I let my hands fall.
My skin is covered with a man I don't want to remember.
13
ACE
I've called Denise five times in the last five hours. She promised she tried to get in touch with Emmy using the number left on her employment records, but Emmy hasn't answered.
I haven't slept. I'm fucking pacing my penthouse, so spun up over the fact Grotto is busting my balls and Emmy isn't answering.
I've never been like this with a woman. Granted, I've never met a woman I actually wanted for something more than a quick fuck. I've worked damn hard to keep my head clear by never falling for a girl.
But this wasn't intentional. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours, and all I can think of is her.
McQueen texts that he and the guys are on their way up to my penthouse. I head for the kitchen and notice the caterer has brought in lunch. It’s sitting on the kitchen counter but none of it is appetizing. There’s only one thing I want to eat.
So I grab a beer from the fridge, and take a long swig. I hardly slept. My mind is reeling about what dirt Grotto could have on me.
If he's truly dug up shit on me, it could get bad. The investors I need for this property deal aren't gonna want anything to do with me if they learn I pulled the wool over their eyes in regards to where my initial capital came from. I didn't drum up investors in Spades Royalle by mentioning my father was a mob-boss.
The elevator opens, and in walk McQueen, Landon, and Jack. These guys all have enough shit going on in their own lives, but here they are, on a Saturday afternoon, sticking out their necks for me.
I swear I'm a fucking pansy because my eyes sting at the fucking sight of them—showing up here like this for me.
It makes me miss having a family. Makes me miss Sunday dinners when Ma was alive, back when I was a little kid, before my Pops started bringing me around his business deals. Back when I'd eat fucking spaghetti and veal parmigiana around a big wooden table and listen to the adults argue over carafes of wine while I teased my sisters mercilessly.
I take a deep breath, knowing those memories get me nowhere. And right now I need to bury the past like I never have before.
But not entirely, because I need to tell my friends the motherfucking truth.
“So what's the deal, Ace,” Jack asks, grabbing a beer and helping himself to a pulled pork sandwich from the tray of food I haven’t touched.
“It's complicated.” I take another drink of beer. All morning I tossed and turned about how to explain this to them without them walking out of here—out on me.
“Try me,” Landon says. “It can't be worse than my situation at the moment. My father is threatening to cut me off if I don't rally and marry some British lady, and start working.”
“Would he really do that?” McQueen asks. The idea of Landon sitting in an office taking business calls is laughable. That man only knows how to take poker chips and women. Both across a table.
“Apparently,” Landon says, shrugging. “Like I said, Ace, can't be worse than that.”
“It's worse,” I say, still not explaining myself.
“Fuck, Ace, out with it,” Jack says, not as patient. “Why does Grotto want you gone?”
“He says he has shit on my family.”
Landon frowns. “I thought you were an orphan. A child straight out of a Charles Dickens novel, only—you know—with a shit-ton of money.”
“Who the fuck are you, Landon?” McQueen laughs. “You read fucking Dickens?”
“There’s a lot about me you don't know,” Landon says. “Depth that you wouldn't understand.”
“Yeah, and there’s a lot about me that neither of you know.” I straighten my shoulders, knowing my closest friends might turn and leave the moment they hear the truth. “My name isn't Ace Royalle. It’s Adrian Genova the fourth.”
The three of them cock their heads as they try to process this information.
“Like the mafia Genova?” Jack asks.
“That’s the one. But after my sisters and Ma were killed I swore I’d never be initiated into the family circle. Obviously, that didn’t go over real well. My dear old Pops was the King.”
“You fucking kidding me right now?” McQueen asks.
“I came to Vegas after my Pops was murdered. I took the family money, split town. People think I died when he did. But I didn't. Obviously. That piece of shit Grotto says he has dirt on me. And if it’s what I think it is, I’m over.”
“This is some joke right?” Jack asks. “I've had your back for five fucking years. You slept on my couch for six months when you moved to this town, trying to get your shit together. And all that time you were the fucking son of the most infamous mafia boss in New York?”