
Whatever, though, I’m fucked either way. If she likes me or doesn’t, it’s not really my problem. My predicament is that I have to marry her. I feel my face contorting at the thought as I step out of the elevator and into the foyer, where a group of our guys is waiting for me, my father in the center of them.
They look over at me as I near them, and I wave, blowing out a puff of smoke through the side of my mouth.