Dominance, Threatened, page 1
Dominance, Threatened
Ajay Daniel
Copyright © 2022 Ajay Daniel
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
For my biggest fan:
My mom
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
01 Ready, Set, Gala
02 What’s his name?
03 You’re Welcome
04 Do you think it will stain?
05 You’re A Cupcake
06 What’s your name?
07 Bad Vincent
08 Can I see those?
09 God, Kill Me
10 Did I . . .?
11 Friends
12 What is happening?
13 Basically
14 Behind closed doors?
15 With Benefits
16 What do I do?
17 Better Off On A Donkey
18 Are you okay?
19 I’m Fine
20 What did you say?
21 M’attizzi
22 Tarragon?
23 Behind Closed Doors
24 Jealous?
25 I Like Your Enthusiasm
26 Mad?
27 So Fucking Dirty
28 Damn, my what?
29 Always
30 What about tomorrow?
31 Jesus Freaks
32 How long?
Afterword
01 Ready, Set, Gala
Vincent Bernardi
“I hate this thing more and more every year,” Phoenix, my older brother, mutters to me lowly as we investigate the security cameras that are — if my team did their job right — strategically placed all around the event center.
The annual Gala for New York City’s wealthy and elite has been our duty to provide security for since Phoenix took over what is now known as Bernardi Security, which was only a year after we moved to the states from Italy. This will be our fifth year coordinating the digital and physical securities for the Gala, and we are both completely and entirely over it.
My gaze flicks from the monitors to my brother, observing his tattoo-covered hands clenching and unclenching, mimicking his stubble-covered jaw. It’s not often that I can actually read an expression on the six-foot-seven, absolute tank of an Italian man, cloaked almost wholly in varying tattoos, and this time is no different. If not for the flexing of his muscles, I’d have no idea that he is, in fact, consumed with concern. “That’s the most I’ve heard you speak in months. Everything okay?” I ask jokingly. My voice is just as gravelly as his but not near as deep, and my accent has faded somewhat faster than his. Years in New York will do that to you. That, and clients not being able to understand what you are saying.
For Phoenix, a man who speaks maybe a hundred words a year (I’m not sure if I am exaggerating, honestly), his sentence causes my worry to arise.
There have been some attempts in the last few years — by people only wanting to crash the gala as well as some looking to get a swing at an attendee — but, thankfully, my team and I have been able to dispose of them before they are even able to step through the foyer of the large marble mansion, humbly brought to you by the Darlings — a family that claims to be the first settlers of New York City. They hold old, old family money that Phoenix and I can only hope to rival once we are well into our nineties.
As the brother of a CEO and head of security for that company, I make more than my fair share in salary, but the Darlings are born on towels made of gold, and they make sure everyone knows it. Humbly.
“I have shit on my mind,” he grumbles. Whereas my dark hair rests against the nape of my neck and just above my eyebrows, curling gently, Phoenix wears his shorter than I could ever pull off. So short that as he runs his hand through it in frustration, the strands don’t even stick up between his fingers.
“Well, scoop it the fuck up and toss it the fuck out because we have to make sure there aren’t any weak spots tonight. Does this entrance seem partially occluded to you? I think we should decommission it entirely if we can’t get any good angles on it.” I redirect our attention to a monitor in the far upper corner displaying an outer patio door positioned poorly behind a large ballroom door, half of it obscured from the camera's view.
My brother only grunts once in response. I immediately know it is a sound of confirmation as my questioning of his non-verbal communication ended when we were only seven years old.
I don’t ask what is bothering him — honestly, I couldn’t care less. I know he’ll set whatever shit it is aside for the good of these people, if not just for the reputation of his company.
“I’ll get the drill and screws.”
Phoenix makes another grunt at my words, nonverbally telling me ‘no.’
Throwing my hands into the air, I stomp my foot on the floor in frustration. “You’re cock blocking my fun. The Darlings can afford to have the door fixed after the Gala.” My arms swing down, nudging the holsters on either side of my waist, and I remind myself to be more careful around the firearms I’m wearing today. They weren’t manufactured with a safety feature, and I’m not one of the ‘safest’ people when it comes to being spontaneous. Annoyance washes through me as Phoenix doesn’t even grunt in response. With a scoff, I pat search my body, feeling each concealed knife, gun, mace, handcuffs, and taser before finally finding an almost-crushed cigarette in my back pocket.
A noise rumbles in my brother’s throat.
“I’m not listening to you, caveman. Use your words like a big boy.”
Pissing off Phoenix is not something anyone willingly does unless they are me. We haven’t ever actually tried to see who would win in a hand-to-hand, but I’m suspicious that we would throw punches until we both passed out. He may be built like Thomas the Tank, but I was the one out on the streets of Slumminit Arezzo racing, fighting, and running with various gangs before Phoenix dragged me here after some shit went down.
You set one police department on fire, and suddenly you’re an enemy of the country.
My muscle has some bulk, but I am primarily corded, refined, and lean. I’m a few inches shorter than him, but I’ll deny that. If the topic comes up, I simply explain I have a slumping problem. I know how to throw a hell of a punch, have excellent defense reflexes, if I do say so myself, and am a perfect mark with all of my weapons.
“Do not fucking light that in here,” Phoenix spits at me just as a flame winks to life in my hand. “Stop being a pretentious dick and do your actual job, douchebag.”
I smile around the crumpled cigarette held in between my teeth. Phoenix may come off as brash, but I know most of his insults don’t have any conviction behind them. “Aw,” I coo, removing the cancer stick and enjoying the way I can get under his skin. “I love you, too, big bro.”
He growls, pushing back from the desk and stalking to the exit door of the monitoring room.
“For fuck’s sake,” I call at his back. “I’ll put Matthew on post there, I guess.”
Phoenix keeps walking, exiting the room and turning down the hall, so I jog to keep up with him after dropping the useless cigarette on the floor behind me. “Matthew is an idiot.” He grumbles something else in Italian, but it’s so garbled that I can’t even catch it.
I ignore the insult toward the man I sometimes consider a friend outside of work, focussing on Phoenix’s inability to speak clearly. “Dude, I grew up speaking that language, and I cannot even understand you. Did you forget your words again?”
I guess I’ve finally put enough sugar on the cavity because Phoenix whips around faster than I expect him to be able to and shoves hard against my chest. He doesn’t remove his hands fast enough, and I grab his forearms to help stabilize myself to retaliate.
Pulling on his tree trunk arms, I launch myself enough to twist slightly and shove the front of my leg, between my ankle and knee, into his gut. The impact makes him double over slightly, and another Italian curse falls from his lips.
“Oh! I understood that one.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” he orders in a grumble. “And don’t put Idiot Matthew on that post.”
I blow him a kiss before skipping backward toward the main ballroom, already digging another wrinkled cigarette from a different pocket. Rounding the corner and finally out of his sight, I face forward again and light the tobacco. “I am so putting Matthew on that post tonight,” I inform no one but myself. “Maybe he won’t manage to spill punch on three ladies this time. That dry cleaning bill was expensive last year.”
Static sounds in my ear before a voice carries through the earpiece tucked there. “Don’t forget to get your tux from the tailor’s,” the bored voice of my assistant comes across.
I pull the cuff of my leather jacket to my mouth and press to speak. “Why the fuck are you on this channel, Tim?”
“You left your phone somewhere,” he deadpans over the radio. “Again.”
Well, okay, I guess that’s a valid excuse.
I give him a sort-of response before ignoring anything else he has to say. Just as I reach the giant doors that woul
d let me escape this hellhole, Tim appears out of nowhere. I curse before bowing up at him until he flinches in fear.
Tim is a mousy little thing, incapable of killing a mosquito because it might have a family out there somewhere, but he doesn’t forget things as badly as I do, so maybe I can keep him around a little longer. “Final revisions?” He squeaks out once he realizes I’m not going to hit him.
My assistant passes a touchscreen tablet toward me, and my eyes sweep over the blueprint of the mansion with the security overlay. I totally would have left without reflecting Matthew’s new post in the program. I am definitely keeping Tim around if he continues to be able to manage my chaotic energy.
With a few taps, I successfully reassign Matthew and open an overtime spot for his previous post with a note stating who will be mandatory if no one volunteers for the spot.
Damn. Mandatory overtime on a Saturday and the leap day at that. Oh well, sucks for that person.
Handing the tablet back to Tim, I’m pleasantly surprised when he passes my black motorcycle helmet to me without being told. I open my mouth to ask where I am going, but he beats me to it, already knowing the answer to the unspoken question. “Twenty-second and main.”
“Hmph,” I muse, looking him up and down. I take in his lack of muscles, noting that while he isn’t toned, he isn’t out of shape per se. Too long, dull brown hair falls into his mud-colored eyes, and he has a pretty noticeable overbite, but he isn’t too bad. If he keeps up his excellent work, I might reward him one of these days and let him touch my body exactly how I know he wants to. “You’re all right, I guess.”
Tim blushes. “T-thanks.”
Sighing heavily, I slide the helmet over my head, knowing he can’t see me through the tinted visor at all. “You ruined it, Tim. Stuttering is so unattractive.”
“S-sorry.”
Tired of conversation with him, I switch gears into my normal closed-off work demeanor. I know I come across as rude, but it’s better than entertaining people I just don’t click with, which, unfortunately, is often. “Leave me alone.” I pull open the oversized wooden door to the mansion and make a beeline for my beloved motorcycle, smooching at her as I caress the handlebars lovingly. Swinging my leg over the bike, I enjoy the feeling of it roaring to life below me before speeding off for the tailor’s, using the sidewalk whenever the traffic gets too backed up.
What is a cop going to do — drive on the sidewalk also just to pull me over?
Like the universe heard me, I pass a cop and have to quickly reach back to flip my license plate before swerving onto the sidewalk again and burning rubber all the way to the shop.
Anyone we do business with knows not to keep us waiting, and this place is no exception. Three workers are standing near the dressing room as soon as I walk inside, and they present a black suit for me to inspect before placing it inside the room for me to change into.
I untangle the radio from my ear and collar and sleeve, too far out of distance for it to even be working right now, and barely manage to free myself without lashing out with impatience and busting the giant mirror in front of me. Something in the mirror catches my eyes, and I quickly shoot my gaze to my bare torso. It takes me longer than I’d like to admit to remember that I do, in fact, have an intentional tattoo there, not some weird skin rash or a bug crawling on me.
Damn, I really need a cigarette if I’m forgetting about my tattoos now.
My rib holsters fit nicely under the jacket, and the knives sheathed along my spine are invisible under the black fabric, too. I tuck my third gun into the back of my waistband when I realize the suit pants are too fitted to provide room for my thigh holster, hugging my legs and hips snugly. I weave a fancy-looking leather belt through the loops of the pants, sliding my cuffs, mace, and taser in between the belt and fabric before tightening it enough to make sure those items won’t fall out. Instead of whatever ugly-ass shoes men usually wear with a suit, they’ve left out a new pair of shiny black combat boots for me, and I almost feel a smile tug at my lips.
These people deserve a tip.
Fully dressed, I exit the room while shoving my old clothes into my backpack for the ride back. My slightly curly black hair is already mussed to perfection, so at least I don’t have to worry about that, and my face is pretty much always clean-shaven.
I look Gala-worthy.
I pull out my wallet and flick my debit card in the general direction of the cashier. She smiles tightly, and I can tell she doesn’t appreciate my attitude. Something shiny catches my eye, and I glance down at the black watch displayed in a case below the counter. Black gears stand exposed to the world on the face of it, and I watch as it ticks and ticks in a comforting rhythm. “I’ll take that watch,” I finalize.
The lady in front of me stops ringing up items on the cash register, jaw slack. “That watch is more than this suit you are getting,” she says as if I care.
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s free. It looks cool, and I want it, so ring it up.” As Phoenix’s head security guy, my salary is pretty decent. Most of it I save, but sometimes I splurge on things like a new motorcycle, my Mustang back home in Italy, and the Italian soaps I have shipped overseas every so often to replenish my stock. Now, I’m spending some of that on a nice suit and watch. The suit because I’ve continued to grow muscle since last year when I attended the Gala, my old suit now too tight, and the watch because, well, I really want a nice watch.
Her mouth audibly snaps closed, and red blooms across her face. I’m unsure if she’s mad or embarrassed, but I hope it’s the latter. My card swipes without issue, and I press the four buttons on the keypad she turns around to face me. Then, she pulls the watch from the case and offers to clasp it for me.
After buckling it, she gives me a once-over before reaching across the counter and tightening the bowtie around my neck, which I had intentionally left loose. Muttering colorful Italian words, I snatch my card from her and leave the store, pulling the tie loose once more and undoing the annoyingly high top button of the dress shirt. I can’t stand shit wrapped around my neck like that.
It’s only two hours until the first caterers and last-minute decorators will start showing up at the mansion, so I grab some drive-thru food and make my way back in that direction. I’ll just eat in the monitor room while observing everyone. My guys should be getting there right about now to do a final sweep before they lock it down and make sure only people with specific IDs get through.
Oh, the perks of being a boss, I think as I recline back in the monitoring room, feet on the desk and greasy burger in my hand. I stripped my torso of the jacket, shirt, and knife holster, just in case the burger happens to spurt its wonderful juices out in my presence.
I have that effect on things.
Of course, I’m not an idiot. I know something can go down at any moment, which is why my guns are strapped to my bare sides. That’s me, Mr. Always Prepared. The packets in my wallet can back me up on that one.
Between delicious bites of burger and swinging my socked toes in a hammock of cords above the desk, my eyes zero in on a pizza-faced kid among the caterers. He’s wearing their uniform, but his posture isn’t what you would expect from a worker. The dirty-haired brunette glances around, looking up and making eye contact with the cameras in any room he goes to.
Like he is scoping it out.
“Won of a biff,” I mumble around a large bite, my swear all muffled. Aggravated, I attempt to tell the guys on the wire to take him down, but my mouth is too full and the speak button is too tangled in the shirt draped across my thigh. “Wuck.”
Yanking the piece out of my ear, I discard the burger onto the desk — the lettuce and tomatoes spilling out all over the keyboard — and run like my ass is on fire. My guys posted along the wall take one look at my sock-covered feet and bare torso with holsters loaded before strategically delegating themselves like they have been trained to do. Half follow me, and the other half draw their weapons and lock everything down.
I’m rounding corners, socks sliding on the marble floor, with one focus.
Get that guy.
