Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)
Chapter One
The sharks think him a goldfish in their tank. How wrong they are.
Clinking crystal and the hubbub of chatter and laughs are the background noises. Prideful chandeliers, and tuxedos and formal dresses are the background sights. Perfume, masculine and feminine, peaty whiskey and acrid cigar smoke are the background smells.
They circle him, lie in wait, their fins above the surface without self-consciousness. He’s the object of their fawning affection, their fake friendships, but he is also their target, and they’ll sink their teeth into him the first moment they get.
But he knows it. He’s no fool, even if that’s what people think of him by virtue of who he is, what he does.
He takes the compliments with a subdued grace and easy charm that endears him to the wicked people who scramble over each other to talk to him. It is a manner at odds with the visage of him in a steel-mesh cage, tattoo-sheathed arms laying punch after thunderous punch into a bleeding, reeling, drooling opponent.
I see scattered looks of disappointment in those that want him to beat his chest, here and now. That want him to be the cocky and aggressive creature that he is in the cage, the idiot fighter who speaks with slurred words and doesn’t know not to mangle the cap of a cigar, or the difference between a merlot and a cab-sav.
Those are the people that see him as nothing but a pit bull, or a cock in a fight, a chance to make money. They want to watch the show, which is purple bruises, red blood, and exposed white bone.
Most of the men try to buddy up with him, shake his hand, do the fighter’s double-fist-tap as if the mere gesture somehow extends the line of inclusion around them, makes them one with the fighters.
They clap him on the back, but in the same breath test him with exclusive in-jokes, or a privileged wit that he does not understand. They do their best to show that they can one-up him whenever they like, as if through words of marginalization they can tease from him some thread of insecurity, before latching onto it and pulling.
It all rolls off his shoulders like rain water.
The wives… well, they look at him differently, in a way that I don’t like one bit. But I try not to think about that. I can’t control what other people do. And without a doubt, I trust him.
I’m sitting at the bar in the most dangerous room in the state. Politicians, police captains, and fat cat businessmen mill about, rubbing shoulders with the bosses of every major crime family and organization in the tri-state area. At the head of it all is my father, Johnny ‘Glass’ Marino.
He booked out this whole hotel, a new and modern all-glass eyesore that sits like a reflective pimple on the countryside. They had to relocate all the guests at just a moment’s notice, and it was only the out-of-towners who put up a fuss. But they didn’t know any better.
Once they saw the cavalcade of limousines spilling out bodyguards in black, it became clear it was time to fall in line.
Dad’s the man who took basement-dwelling underground cage fighting and made it the biggest money-maker in town… and the biggest money loser, for those who bet incorrectly. Dirt and grime and dusty basements are a thing of the past. Now… now it glitters.
Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone is the star of the show, the man whom the sharks circle. Dad’s always wanted to show off his family ‘pedigree’, even if Duncan is not real family. Heck, he didn’t even take Dad’s last name.
Everybody else knows that he was adopted and didn’t formally join the family until he was twenty. But in the interest of diplomacy, they never mention it. Dad’s temper is legendary, and they allow him the useless indulgence of believing Duncan is actually his son, and actually following in his footsteps.
Wrong on both counts.
At twenty-two, Duncan handles the hostile social atmosphere, all the snarls behind smiles, surprisingly well. It’s his own easy smile, those perfect teeth set within that iron jaw, and his reticence to speak too much that pulls people into the orbit of his natural presence. And when that fails to win hearts, his dark and sharp good looks, and piercing blue eyes do the rest.
There’s only one person who doesn’t smile at him in this room, and that’s Dad. He stands apart, watches Duncan out of suspicious eyes and trembling lips pulled tight across his teeth.
At once he wants to show Duncan off, but keep him all to himself. At once he wants everybody to meet and greet his champion fighter, but his unending mob-paranoia makes him see snakes and shadows where there are none.
No, maybe that’s wrong. There probably are snakes and shadows. I wouldn’t trust a crook, even if he comes clothed in a Brioni bespoke. And for Dad… well, it takes one to know one.
The sharks think him a goldfish in their tank. How wrong they are.
Clinking crystal and the hubbub of chatter and laughs are the background noises. Prideful chandeliers, and tuxedos and formal dresses are the background sights. Perfume, masculine and feminine, peaty whiskey and acrid cigar smoke are the background smells.
They circle him, lie in wait, their fins above the surface without self-consciousness. He’s the object of their fawning affection, their fake friendships, but he is also their target, and they’ll sink their teeth into him the first moment they get.
But he knows it. He’s no fool, even if that’s what people think of him by virtue of who he is, what he does.
He takes the compliments with a subdued grace and easy charm that endears him to the wicked people who scramble over each other to talk to him. It is a manner at odds with the visage of him in a steel-mesh cage, tattoo-sheathed arms laying punch after thunderous punch into a bleeding, reeling, drooling opponent.
I see scattered looks of disappointment in those that want him to beat his chest, here and now. That want him to be the cocky and aggressive creature that he is in the cage, the idiot fighter who speaks with slurred words and doesn’t know not to mangle the cap of a cigar, or the difference between a merlot and a cab-sav.
Those are the people that see him as nothing but a pit bull, or a cock in a fight, a chance to make money. They want to watch the show, which is purple bruises, red blood, and exposed white bone.
Most of the men try to buddy up with him, shake his hand, do the fighter’s double-fist-tap as if the mere gesture somehow extends the line of inclusion around them, makes them one with the fighters.
They clap him on the back, but in the same breath test him with exclusive in-jokes, or a privileged wit that he does not understand. They do their best to show that they can one-up him whenever they like, as if through words of marginalization they can tease from him some thread of insecurity, before latching onto it and pulling.
It all rolls off his shoulders like rain water.
The wives… well, they look at him differently, in a way that I don’t like one bit. But I try not to think about that. I can’t control what other people do. And without a doubt, I trust him.
I’m sitting at the bar in the most dangerous room in the state. Politicians, police captains, and fat cat businessmen mill about, rubbing shoulders with the bosses of every major crime family and organization in the tri-state area. At the head of it all is my father, Johnny ‘Glass’ Marino.
He booked out this whole hotel, a new and modern all-glass eyesore that sits like a reflective pimple on the countryside. They had to relocate all the guests at just a moment’s notice, and it was only the out-of-towners who put up a fuss. But they didn’t know any better.
Once they saw the cavalcade of limousines spilling out bodyguards in black, it became clear it was time to fall in line.
Dad’s the man who took basement-dwelling underground cage fighting and made it the biggest money-maker in town… and the biggest money loser, for those who bet incorrectly. Dirt and grime and dusty basements are a thing of the past. Now… now it glitters.
Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone is the star of the show, the man whom the sharks circle. Dad’s always wanted to show off his family ‘pedigree’, even if Duncan is not real family. Heck, he didn’t even take Dad’s last name.
Everybody else knows that he was adopted and didn’t formally join the family until he was twenty. But in the interest of diplomacy, they never mention it. Dad’s temper is legendary, and they allow him the useless indulgence of believing Duncan is actually his son, and actually following in his footsteps.
Wrong on both counts.
At twenty-two, Duncan handles the hostile social atmosphere, all the snarls behind smiles, surprisingly well. It’s his own easy smile, those perfect teeth set within that iron jaw, and his reticence to speak too much that pulls people into the orbit of his natural presence. And when that fails to win hearts, his dark and sharp good looks, and piercing blue eyes do the rest.
There’s only one person who doesn’t smile at him in this room, and that’s Dad. He stands apart, watches Duncan out of suspicious eyes and trembling lips pulled tight across his teeth.
At once he wants to show Duncan off, but keep him all to himself. At once he wants everybody to meet and greet his champion fighter, but his unending mob-paranoia makes him see snakes and shadows where there are none.
No, maybe that’s wrong. There probably are snakes and shadows. I wouldn’t trust a crook, even if he comes clothed in a Brioni bespoke. And for Dad… well, it takes one to know one.