Page 3 of Beni

“Never,” Beni muttered, flipping his own hand up at the laughter of their friends to wave for the bartender, too. “Another round—Henny.” He pointed a finger at his twin, adding, “But then we’re doing Fireball.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Yeah, exactly.

Because as much as his twin knew his secrets, Beni had all of Bene’s locked up tight, too. He could play that game, if his brother wanted. He was good for it, always.

When the bartender didn’t come as fast as they wanted, their calls for the man became louder, and more obnoxious. But wasn’t that every fucking twenty-one-year-old man, anyway? They were just trying to have fun.

Of course, trouble always followed.

It was the twins’ way.

“Fuckin’ Guzzis thinking they own every goddamn place they step into,” someone from the group down the bar muttered. “Why don’t you all crawl into one of your holes, and party there?”

Beni tipped his chin up, not bothering to give whoever that was his attention. Instead, his gaze drifted to his brother at the other end of their large group. Bene matched his posture with wide shoulders going stiff, chin raised in defiance, and an almost manic gleam in his eye.

Savages.

Piss off a Guzzi, or bad mouth them, and the savage came out to play.

It didn’t matter.

No one said a goddamn thing about a Guzzi without it being answered, and usually, violently. Beni didn’t know if it was a pride thing, or what. A thick rush of rage filled his bloodstream with every beat of his heart because fuck all of that.

The guy wasn’t just insulting him and his twin—but to be honest, that was enough to make him want to break the fucker’s neck—but his entire clan. His father, the other three Guzzi brothers, and their mother, too. He didn’t even have to name Cara Guzzi; didn’t have to breathe a single word about her. He simply had to lump all Guzzis into one bunch, and they were insulting the boys’ mother, too.

And no.

That would not fly over.

Ever.

Bene, who had still been toying with the empty shot glass in his hand, set it down to the top of the bar a bit harder than was necessary. Beni turned when his twin came around their group of friends who had all gone suspiciously silent.

They knew what was about to happen.

The guy—Bene knew which one made the comment, given he had been staring that way—didn’t even see the twins coming for him. Fists flew after they yanked the fucker from his bar stool to the floor.

Soon, a whole crowd was fighting. Their friends. The fucker’s friends. Some random guy that got knocked sideways during the scuffle. Even the club’s security that rushed in to try and break it up.

The wild Guzzi twins struck again.

You’d think people would learn.

“Call the fucking cops!”

“Hungover, wrinkled suits, and smelling like jail,” Marcus said to his brothers as Beni and Bene stepped out of the back of the Mercedes, “that’s not a good look on the two of you.”

Bene grunted under his breath, saying nothing.

Beni, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. “And?”

Marcus sighed, and hit the roof of the car, a silent signal for the driver to head out. The driver showed up at the jail that morning, waiting for when the twins were released with orders to bring them home. Which they knew, instantly, did not mean their shared penthouse in the city.

No, it meant their parents’ massive mansion outside of the city limits where they would have to go through another round of lectures from their brother, father, and maybe their ma, too. Who fucking knew?

Beni just wanted to go to sleep.