The Guzzi Legacy, 4
Ever wonder what it would be like to have a living mirror of yourself?
Benito Guzzi wasn’t curious at all.
His identical twin’s shout danced over the loud bar where they and their friends gathered in the club for most of the night.
“Bene,” Ashton, one of their mutual friends, said as he stressed the ay ending to Benedetto’s nickname, “you’re going to give us fucking alcohol poisoning. We can’t handle liquor like you two, fuck, man.”
Down the bar, his twin cocked a brow in his direction. Some might think it looked like a challenge. Others would take it as a question. Beni—his name differentiating from his twin’s with a hard e at the end—didn’t wonder what that look meant when he shared everything with Bene. From looks to style, and even his behaviors and attitude.
When he said mirrors of each other, that’s what they were.
And it was their twenty-first birthday.
“Shots,” Beni said with a nod.
Cheers from their group lit up the bar. The party was far from over, and if all went well, they would drink far into the morning. People knew Beni and Bene Guzzi for their desire to have a good time.
All the damn time.
“Where are your brothers?” the guy to his left asked. “Shouldn’t they be here celebrating?”
Beni shrugged, more interested in the way the bartender had set up the shot glasses in a perfect line along the bar. Grabbing a bottle from the built-in shelves behind the bar, the glass gleamed from the lights. The bass from the music pumped through the floor, vibrating the soles of Beni’s Italian leather loafers while more liquor poured.
Straight vodka this time.
They had to go easy on some of them.
I guess, he thought.
Bene, having heard the question posed to his twin, answered for Beni. “Corrado’s in New York ... Chris is—don’t know, whatever. And Marcus?”
Beni scoffed. “Fucking Marcus.”
“What’s that mean?”
Somehow, unlike the small army of their older siblings, Beni and Bene made friends outside of the life. That life being la famiglia. The mafia. Despite their interest and involvement in the family business, considering their father was the boss and their oldest brother followed his footsteps, they still surrounded themselves with people who had no idea about the other side of their life.
Beni and Bene shared a look.
They liked to keep friends that weren’t in. The two of them communicated easier in their strange way. The same thing they had been doing since before they could talk, if someone thought to ask their parents. Gestures, silent looks, body movements, or even a click of a tongue.
The two had a whole nonverbal language. It was a hell of a lot harder for them to communicate with each other when they were around their family, and they didn’t want people knowing what they were saying.
“Marcus is Marcus,” Beni settled on saying, “too busy being our father’s mini-me to come out and have fun with us.”
Marcus used to be fun, though. Then, he graduated, attended a few of years of a university for business, and went straight into the mafia to mentor under their father. Once Marcus was in, and got his button for the mafia, he was all the fucking way in. Unfailingly responsible—they counted on their oldest brother no matter what.
And sometimes that was just boring.
Bene held his shot glass high into the air. The strobe lights flickered with a higher intensity in the background of the club, making his brother look like a statue. The club was banging, though, and for more reasons than their friends would understand. It was one that wasn’t Guzzi owned, because God fucking knew the twins hated when tales of their night out got back to their parents, or brothers.
The twins didn’t understand why.
It was unnecessary.
Couldn’t they just have fun?
Okay, maybe that was a bit of a stretch. Their fun usually included trouble—the wild ones their family called them because from the time they were old enough to run, the two never stopped. He figured, hey, at least they ran together.
That was the thing about Beni and Bene.
If they had each other, shit was cake.
Life was fucking good.
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