Razor: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance(121)

He came to Uncle Carlo's house when his parents were murdered by a mobster who'd mistaken his family for someone else. I didn't even know his real name, Carlo having gotten him a fake identity in order to keep him safe from the Russians, who undoubtedly would’ve tried to hunt him down in order to eliminate all evidence of their screwup. I’m not sure why Unlce felt it was his responsibility, but despite being the boss, he did have a heart. Daniel was raised in Uncle Carlo's house, and when I came, he was like one of the staff's children.

Now, at twenty-five, he looked like an Adonis, like someone who should have been making movies or causing housewives to have hot flashes on television rather than as a member of Uncle Carlo's organization. He'd gone to work for Carlo almost immediately after junior high school, starting as an errand boy before working his way up, not through brown nosing or anything, but through hard work and a level of dedication that was both frightening and inspiring.

Still, Daniel had his drawbacks, namely his cockiness. While most of the time it came across as good humor and banter, it annoyed the hell out of me. He knew he was hot and he wasn’t ashamed to flaunt it. He was god’s gift to women, and I admit I’d fantasized about him more than once, which is probably why he got on my nerves sometimes.

But anything between Daniel and I would have to remain a fantasy, Uncle Carlo had made that clear more than once. He put up with Daniel’s womanizing as long as I, his Bella, remained hands off. That, and that it didn’t interfere with his job.

And that’s what worried me — now Daniel was assigned to me. The most efficient and dedicated operative in Uncle Carlo's organization, and one of the sexiest men on the planet, was to become my bodyguard and driver. By my side virtually twenty-four hours a day.

I shivered and lay back. Life was going to get very, very interesting.



Chapter 2

Daniel





The little Hispanic girl wiggled back and forth on my lap, trying her best to entice me with her moves. Unfortunately for her, I was distracted, as the music just wasn't sexy at all. I get it, bass heavy dance music gives the girl a chance to shake her ass, and the throb of the bass can reverberate through your body to add to the illusion of her touching you, but I can't stand it. Finally, I lost my patience, and lifted her off of me. “Not happening tonight, chica. Find yourself another disco stick.”

“But yours is the biggest here, papi,” she complained, reaching down and cupping my crotch. She made contact, a clear violation of the club's rules, but I was still wearing my pants, and I was the sort of patron that the normal rules didn't apply to anyway. “Dios mio, you must be stuffing those pants.”

Stuff my pants? Hardly. “Maybe you'll find out another time. Now beat it, I'm not in the mood.”

She wiggled her tits, clearly surgically enhanced but an overall good job, then shrugged when she saw I was serious. She was a pro, and knew when to back off. She smiled when I held out a twenty. “For your efforts. Just not tonight.”

“Next time you're in here, just ask for Carmen. I'll make sure you get taken care of.”

I nodded in understanding, and she walked off, knowing how to move her ass in the barely there miniskirt and high heels to make sure I got one last good look of her wares.

I downed the rest of my drink and got up from the seat, making sure my pants were unstained. Not seeing anything in the dim lights of the club, I shrugged and buttoned up my coat, making sure my tie and everything looked exactly as it should be. Semi-satisfied, I turned and left the club, getting ready for the rest of the night's work.

I didn't have too many assignments that night, thankfully. Don Bertoli knows exactly how much to push a man, and when to give him some time off to unwind. After taking care of some problems with one of the local motorcycle clubs two weeks prior, Boss had put me on light duty. “Those gear heads may be as stupid as two ducks f*cking, but they know how to swing a mean wrench,” the Don explained at the time when he visited me in my apartment, where I was healing up from a swollen shut eye. The motorcyclists had fared far worse. “You handled yourself well, Daniel. Enjoy the time, and we'll work you back into the rotation when the time comes.”

The time had started a week ago, nothing too extreme, a few visits to the businesses that had relationships with Don Bertoli, just to make sure they were up to date with their payments. Sure, collection work was newbie shit, but it was easy, and it kept me from sitting around my apartment for too long. Tonight, on top of the strip club I'd just finished — with a nice wad of cash in my pocket for the efforts — I had two more stops to make before three in the morning.

I was in the parking lot when my cell phone rang. As only ten people in the world had the number to my work phone, I knew it had to be important, and pulled it out. “Neiman,” I greeted. “What's up?”

“Daniel, it’s Carlo,” a mid-tone, accented voice said in my ear, and I immediately stiffened. “I need your services.”

“Of course, Don Bertoli,” I said immediately, sliding behind the wheel of my car. “What do you need?”

“First, go home and get some sleep,” he said. “I’ve asked another man to do the rest of your pickups for the night. What did you get done?”

“Williams' Market and the Starlight Club, sir. I was thinking of going to the others closer to closing time. Give them a chance to make sure they have the cash on hand.”