White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(30)

Which means Enzo’s trying to eavesdrop and doing a crap job at it, just like he does a crap job at everything else.

“Help yourself, Enzo.” I grab our drinks off the bar and step back, leading Memphis away from the bustling area. Greer and Cav follow us.

“I’ve never liked that piece of shit,” Cav says with a sharp glare aimed at the back of Enzo’s head as the man unnecessarily elbows his way forward.

“He can’t really be high up in the organization, can he? The man is just . . . ewww,” Greer adds.

Cav looks down at her. “Probably not the best thing to talk about right here, if you know what I mean.” He meets my eyes next, and it’s proof that old habits die hard. Cav has spent enough time in the family to know that certain subjects never come up in public, and succession planning is one of them.

“So, what is this amazing gift you were talking about?” Memphis changes the subject like a pro, and Greer cranes her neck to look over the crowd toward the door.

“A car. A super-sweet, bomb-ass car. But they’re not here yet. We told them to shoot for after dinner and cake. Given that Banner and Logan are pretty much almost late everywhere they go, I just hope they make it before the place clears out.”

“What kind of car?” I ask, trying to shove down the hint of jealousy that rises inside me. Not only because I’m a collector, and if I had more room I could justify devoting to vehicles I don’t drive often, I’d have a fleet instead of just a few that are my favorites. But also because Creighton and Cav went in on the gift together without asking me. They have to know I would have thrown some cash at it too.

“A 1964 Ferrari 275 GTB. Fully restored by a master. She’s red and sleek and I’ve only seen pictures, but I’m still fucking jealous,” Cav says.

I scan the room over Cav’s shoulder to find Creighton and his wife, Holly, still besieged with partygoers-turned-fans to the point where they’ve barely made it beyond the entrance to the restaurant. He would insist that they give Dom something one of a kind. That’s just Creighton’s way. Another pang of regret slices into me at the loss of the friendship we’d had for years.

Through the whole duration of which, he never knew I was his brother. The impact of losing that connection seems even bigger now that I have time and perspective.

Dom’s voice rises over the crowd as he calls out Creighton’s name and makes his way over to him, telling everyone to back off and let his son in the door.

His son. The one he claims publicly, while Cav and I are afterthoughts.

I never cared before. My mother schooled me too well. “Always do your best to make Dom happy. That’s all that matters.”

But now I’m a full-grown man, and I’m fucking tired of trying to make someone happy who doesn’t give a damn about me.

“That sounds incredible,” Memphis says from beside me. “I guess it makes sense that he’d be into cars too.”

But her words fall on deaf ears because Greer and Cav are both staring in the same direction I am, watching Dom hug Creighton and clap him on the back like he’s the long-lost son returned, when I know for a fucking fact that they had lunch two weeks ago.

“Well, this is awkward.” Greer curls herself around her husband’s side. “I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know why he’s like that with Crey and no one else.”

“He’s like that with Eden too, thankfully,” Cav says. “Otherwise, Bishop would never let her come back to New York to see him.”

I cut my gaze to my other half brother when he mentions our half sister. “Eden’s really coming? I thought maybe they changed their minds at the last minute and decided to stay in New Orleans. I know Bishop isn’t a fan of the city.”

My half sister’s husband is a giant of a guy with long hair he usually pulls back into a man bun, and he’s covered with ink—some of which he did himself as he learned to be a tattoo artist. Now he’s got one hell of a client list down in NOLA at a place called Voodoo Ink.

“She’ll be here,” Greer says. “We’ve kept in touch since Rose’s baptism that Holly and Creighton had in Nashville.”

A baptism I crashed, unwelcome, and begged for five minutes to speak with Creighton. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I’d gotten word of a competitor who was going to fuck him over.

Could I have sent an email? Sure.

Could I have sent a text or called? Absolutely.

Instead, I found myself flying to Tennessee anyway, busting into a family celebration that I should have been invited to—not as his second in command who he’d fired, but as the brother he didn’t know he had.

Our conversation was short. He was pissed I dared interrupt a day for family, and rightly so. His next words filleted me like a fish.

“If you ever interrupt me at a family function again, even if it’s to tell me you’re dying, I’ll have you railroaded out of the fucking country. You’re already dead to me, Cannon. That’s what happens to traitors.”

I walked away without telling him I was sorry. It’s the only thing I’ve wanted to tell him since, but my pride has kept me silent.

A delicate touch curls around my clenched fist at my side, and I loosen it so Memphis can thread her fingers through mine. I look down into her faux brown eyes, and although they’re supportive, I wish I could see the aqua, but I smile. It starts out forced and then becomes genuine in a split second.