I pull the ends of the rag tighter—lifting the man’s head higher—and grind my heel harder against his hand. Shattered bones crunch into smaller pieces. The filthy gag muffles his scream, but his legs tap against the floor with pathetic desperation. I lift my foot and drop the ends of the towel. His face smacks into the concrete floor and blood spurts from his already broken nose. I curse and curl my fist into the disgusting hair at the back of his head as I squat down beside him and lift his face.
“I won’t ask you twice, so listen carefully, Diablo,” I warn. He stiffens as I say his name.
“Yeah, I know who you are. I know where you’re from. I know everything about you, you sorry pezzo di merda.”
He sobs and coughs up blood.
“I know all about your failed drug runs in Boretti territory. I know you lost your best men when you tested the Vivaldi family,” I mock, adding more insult to his meager pride, and shift the tip of my shoe over his wrecked fingers. “And I know you’ve got two girls waiting for you in Philly.”
He chokes and stutters. I twist my fingers in his hair and give him a vicious yank before pulling out the gag.
“So I know it wasn’t your sorry ass who funded this op. Where’d you get the money, Diablo?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout, man. We saved up from—fuck, hombre, don’t kill me,” he yelps as I place the edge of my blade to his throat.
I tsk and draw blood with the tip. He answers in a high, panicked voice.
“We get it from a carrier! I don’t know who really sends it. It’s always a different junkie with printed instructions. No handwriting. I swear, I ain’t never met him. I got no clue, dude.”
I twist my wrist until his bloodshot eyes meet mine.
Unfortunately for him, he’s telling the truth. I slit his throat twice, ensuring the second swipe severs all the important bits, and hold his head back until the blood stops spurting from his neck and his limbs quit flopping about. Crimson puddles around my shoes, and I sigh at the mess as I wipe my blade on the back of his shirt.
“Check each body for tats and collect all devices before you burn them. Sweep the entire building for clues and clean it up for the next op,” I say to Ermanno, my second-in-command. He’s proven himself more than capable of cleaning up any mess—even ones as big as this battle, where fighting occurred on all three levels of the factory—with no input from me, but I can’t relinquish an ounce of control in front of the soldiers standing along the walls.
Diablo’s death served more than one purpose. Not only did it rid the world of one really stupid motherfucker, it also displayed my brutal and swift response to anyone who pisses me off: it was a warning for everyone in attendance.
I scan the men lining the walls. Most bleed from superficial wounds, but after a quick patch job, they’ll be fine. We sent the severely injured to the nearby emergency room, where I paid off every nurse on the night shift a few hours ago.
“I’ll attend all burials for our fallen men, and even though no amount of compensation will ease their loss, I’ll hand out condolences to each family myself,” I vow as I slip my knife back into its sheath.
The men give somber thanks. I grab a clean washcloth from the counter and wipe my hands on my way out of the room. My phone vibrates in my pants pocket, but I ignore it as I stalk through the ruined facility and exit through the back door. I pop open the trunk of my car and strip off my stained suit coat before tossing it into a black garbage bag. After washing my hands with the bottled water and soap I always keep available in my car, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my missed calls.
With a curse, I redial my father’s number. When I hang up a few seconds later, I grind my teeth before calling Ermanno. He answers before the first ring ends.
“Stay here. I’m heading out,” I say.
He grunts his understanding. I end the call and toss my phone into the trunk.
After wiping down my knife and placing it beside my phone, I loosen my chest holster and unfasten my belt, toe off my shoes, shuck my trousers down my legs, and prop my ass on the bumper as I pull off my socks. With a scowl at the stained clothes, I shove them into the plastic bag and dress in the clean items on the left side of the trunk. As I slide my belt through my belt loops, a shoe scuffs on the sidewalk around the corner of the building.
I whip around and aim my fully loaded pistol at the idiot stupid enough to sneak up on me.
Ermanno speaks from behind the corner.
“I’m not just keeping you on your toes, but it’s good to see you haven’t gone soft in your old age.”
I scoff and keep my muzzle aimed in his direction as I slide my sheath onto my belt and finish threading the leather through my trouser loops.
“Says the stronzo nearing forty. What did you find?”
The sunrise casts his broad-shouldered shadow across the sidewalk as he turns the corner. He steps into the last pocket of darkness with me and drops a necklace onto my palm.
I grunt and hold it up to the light.
“A new gang emblem? How many were wearing it?”
“Four.”
I sigh and toss it back to him.
“Only four?”
“The men wearing them aren’t local,” he says.
I grunt again and work through the possibilities as I put on a clean pair of dress shoes before taking off my chest harness and unbuttoning my shirt.
“Keep looking,” I say.
He nods and disappears around the corner.
The cool morning air brushes against my skin as I work my arms out of my shirt and tug my undershirt over my head. Blood stains the collars. I growl my annoyance and add them to the bag.
The lowlifes I killed a few minutes ago weren’t worth the price of my ruined clothes, but anyone stupid enough to set up on my turf without my permission deserves my unique brand of justice.
I check my reflection in the mirror glued to the roof of the trunk and snatch a wet wipe to clean the few drops of blood on my neck. With a disgusted grimace, I grab more and wipe my entire face, ears, and upper chest before running my fingers through my hair. Once I’m sure there’s no trace of blood hidden amidst my tattoos, I yank a clean undershirt over my head and fit a white button-down over my shoulders.
I slip my cufflinks into place first, then button my shirt with practiced ease. After tucking in my shirttails, I fasten my trousers and buckle my belt.
I slip my phone into my pocket and remove my pistol and holster from the chest harness before closing the trunk and slipping into the driver’s seat. After snapping the pistol into the center console next to my leg for easy access, I turn on the vehicle and pull away from the building.
For several miles, I barrel through the traffic lights, not stopping even when they turn red.
No police officer with half a brain cell would pull me over in this section of the city, but once I cross into the more populated section, I obey the rules of the road. Regular citizens need their false sense of security, after all. They churn the wheels of the city, not realizing how close to danger they live.
I cross another invisible barrier and turn onto a quiet street with foliage lining the sidewalks and opulent gates blocking each driveway. The Vivaldi family home may as well be a fortress with a moat surrounding it, given the amount of space separating their estate from the bustle of the city.
I prefer my family’s high-rise apartments, but to each their own. When you’re as proficient in crime as the Russo and Vivaldi families, you get to keep your pick of the litter.
Unless you’re the eldest, then everything you do is for the family. Every aspect of your life belongs to them. Your dreams and nightmares. Your past and future. You must devote every waking moment to protecting and supporting them.
I turn at the Vivaldi gate. The guard waves me through before I stop, so I roll past and continue up the hill.
When my parents negotiated my marriage to Camilla Vivaldi several years ago, I didn’t argue. It’s a good match, at least on paper, and voicing my selfish desires wouldn’t change the outcome.
Any man not attracted to Camilla’s striking beauty and luscious curves should lose his man card, but I’ve never had more than a passing thought about fucking her. She’s gorgeous, but the chemistry between us just isn’t there.
Her younger sister, though? I can’t get her curves out of my head. She’s tangled in my sheets every night, even if it’s just in my dreams. Serenity Vivaldi has a vice grip on my balls and won’t let me go. With her innocent eyes, tempting lips, and gentle mannerisms, she’s everything a monster like me longs to break.
I park in the middle of the circular drive and twist my hands on the wheel as I will my cock to soften. Just imagining Serenity’s rich brown eyes staring up at me in heavy-lidded pleasure has me questioning the durability of my trouser seams.
The front door opens. I leave my pistol in the car and open my jacket to show the guard my lack of firearms. He eyes my knife, but holds to the agreement between the families and allows me into the house.
No one stands waiting to greet me. Shouting echoes down the hall, but a closed door muffles the words. I follow the sound, and when the guards don’t stop me, I wonder what in the flying fuck kind of drama I’m walking into.
A tiny form darts out of a side hall without warning. I glimpse Serenity’s startled eyes for a fraction of a second before she collides with my side and bounces off me. She squeaks. I catch her shoulders and grind my teeth as her enticing honey and vanilla fragrance invades my nostrils.
Ice skitters across the floor and a dishcloth dangles from her fingers. Her soft curse surprises me.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
She looks up and falls silent as she meets my stare. Her pupils dilate and a blush colors her cheeks.
I flex my fingers into her shoulders and fight the urge to trace her collarbone with my thumbs.
She clears her throat and pushes my hands off her shoulders as she steps back, but her heel catches on an ice cube, and she squeaks as she loses her balance. I hook an arm around her lower back and pull her upright.
The air sizzles around me as her soft breasts flatten against my stomach. My cock hardens to stone in a single rush, and I struggle to breathe.
I want her. I want to throw her down, part those pretty thighs, and sink into her right here, right now, the rest of the world be damned.
Her delicate fingers clutch at my arms as she catches her breath and shuffles her feet back underneath her.
“Thanks, I’m okay. You can let go of me now,” she says through gritted teeth.
I quirk a brow, clench my fist at my side, and tighten my arm around her.
She stiffens and glances at my face before pretending she can stare through my chest.
“I apologized and thanked you. What else do you want?”
The word everything comes to mind, but I bite back my growl and force myself to let her go.
For the good of my family, I deny myself what I want most.
She huffs, steps back, and runs her hands down her shirt as though to wipe away dirt before shaking her head at the mess on the floor. After a glance down the hall, she squares her shoulders and faces me.
“You should wait in the foyer for a minute. I’ll come get you when papà’s ready.”
Fucking hell, I want to destroy her world. I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down. She swallows and looks behind her at the study door where the shouting comes from before sighing.
“Fine, just wait here, then,” she grumbles before heading back the way she came before she ran into me.
I step toward the study.
“No, wait!”
She grabs my arm. I swing my gaze to meet hers before dropping my eyes to her hands. She lets go and jerks back.
“Sorry,” she says as she wipes her palms on her pants.
“Am I that gross?” I ask.
She stiffens as confusion creases her brow.
“What?”
I flick a glance down her body before staring into her gorgeous brown orbs.
“You keep wiping your hands like I’m dirty. Are you afraid you’ll catch something if you get too close?”
I try to keep the aggravation out of my tone, but it leaks through in the lower registers and emerges as an angry rumble.
“No, that’s not—”
I crowd her against the wall. The fear in her eyes feeds the beast in my soul.
“You should be. I am dirty. Dirtier than a piccola principessa like you could ever handle, so don’t touch me unless you’re ready to get filthy. Capisci, little girl?”
Her audible swallow pulls my gaze to her throat. My heart pounds against my sternum and heat pulses at the base of my spine as I study the frantic beat of her pulse along the delicate column of her throat.
She doesn’t balk at my condescending tone or bristle at my insulting choice of words. Instead, she squares her shoulders and meets my stare.
“I understand, so go wait in the foyer.”
The strength in her voice astounds me. With a few simple words, she wrecks every preconceived notion I have of her.
She’s no longer the shy little girl running around in pigtails, nor is she a fragile trophy to break and consume.
She’s an obsession.
One I can never have.
I growl and stalk down the hall toward the study.
“I don’t wait, not when I was invited, and especially not because a pampered piccola principessa throws a tantrum,” I snarl.
Her sharp inhale shames me, but I push the useless emotion away and shove open the door.
Serenity Vivaldi will be the death of me. She tests my control.
I can’t have her, no matter how much I want her.
