A fake priest and a Sicilian mob boss at odds. What could possibly go wrong?
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Roman is a life long slacker and a hardcore gambling addict. After learning there's a hit on him, not to mention his fiancé just dumped him two days before their weddi...
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Situated at the heart of the city was The Qube—a luxurious nightclub colloquially known as "King-of-clubs" in Chicago and one of many Bertinelli family owned businesses used as a front to the government for their upscale money laundering scheme.
During the day the place was mostly empty and quiet but Roman could only imagine how busy and packed the venue would become at night when the party animals showed up.
Just as the "deal" had entailed, Saint assigned Federico to drive Roman to the club where Nico's office happened to be perched inside.
Roman took a deep breath as he made his way into the club, trying to prepare himself as he didn't know what to expect from Niccolo Bertinelli. The little to no information he'd gotten from Saint last night wasn't exactly helping to calm his nerves.
"Mr Bertinelli?" Roman called out nervously through the closed door of Nico's office. No answer. "Hello? Nico?" Still no answer even after knocking three more times.
Roman jerked the door open, tentatively, and cautiously stepped inside. Technically it was trespassing, but the door was unlocked and at some point he had to get on with his new job as a double agent for Saintif he wanted a chance at tasting freedom ever again. The faster he fished information out of Nico, the quicker he could forget about everything that happened in the last five months.
He looked around the place. The office was pristine and minimalist as it could get with a desk, a plant, a credenza, a lamp, and an artwork that complemented the neutral color palette of wood and plaster in muted tones. Nothing too personal tying the owner to the office.
Speaking of personal belongings, a digital photo frame propped on to the desk had momentarily caught Roman's attention. He went on to pick it up to see a stream of photos of two handsome men—a dark haired and a blond—rotating all day. Looking at the images, any fool could tell the two men were more than just friends.
He was about to start looking around when he was shocked to hear the sound of a sliding door at the balcony—and he realized he wasn't alone after all. For a few seconds, he waited with some degree of trepidation looking in the direction of the balcony and wondering if he was going to be confronted by a raging Bruce Banner type minus the awful green.
To his relief, the figure that appeared looked tamer albeit the sour-face and borderline angry look radiating on his features.
Like a deer caught in headlights, Roman stood there completely frozen as the blond guy from the photos stalked into the room—clad in a leather jacket that stretched over a well-muscled chest and shoulders with enough flex to throw a good punch without the jacket binding him up. The man was an iconic symbol for raw masculinity and rebellion in that pair of dark blue Levi's and high-cut boots Roman could never afford in this lifetime.
