Glitter and Greed (Brooklyn Brothers #4) Read online

  “They call him Kamikaze,” Alek said gravely, “because any man who gets inside the cage with him is basically committing suicide. He’s never lost.”

  The man was built like a tank, I’d give him that. Probably six-foot-seven or eight, tatted up from head to toe, including his hairless scalp. From where I stood, his mouth looked like it was full of silver-capped teeth as he snarled at the men inside the cage. Honestly, the guy looked like something manufactured in a lab in a cheesy sci-fi flick.

  “Why are you telling me this?” A real nasty sense of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach.

  “You know better than anyone how the best fighter is treated,” he answered with a curled lip. “Like a prized stallion. Every suit in this goddamn place is ready to throw wads of cash at the guy. That means a lot of powerful men talking in his ear, prepared to give him whatever he wants, so long as he’s making them money. And if what he wants is answers, imagine what they might tell him.”

  My attention once again fell on the man across the cage. Only this time, I was taking his measure as a fighter, an opponent. A possible enemy. “You’re saying I have to replace Kamikaze as the headliner if I want any of these guys to talk to me.”

  Alek scratched his chin. “People are starting to get bored seeing Kamikaze win all the time. You beat him and get put at the top of the roster, I guarantee you’ll have every single one of these rich pricks kissing your ass. They’ll be far less likely to be suspicious of someone asking questions from inside the ring than outside of it.”

  I knew he was right. But, “I told you, I’m done with this life.”

  Could I risk getting that close to the edge again? And would I be able to come back if I went over it?

  Alek looked me straight in the eyes. “It’s your call, Rossetti. How much is that information worth to you?”

  If it meant keeping my family safe, then it was worth every-damn-thing.

  I tipped my head up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

  Alek slapped me on the shoulder in understanding. “Now you see why I can’t get out. Having people you care about is a real pain in the ass.”

  It was my worst fucking nightmare come to life.

  In order to protect my family, I’d have to resurrect my former identity.

  The Undertaker was getting back inside the cage.

  Goddammit.

  Part of me was dreading it. But what scared the absolute shit out of me was the other part. The part that had been chained up and starved to death in a cold, dank hole for the past three years.

  The part…that couldn’t fucking wait.

  Four weeks later

  Jab. Cross.

  Jab. Cross. Uppercut.

  Cross. Jab. Hook.

  Straight kick. Jab.

  Roundhouse kick. Uppercut.

  Cross. Her—

  Fuck.

  Not this bullshit again.

  For over two goddamn months it had been like this. I’d start working out on the bag or with the weights or in the ring, and at some point, her face would appear in my mind’s eye like a taunt.

  Or a disease.

  The way I felt every time I thought about her sure as hell made it seem like I had some kind of illness. I’d start sweating—more than usual—my heart would pound, and my hands would shake. Again, more than usual.

  Then I’d inevitably have to go stroke one out somewhere. Locked inside a bathroom stall, or upstairs in my old apartment. Or right behind my own fucking desk. The owner of the most popular gym in Brooklyn was regularly masturbating in his office to the image of one woman.

  Raven.

  It was her stage name, but the only thing I knew to call her.

  Other than the fact that she could move like the kind of dream a man never wanted to wake up from, all I had on her was that she was a dancer at Rumors, one of the nicer strip clubs in Brooklyn. Not the classiest, but not the seediest either. The first time I saw her was at my brother Cris’s bachelor party two months ago. She’d caught my eye as she was slinging drinks to customers at the tables, and I’d paid for a private dance from her specifically. Sure enough, that dance had gotten interrupted by my brothers, and I’d had to bail out of there.

  Right before the best damn part.

  I knew it made me sound like a horny teenager who’d never seen actual tits outside of porn before. Yeah, it made me sound like some quick draw douchebag who couldn’t hold his nut long enough to get his girl off first.

  But I’d wanted to see her bare breasts more than I’d wanted to fucking breathe.

  They were quite possibly the most perfect pair I’d ever laid eyes on in my life. And not to sound like a complete tool, but I’d seen my fair share of beautiful racks. Then my dumbass brothers had to burst into the room before she’d been able to untie her skimpy little top.

  I was convinced that was the only reason why I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Because I was fixated on her tits, and I’d be like a dog with a bone until I got to see all of them.

  Fucking juvenile, Rossetti.

  So, I’d gone back to the club.

  Twice.

  Pathetic.

  Both times she had been serving drinks and working private rooms, but was never up onstage, which I thought was interesting. Girls could make damn good money in the private rooms, especially if they did what wasn’t supposed to take place back there but oftentimes did. Christ, I hope she doesn’t partake in that action.

  But they could pull in some serious bank on the stage.

  I’d always assumed the draw for most women who became strippers was the money. Obviously, it came with sacrifices, but money was money. Some may do it for the attention, because of daddy issues, or because they had no other marketable skills. No judgment here. Her body, her choice.

  But what was Raven’s deal?

  If she needed money, why didn’t she dance onstage?

  For some reason I had yet to identify, I hadn’t paid for another private dance from her either of those nights. I’d simply watched her like a fucking stalker—a theme that seemed to run with the men in my family—and took note of everything she did. Thanks to my special ops training, I used a lot of observation techniques that allowed me to see things most people would never notice with the naked eye.

  For instance, my girl had manners.

  An odd observation, perhaps, but a genuinely sweet, polite girl stuck out in a rowdy strip club. The dancers were generally flirtatious and brazen with customers, always working for more tips. But instead of being seductive and trying to upsell, my girl was courteous and kind to everyone she interacted with. Even the gropey, drunken assholes that I’d itched to send to the ER in full body casts.

  She’d also been hyper alert.

  Her eyes had constantly darted all over the room, everywhere she went, tracking all the action around her. Frankly, I think the only thing she hadn’t noticed was me sitting in the very back corner, in another waitress’s section. Now, any smart woman in her job would stay on her guard throughout her entire shift. Basic common sense.

  But this girl’s attentiveness seemed to almost run to…survival instincts.

  In addition to her seemingly sweet disposition, my girl seemed to have a sense of humor about her. She’d made a lot of her customers laugh out loud, and it hadn’t been faked or a way of ingratiating herself to them. I could tell the difference. And like a jackass, I’d been desperate to hear what she was saying to those other men. What jokes she’d graced them with. I’d wanted her to hit me with those punchlines.

  Jesus Christ.

  What a fucking sap I was turning out to be. I needed to be hit all right, but in a much different way.

  Although the shiniest observation of all had obviously been her body.

  After all, it wasn’t something that could have been ignored. Not in those tiny shorts that had only partially covered her ass and the crop top that had laughably attempted to conceal her generous chest. The girl wasn’t just naturally fit and thin. With t
hat kind of muscle tone and definition, she regularly worked out. That couldn’t have all been from working the pole because she didn’t even seem to work it. Her glossy, raven hair had reached her lower back and was so black it had looked almost blue. With her dark skin and shorter height, I was guessing a Latina heritage.

  Putting all of that together, I’d concluded that she had a higher-than-average intelligence, some level of street smarts, and a charming, kind-hearted nature.

  I had no clue what letters from what alphabet that spelled out.

  I’d decided I wouldn’t go back again. I didn’t need her kind of distraction in my life—I had enough shit going on as it was. My odd fascination was just an anomaly that would go away with time.

  I’d been telling myself that for two fucking months.

  Hoping I’d shake it. Shake her.

  But no dice.

  She’d pop into my head at the most inconvenient of times. Like when I was working out. Or when I was around my family and saw my brothers living out their own happily ever afters. Or when I was trying to get my cock between another woman’s legs.

  I hadn’t been able to seal the deal with anyone since the first night I saw her.

  It was getting fucking ridiculous.

  I’ll take Definitions of a Dumbass for $200, Alex.

  Jab. Cross. Uppercut.

  Cross. Hook. Straight Kick.

  Her.

  Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. JAB.

  “Uh, excuse me?”

  The feminine voice barely cut through the adrenaline that was pumping inside my veins and echoing loudly in my ears. I dropped my fists and caught the swaying punching bag that I’d sent rocking on its chains.

  Without turning around, I began unwrapping the tape around my knuckles. “Gym’s closed. Talk to the front desk tomorrow about starting a membership. They’ll hook you up with a trainer too, if you need.”

  Before my secret life as The Undertaker, I’d been a champion boxer, one of the best in the city. Probably could have gotten on the pro circuit, if I’d wanted to go that route. I always had members and non-members approaching me, either wanting me to train them in the ring or asking for autographs. I’d started working out only at night after the gym closed just so I could get through an entire routine without being interrupted. If I was being honest, I wasn’t sure that my well-known reputation wasn’t the sole reason for my gym’s meteoric success and popularity.

  “No, um, I have a food delivery. For a, uh…” The sound of crinkling paper reached my ears. “Luka Rossetti?”

  Oh, right.

  One of the trainers who worked for me had recommended a new Mexican place a few blocks away. After skipping lunch, I’d decided to order a late dinner, but I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

  “Right, yeah,” I mumbled, turning around. “Let me go get my wallet.”

  I lifted my head and locked eyes with—

  Her.

  The sensual dancer. The observant waitress. The sweet joke-teller.

  Raven.

  I froze.

  Was this really happening? Had I pictured her in my mind so many times that I’d managed to make her materialize right in front of me?

  Her eyes widened in recognition.

  Yeah, she definitely knew who I was. It may have been dark in that private room, but she’d seen enough of my face. And judging by the way her breaths started coming faster, I’d say she remembered exactly how hard I’d been when she was grinding her plump little ass against my lap.

  I lied.

  I was very hungry. Starving, actually.

  The paper bag hit the floor.

  “You…” she breathed.

  Fucking me, baby girl.

  And you and I have some unfinished business.

  I was Catholic. But I was also superstitious.

  Which was why I was convinced that running into him during one of my deliveries, of all times and places, was an omen of something bad to come. Like a black cat running across your path. Or breaking a mirror. Or walking under a ladder while indoors.

  He looked even better than I remembered.

  Dios mio.

  I’d had myself convinced he wasn’t even real. That the weird, unspoken connection we seemed to have formed in the ten minutes we’d been inside that room alone together at Rumors was all in my head. That the potency of his powerful, masculine body sprawled out on that leather sofa wasn’t as intoxicating as my memories wanted to recall. It was merely a wicked spell cast by well-placed blacklights, seductive music, and the sexual intimacy of dancing mostly naked for him.

  But now I knew that the man who had been sneaking into my dreams most nights wasn’t a figment of my imagination. He was very, very real. Very much alive and virile.

  And he was called Luka Rossetti.

  My heart was pounding so hard it was ricocheting off my ribcage. My lungs constricted as words clawed at my throat, clambering to get out. But none came. It really didn’t help when I looked down.

  I shouldn’t have looked down.

  He was naked from the waist up, a pair of loose gym shorts resting low on his hips. The rest of his body was covered in a sheen of sweat and a blanket of tattoos. A mix of black and colored, they decorated most of his chiseled torso and his entire right arm. An arm that was roped with sharply cut muscles that bulged and flexed as he removed the white tape from around his knuckles. On top of that, his precisely defined abdominal muscles tightened with every minute move he made. Bisecting his pectorals was a silver crucifix hanging from a thick silver chain.

  In all my life, I’d never seen such a man.

  Which explained what the hell was going on with my body. It had certainly never behaved this way before, even around my ex-boyfriend, who was admittedly good-looking in his own right. My hands suddenly turned clammy, my breathing shallowed, and there was a distinct warmth spreading throughout my lower body.

  Estas atrapando moscas. You’re catching flies, as my mother liked to say.

  I clamped my mouth shut, feeling the heat of embarrassment rush to my cheeks. I was still vacillating over what on earth to say to the most beautiful man I’d ever seen when he beat me to it.

  “Me?”

  His deep baritone washed over me like I was being immersed in a tank of sexy man. Once he finished unwrapping his knuckles, he started moving in my direction with a kind of predatory prowl that should have unnerved me. The fact that his body dwarfed mine by well over a foot and Dios knows how many pounds, should have made him appear threatening.

  So, why did I want to move closer?

  “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  It was probably a good ten seconds before his words fully registered.

  He doesn’t remember me.

  Por supuesto. Of course, he didn’t. It had been one dance cut short over two months ago. He wouldn’t have stashed away ten minutes with a random stranger in his memory bank. A man like him probably had countless women willing to get naked for him at the drop of a hat on speed dial.

  Still…being so forgettable hurt like a bitch.

  Fortifying my self-possession, I scooped the bag of food off the floor and offered him a fake smile. “No, lo siento.” I’m sorry. “I thought you were someone else and— It just surprised me.”

  His eyes seemed to study me for several seconds before his mouth eventually spread into a heart-stopping grin. That grin made it easier to ignore my lingering disappointment over his lack of recognition. Sort of.

  “No problem,” he said smoothly. “I think I just have one of those faces.”

  My gaze flew over his square jawline, rugged features, and penetrating dark green eyes. There were small scars slicing across his forehead and nose, even a few on his left cheek. His head was shaved on one side, his brown hair on the other side hanging down around his ear and drenched in sweat. With or without that short beard, there was no way this man could ever be confused with anyone else. He was far too…distinguishable.

  “Somehow, I doubt you hear that very oft
en.”

  He released a small chuckle, then looked almost surprised by the sound. As if he didn’t laugh often? He recovered quickly, propping his hands on his hips. “A lot of people around here recognize me from my old boxing days. Maybe you’ve seen me in the ring before?”

  Oh, I could just see him dominating any man that was foolish enough to face off against this warrior. Because that’s exactly what he was.

  A warrior.

  A protector.

  Even if I hadn’t walked in on him working over that punching bag, I would have instinctively known him to be a fighter. It was etched in every honed muscle of his formidable form.

  Without thinking, I shook my head. “No. I haven’t lived here very long.”

  Watch your tongue.

  The fewer people that knew any personal details about me, the safer I’d be. I’d likely never see this man again, but I didn’t like the idea of anyone in this city knowing too much about where I came from.

  His dark gaze briefly slid down my body and zoned in on the paper bag clutched tightly in my hands like it was my lifeline. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you deliver before.”

  “I just started a couple of weeks ago,” I answered, again without thinking.

  Cállate, Cat! Shut up!

  His eyes narrowed, just barely. “And does she have a name?”

  My mouth parted. My immediate instinct was to tell this man anything he wanted to know. It was nearly impossible to refuse him. No doubt, he wielded that power over all women, any woman.

  But the niggling voice in the back of my mind that I’d learned to actually listen to over the years told me to tread with caution. I’d been wrong about another mysterious, handsome man with a dark side once before, and the last thing I needed in my life was more trouble from another one.

  “You already know mine,” Luka pointed out. “Seems only fair.”

  I exhaled heavily through my nose, feeling the effects of his persuasiveness. “Cat.”

  He slowly nodded, those mossy green eyes piercing straight through me. “How much do I owe you, Cat?”

  I swear, his voice dipped the slightest bit on my name. The way he was looking at me was so similar to the way he’d watched me dance for him at Rumors, I couldn’t fathom how he didn’t remember that. Maybe his face was just always that intense. Though that didn’t stop me from recalling how he’d gripped the back of the leather sofa that night. How his chest had heaved up and down as I danced, moving closer and closer to him until I was straddling his lap.