Michello’s laughter boomed through the walls of Enzo’s spacious office, rich and unrestrained. He clutched his stomach, shoulders shaking as a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek.
Enzo sat rigid behind his massive desk, his face twisted in a pained scowl. Every burst of his brother’s laughter felt like salt ground into an open wound. Instead of sympathy, he was getting mocked.
“Michi,” Enzo growled, voice low and dangerous.
Michello tried to compose himself, wiping at his eyes, but the moment he looked at Enzo again, fresh laughter exploded out of him. “Damn, Enzo… you are cooked.” He exhaled sharply, still chuckling. “For real, brother.”
He shifted on the soft, expensive white sofa, trying to catch his breath.
“Are you done?” Enzo snarled, staring
