Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

9 Years Later

We’ve started Phase 1 of development down on the South Shore.

This will be a two-billion-dollar project, spread out over the next six years, in four phases.

Phase 1 is commercial real estate. Gallo construction is just finishing our first skyscraper, right on the waterfront. The tallest part of the tower block reaches 1,191 feet in the air. Which means that when it’s completed, it’ll be the third-tallest building in Chicago.

To my eyes, it’s the most beautiful. And not just ‘cause I built it. The twisting, spiral shape is covered with a smooth facade of glass, shading from deep violet at the base, up to pure blue and then a sea-green at the top. Or at least, that’s how it will look when fully completed.

At the moment, the top ten floors are a bare skeleton of steel, open to the wide air and the thousand-foot drop down to the ground.

To the east of the building you can see the flat expanse of the lake. To the west, the view is blocked by a massive roof-top billboard. The images on the billboard rotate—right now it’s showing a Coca-Cola ad with a soda bottle the size of an Olympic swimming pool.

We’ve purchased that building too, so the first thing I’m gonna do is rip down the billboard. Then I’ll have a clear view over to Russell Square Park instead.

“There you are,” a female voice says.

I turn around.

Abigail Green is standing behind me, holding her clipboard and a pen. She’s looking at me in her usual way—sly and smiling, like we’ve got a secret.

We don’t. I’m using Ms. Green to lease the offices in this building because her commercial real estate firm is the largest and most prestigious in Chicago. I don’t give a fuck that she’s 5’10, blonde, and built like a porn star—though I’m sure that helped her build her client base when she started.

Abigail is smart. We’ve gone over all the numbers for what types of businesses I want in the building, the ideal lease lengths, and how much we should charge. Even though we’re a few months out from completion, we’re already at 78 percent capacity. So she’s done a great job. It’s the . . . extra attention I could live without.

She wanted to meet here today instead of at her office. She said she wanted to see the building in person now that it’s getting close to being done.

“So what do you think?” I ask her, nodding my head toward the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall view of the lake. I’m standing right at the edge. There’s nothing stopping me from stepping out into clear, empty space.

“It’s gorgeous!” Abigail says. She shivers though, seeing how I lean against the bare metal struts. “I take it you’re not afraid of heights.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

She walks a little closer to me—though not too close. She bites her lip, looking me up and down.

“I guess a guy your size isn’t afraid of much of anything.”

“No,” I say flatly. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with size.”

Fear preys on people who have something to lose.

I don’t give a fuck about much these days. I put all this time and effort into this complex—but the truth is, it was Nero’s idea. He wants the Gallos to be the richest family in Chicago.

I threw myself into the work, because that’s what I do. I steer this family. I execute the plans. I make sure everything goes off perfectly—no mistakes, no failures. I keep everyone safe, happy, and successful.

And when it’s done, I feel exactly the same as I did before . . . empty.

“I’ve got two more lease agreements for you to sign,” Abigail says.

I cross the bare, empty floor to take her clipboard. These office suites will be plush and luxurious once we get the windows, the drywall, and the carpeting in place. For now it’s an open box, with streaks of plaster and dust across the floor, and a few scattered screws.

I scan the agreements, then sign at the bottom.

Abigail is watching my face the whole time, while she toys with the bangle on her left wrist.

“It’s not often I look up to a man,” she says. “Especially not when I’m wearing heels.”

She’s got on sky-high stilettos, nylons, a knee-length skirt with a tasteful slit up the back, a silk blouse, and expensive-looking earrings. I can smell her floral perfume and the slightly-waxy scent of her red lipstick. She’s standing very close to me.

There’s nothing unattractive about Abigail.

At least, not to a normal person.

The problem is, I have a narrow and specific definition of what I find attractive. It was formed a long time ago, and it hasn’t changed since. Abigail doesn’t fit it. Almost no one does.

I hand the clipboard back to her. Abigail takes it, but she doesn’t move from where she’s standing. She trails her index finger, with its perfectly manicured red fingernail, down the outside of my arm. Then she lightly grips my bicep.

“Is that the kind of muscle you get swinging a hammer?” she purrs. “Or do you get your workout some other way . . .”

It’s obvious what Abigail wants.

I could give it to her—I’ve done it before, plenty of times, with other women. I could turn her around, yank up her skirt, rip open her nylons, bend her over and fuck her until I blow. It would be over in five minutes, and it would end this little game.

If I had the urge, I’d do it. But I don’t feel it today. I feel less than nothing.

So I ignore her comment.

“Thanks for bringing those papers by. I’ll walk you back to the elevator.”

Abigail frowns, seriously irritated. “I don’t get you,” she says. “You’re not married. I’m pretty sure you’re not gay . . .”

“I guess you’ve never encountered ‘not interested’ before,” I say.

“No, I haven’t,” Abigail says, unabashed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been turned down by a man. What is it—you don’t like successful women?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have hired you,” I say.

“What then?”

Now I’m the one who’s annoyed. I pay Abigail to find tenants for my buildings, not to interrogate me. I frown and take a step toward her. She stumbles backward on her stilettos, her expression turning to fright.

“None of your fucking business,” I growl.

“S-sorry,” she stammers.

She drops her pen, stoops to pick it up, then tucks a piece of hair behind her ear without looking me in the eye.

“I’ll scan these and email a copy to you,” she mutters.

“Thanks.”

Abigail hurries back toward the elevators. I stay exactly where I am.

Once she’s gone, I walk back over to the window again. Or at least, the place where the windows will be, eventually.

I’m standing on the west side of the building, looking out over that billboard.

The image flips over again. Now, instead of soda, it’s showing a seventy-foot-long perfume ad. It’s a woman’s face, in extreme close-up—the most famous face in the world.

Wide-set eyes, slightly tilted up at the outer edges, honey-brown with dark rings around the iris. Thick, black lashes, and straight dark brows. Smooth cheeks like polished bronze. A square face, delicate chin, full mouth. Those lovely lips are curved up in a smile. But the eyes are sad . . . terribly sad.

Or at least that’s how they look to me.

But what do I know?

She’s probably the happiest person in the world—why wouldn’t she be? She’s a fucking supermodel. Rich, successful, famous, traveling the world, hobnobbing with celebrities . . . what could she possibly be missing?

It’s me who’s fucking miserable.

I stare at that face a long time, even though every moment of it feels like pure torture. It feels like a vise tightening around my chest, squeezing and squeezing until my breastbone is about to crack.

Then, finally, the image flips over to cola again.

I turn away, face still burning.