Outtake: The Boys #Antony #FreeRead #FilthyMarcellos

Hey, loves!

I didn't get the chance to post my usual Friday outtake yesterday, so instead, it goes up today. I opted to take a break from the John + Siena outtakes, and do one from the request pile this week.

Do enjoy.

***

The Boys
An Antony Outtake
Antony POV

Life was good.
But life at the top?
That was even better.
Antony supposed that was one of the many pros when it came to being a Cosa Nostra boss. Nobody said the life wasn’t stressful, but at least sitting where he did allowed him the ability to redirect things he didn’t want to deal with, or delegate a task to someone else.
Yeah, life at the top was—
“Gonna beat your motherfucking ass, Dante!”
“You can try, Gio.”
Antony blinked as he stepped inside his home, and glanced upward to the upper wings of the mansion where his sons were currently in the midst of yet another one of their rows. One of their many rows, if he were being honest. He was lucky if he could get those three teenagers to go a week without them falling into some kind of battle with one another.
And people say girls are hard.
Fuck that noise.
Boys were rough.
And that was putting it mildly.
Boys were messy and loud and difficult. Boys talked with fists and sneers and fuck yous right on the tips of their tongues. Boys had no concept of personal space, and they shared too goddamn much, and sometimes they didn’t share nearly enough when they needed to, or when it counted.
Too tall, filling out, hormone-riddled little monsters. And then you add onto that the fact his boys had access to all sorts of things given their life, and where they came from—not to mention money to burn—and it was just …
A little too much.
Sometimes.
“Did you just throw a fucking book at me?” Dante snarled.
Antony let out a sigh.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Giovanni taunted.
“I’m gonna kick your—”
“Hey, Papa.”
Antony raised a brow at Lucian coming around the corner with a half-eaten apple in his hand. He looked like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world, and right then, he probably didn’t. After all, it wasn’t him upstairs in the midst of a shouting match that was two seconds away from turning into violence with one of his brothers.
Give it three minutes.
Lucian would join in, too.
It just was what it was.
“What are they fighting about?” Antony asked.
Lucian shrugged, and headed for the grand staircase. The oldest at sixteen, he was all too often aloof, or he tried damn hard to act like it when something was going down. Antony figured that was Lucian’s way of trying to keep himself out of trouble.
It rarely worked.
Once one started, the other two soon followed. Like a fucking trainwreck of testosterone, teenaged angst, and too much trouble for their own good.
“Gio acting like a puke, probably.”
“Lucian, be nice.”
“Where’s the lie, though?”
Antony frowned. “How about, where’s your mother?”
“Kitchen.”
Really?
That made Antony’s brow lift a bit. It was not like Cecelia to hide away in the kitchen while her sons acted like fucking hyenas fighting for the last scraps on a carcass. She was usually the first one to step in, and calm them the hell down. Cecelia wasn’t the least bit frightened by her boys—she could wear a dress, heels, and have her face done up with her hair in curls, and still step in between flying fists when the time called for it.
“Stay out of that mess, huh?” Antony said, nodding upward.
Lucian glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure.”
Mmhmm.
He sure sounded like he fucking meant it, too.
Antony sighed.
All that lightness he’d been feeling strolling up to his home was practically nonexistent now—his stress levels were up sky-high all over again. He could delegate a lot of responsibilities to someone else, but not his family.
This was all him.
And Cecelia.
Soon enough, he found his wife in the kitchen. He expected her to be cooking something—she did that more often than not when she didn’t want to deal with something, or she needed to whisk away the stress she felt.
Cooking was her reprieve.
The kitchen was her haven.
Those boys knew damn well they better not bring that nonsense into this area of their home—he wouldn’t stand for it.
Except … his wife wasn’t cooking today. No, she sat behind the island with a magazine spread out on the counter, and a cup of tea sitting beside her. A bang echoed from upstairs followed by Gio’s shout, and she simply glanced upward with a tight-lipped frown.
He knew it, then.
She was pissed.
“How long has that been going on?” he asked.
Cecelia didn’t even look at him. “Since they got home from school.”
Antony glanced at the clock, and winced. Shit. Three hours ago.
“That long?”
“Started before the gate to the driveway even opened,” Cecelia muttered.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize, Antony. I just want one single day this week where they don’t fight. Anything, really. You can’t even get them to sit down at a table and play nice for a meal. Even when their mouths are full, they’re still trading insults with one another. It’s …”
“Tiring,” he murmured.
Cecelia glanced at him, and her gaze showcased exactly how she felt right then. Useless. Like there was nothing she could do, and she had finally had enough of this. Antony knew that feeling well, but damn if he hadn’t hoped their teenaged sons would figure this out on their own.
Appreciate one another.
Respect one another.
Make room for one another.
Something.
“I just wish they wouldn’t fight, that’s all,” Cecelia said.
Antony nodded. “Yeah, I know, Tesoro. It won’t always be like this, though. I can promise you that.”
Cecelia laughed quietly. “You think?”
“I know, actually. I fought all the time with my brother. It’s just how boys handle things. They don’t talk, Cecelia. They force their space, and make room for themselves. It’s how they work, and eventually, they learn that’s … not the right way to go about it.”
“Hmm.”
She still looked sad.
God.
He hated that.
His sweet wife couldn’t—would not—be upset over her sons. That was un-fucking-acceptable, and he just wouldn’t let it continue.
“Give me five minutes,” Antony said, spinning on his heels to leave the kitchen.
“Wait, what are you—”
“Five minutes!”
Antony made it upstairs in record time—funnily enough, by the time he did get upstairs, the fighting was all but settled. He didn’t hear a peep coming out of Dante’s room, and Gio was just coming out of the bathroom with a reddened mark under his cheek.
“Your brother hit you?” Antony asked.
Gio shrugged. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.”
Yeah.
Because that’s also how these fucking boys of his worked. Even when they acted like they hated each other, they still watched each other’s backs like nobody’s business. Someone tried to mess with Giovanni once at school—even though the boy was more than capable of handling himself—and his brothers took it upon themselves to beat the hell out of the kid causing the issue.
Just because they could.
And it was their brother.
Part of Antony was happy his boys were like that—they were going to strengthen that bond, and make it into something no one else could touch.
Eventually.
Another part of him wished they were already at that point.
Except they weren’t.
“Did you deserve it?” Antony asked.
Because that was a damn good question, too.
Gio shrugged again. “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.”
Dio, save me from these kids before they make me go gray.
Antony drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly. “Go get dressed—something appropriate for that restaurant your mother likes in Manhattan.”
Gio scowled. “I don’t want to go to that stuffy fucking—”
“I’m sorry,” Antony said, cocking a brow, “did I start that statement with if it pleases your spoiled ass? Because I am pretty sure I did not. Now, march yourself to your room, put on something respectable, go downstairs, and apologize to your mother for this nonsense. And if we have another spell like we did today, Gio, I will not be this fucking nice. Got it?”
His son nodded once. “Got it.”
“Good—get.”
Antony didn’t wait for Gio to move his ass before he headed into the bedroom belonging to his second oldest son. Unsurprisingly, Lucian sat on the edge of Dante’s bed and flipped through a stack of CDs while Dante worked on the laptop at his desk. Neither of the two looked up at Antony’s entrance.
“What?” Dante said.
Okay.
This was quite enough.
Antony was done.
Try again,” he uttered.
Dante stiffened before shooting an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Hit your brother again, and I will have you cutting the grass with scissors, Dante. Do I make myself clear?”
Dante’s brow dipped. “That’s like … ten acres!”
“Try five.”
Give or take.
“But I’m sure it’d be a fun project, if you want to test me and give it a go,” Antony added.
“But he—”
“You’ll have to sharpen the scissors every hour or so, but maybe you’d get it done over a weekend.”
Lucian snorted from the bed, but never looked up from the CDs.
“And you are another one,” Antony spanned.
Lucian glanced up with wide eyes. “I didn’t do anything!”
“You do enough, son.”
After a second, Lucian shrugged.
Because yeah, it wasn’t a lie.
“You’re making your mother sad,” Antony said quietly, “and what happens in this house when Cecelia gets sad?”
It took another second.
And then two.
Both boys jumped up from their respective seats, and headed for the door.
Get dressed first,” Antony shouted at their backs. “Something nice.”
Lucian kept going—likely heading for his room.
Dante spun back around, and went for his walk-in closet without another word.
Because hell yeah, they knew.
When Cecelia got sad …
Antony got pissed.
And nobody wanted that. 

Comments

  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

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  2. Awesomeness! I love this family, so it's amazing to see them in different light (Technically, younger, not exactly different). Thank you.

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  3. LOVE Antony! Thanks for sharing these little snippets, I can't get enough of this family!

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  4. Amo essa família... Gostaria de saber sobre Liliana Marcello (espero ansiosa desde a série Chicago)

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