THERE WAS NOTHING that made Caesar Accardo happier than coming home to Philadelphia after fucking with another one of his father’s plans for him. This time it was a failed marriage arrangement between him and a daughter of a New York family. He’d hoped to have a bit of his own brand of fun—fucking up people’s lives in a way only he could while he was there—but he ended up having other things to focus on.

Like not getting married because his father told him to.

His father hadn’t stopped to consider that the Gallucci Cosa Nostra out east would have their own giant pile of steaming shit they were currently dealing with—a pile of shit that worked to Caesar’s benefit in more ways than one when it came to getting him out of the whole marriage deal.

Marriage was not for him.

Not one he chose.

Not one arranged.

It just wasn’t in his cards.

Honestly, this wasn’t the first time Angelo tried to pull this trick on his son. It probably wouldn’t be the last, either. Caesar was starting to believe he should wear a fucking sign on his back that simply read: Lucky little shit. If nothing more than for the amount of times he managed to somehow screw up everything his father planned for him.

As soon as the plane had taxied to the gate, the passengers in coach wasted no time standing, and getting their bags down from the overhead bins. They crowded the aisle soon after even with the cute flight attendant asking them all to remain seated for another few minutes.

Caesar didn’t even bother to stand.

What would be the point?

He was not like the rest of these people—he rushed for nothing, and no one. He didn’t push and shove to get what he wanted, or to be at the front of the line. That looked good on no man, but especially not one of his status.

His life had allowed him that privilege, and status. His appearance was everything and nothing all at once; sometimes he cared to indulge in maintaining his appearance, and other times, he preferred to stain it with just about everything he could.

The dark urge came on like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A whispered voice in his ear demanding he feed the shame that was ever-present in his mind. Like fingernails digging into his back, and pushing him into something awful.

And yet, it always made him feel better.

Never failed.

Funny how that worked.

He mulled over his shitty decision to take the earliest flight out of New York—which just happened to be a seat in coach instead of the first class he would usually fly. Soon enough, coach had been deplaned, and Caesar decided it was time for him to move his ass, too.

Maybe it wasn’t only flying coach that had him in a mood. After all, pretty soon, he was going to need to face his father, and let Angelo Accardo know that—yet again—Caesar didn’t follow through with one of his demands and plans.

Not that telling him would be the problem. Caesar would greatly enjoy that part—he always took pleasure out of upsetting or angering his father by doing exactly the opposite of what Angelo wanted. He’d always been a disappointment to his father, anyway, so he got his thrill from proving that theory exactly right.

Living up to my birthright, Papa.

That had never changed in all his twenty-seven years.

It was what might come after that concerned Caesar. His father was predictable in that way when it came to his son. Angelo only settled himself on working that much harder to put Caesar in his place, or to take him down a couple of notches.

To his father Caesar was … too arrogant.

Too undisciplined.

Too wild.

Too fucking everything.

And nothing a made man living the life of Cosa Nostra should be. Anyone who was asked would say, Caesar had no morals, zero honor, and a severe lack of care when it came to their life, traditions, and rules.

They would be right, too.

That was the whole problem, though—Angelo wanted Caesar to be something he couldn’t be. His father wanted his son to be him.

Twenty years ago, when Caesar was just a boy still, he would have been happy and pleased to be compared to his father. He wanted to emulate Angelo in every single aspect of his life. Except … he had been just a boy then—stupid, innocent, and naive.

He was none of those things anymore.

Someone had taken it away from him.

It all started and ended right there.

Tossing the leather messenger bag over his shoulder, Caesar headed down the plane for the exit, and gave the flight attendant a wink as he passed. The reddish tint that instantly colored up her cheeks at his gaze drifting over her pencil skirt and then lingering on the top two buttons of her unbuttoned blouse made him grin—satisfied. Had he been in first class, and she paid more than twenty seconds of attention to him during the flight, he might have seen just how long it would take before she snuck him into the bathroom to get a hand up that tight skirt of hers.

Another thrill of his.

Women, that was.

Caesar didn’t have much of a preference when it came to females, but he did have a kink, of sorts. Or that’s what his friend—his only friend—liked to call it. As if calling it a kink somehow made it slightly less unappealing or wrong. Married women, or those he shouldn’t be fucking with for one reason or another, were a particular favorite of his.

Maybe it was the shame they would feel after …

Or the forbidden that got his dick hard …

It could be any number of things.

It didn’t matter.

That’s what he liked.

Not today, though.

He gave the flight attendant another look—including the wedding band on her finger—and forced his gaze away before he disembarked the plane. He had other things to handle before he could worry about sticking his dick into something warm and wet.

Things like his father.

And his family.

Speaking of which …

Caesar had just come down the escalator at arrivals when the sight of someone waiting for him down below had his rage simmering damn near instantly. Of fucking course his father wouldn’t let Caesar come home to no one waiting for him.

He should have known better.

But shit, he was surprised to see the man who his father did send to wait for him. His half-brother—Daniele.

Was Angelo trying to start a war?

Because Daniele looked ready for it.

Caesar found that amusing.

That was half the problem.

“Caesar,” Daniele greeted when Caesar stepped off the escalator.

The hatred dripped from his half-brother’s tone. It almost made Caesar giddy—yet another person in his life that he had ruined in one way or another. Really, what Caesar had done to Daniele was just a by-product of someone else’s doings to him.

So was Caesar’s circle.

Vicious.

Cold.

And far too wide.

Everyone got caught in it.

Eventually …

“Papa sent you?” Caesar asked.

“Why else would I come? Others were busy.”

Or they made excuses.

“And you couldn’t be busy, too?” Caesar asked.

“I was told to get over what happened, and that starts with this.”

Right.

His half-brother was never going to get over what happened. Daniele was never going for forgive Caesar for what he did, or forget it. That was kind of the point, though. That was exactly why Caesar did it. He needed his brother to remember what he had done, and that he could do it again in a second.

Hell.

Maybe he would do it again.

Daniele’s gaze blazed with his blinding rage. “And unlike you, I make an effort to follow the rules our father sets out for us.”

Sure he did.

That’s why he was the favored one.

The golden Accardo son.

The honored.

The loved.

The perfect made man.

And Caesar?

He was the dishonored.

The despised.

The shamed made man.

And he fucked his half-brother’s wife just because he could—because like his father, Caesar enjoyed taking people down a peg or two, also.

He humbled people in a different way.

Caesar liked this way better.