“I couldn’t stand it,” Jordan mumbled, his stomach roiling with the old self-loathing. Or maybe it was the vodka. “I didn’t like the idea of raising another man’s kid, having it around constantly as a reminder of me not being a real man.” His lips twisted into something ugly. “Remember you told me about Marco keeping you around because he loved your mother? Apparently I couldn’t do the same. The whole thing made me realize that I no longer loved Bel, that I couldn’t love another man’s child—that the baby being a piece of her wasn’t enough for me. So we got a divorce. And now she has a real man who gave her the baby she wanted so much, and I’m—well, you know what I am.” He smiled bitterly, his vision swimming. “A total wreck whining to you about my woes because hearing your voice makes me feel better.”
There was silence on the line again.
But Jordan could feel that Damiano was still there. Could feel him, across the four thousand miles that separated them.
“You know the funniest part?” Jordan mumbled. He was slurring. Fuck, he’d drunk too much. He should probably shut up before he said something he might regret. But he didn’t seem to be able to stop. He wanted to say it. “I would totally raise your kids.” He laughed. “I love your dirty shirts, your sweat, and your jizz. Of course I’d love it if you gave me your baby. So if you have any babies lying around, you can send them to me—they’ll be the most spoiled babies in the world.”
He heard Damiano inhale unsteadily and then exhale. “Stop talking, Jordan,” he said, his voice sounding strange. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
Jordan pouted. “You’re no fun. Don’t want to go to bed here. I didn’t bring my dildo with me—can’t sleep without your cock in me.”
Damiano swore in Italian and hung up.
Rude.
Scowling, Jordan glared at his phone, staring at the picture of Damiano on his screen. He kissed it, feeling beyond pathetic but too drunk to care.
Hopefully he would forget all of this tomorrow.
Chapter 22
Damiano left his private jet, gave his passport to Lorenzo to get him through passport control, and headed toward the waiting car, ignoring the gloomy look on Lorenzo’s normally blank face. He had no patience for his complaints now.
Lorenzo had already expressed his displeasure at Damiano’s decision to travel to New York City personally to oversee the handling of some upstarts from the American mafia there who had encroached on their territory. Lorenzo hated transatlantic flights and hated wasting time. “Paolo could have handled the Gambino family,” he kept grumbling. “Their little stunt isn’t worth our time, boss.”
Truth be told, he turned out to be correct.
Damiano ended up watching dispassionately as the Gambino patriarch was taught a lesson. His heir was very eager to please afterward and gave him a lot of concessions as they struck a new deal. The whole ordeal was over in less than four hours, with minimal life losses on both sides.
“Back to Italy, boss?” Lorenzo said as they got into a car and headed back to the airport. “Or to Boston?”
Damiano pinned him with a cold look and took some pleasure in making his right-hand man squirm in discomfort. “And why would I go to Boston?” he said, his voice carefully emotionless.
Lorenzo’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Damiano waited, his gaze on the other man.
Lorenzo fidgeted. “I just thought you might want to check on the—on the mark there, since you’re in the country and all.”
Damiano looked out the window at the New York scenery. It pissed him off how transparent he apparently was.
It had been two months since he’d last seen him in person.
Just a quick check. Who would it hurt? You’re in the country anyway.
Damiano gritted his teeth, irritated with himself. It was pretty telling how used he was to this bullshit that these kinds of thoughts didn’t even surprise him anymore. They had occurred regularly for the past half a year with aggravating persistence.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go straight home,” Lorenzo said. “I still have to buy presents for the kids.”
Right. Christmas was just two days away.
His mood darkening, Damiano stared blankly at the Christmas-decorated stores they were driving past. It wasn’t exactly his favorite time of the year, which was why he’d taken the excuse to leave Italy. He couldn’t escape from Christmas in America, but at least he didn’t have the family here, people who couldn’t stand him and tolerated him on Christmas because they were scared shitless of what he’d do if they didn’t. He knew he probably had a gazillion Christmas presents from every member of the family waiting for him back home, every present carefully picked to please him. He had no intention of opening a single one.