I toss the bloody knife on the table with the other rusty tools and wipe my hands on the white rag but grimace as it smears sticky crimson over my skin. With an angry snarl, I fling the useless fabric onto my latest victim’s face and stomp to the adjacent room—the abandoned diner’s kitchen—to wash my hands.
Fiero chuckles and leans against the counter, far out of my reach.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You fucking stronzo,” I snarl.
He crosses his arms over his chest and gives a smug shrug.
“Serves you right for not checking your surroundings before you started slicing and dicing,” he says.
I roll my eyes and lather up to my elbows before rinsing the last of the suds from my arms. When I start a second round of scrubbing, my closest and most annoying friend sighs and stands with a shake of his head.
“I’m guessing they didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear?” he remarks.
“You’d know if you’d stayed in the room,” I growl.
“No man who values his balls would stay in eyesight when you go feral with a knife,” he responds.
I sneer and meet his gaze.
“They hurt my family, Fiero.”
The nonchalance disappears from his countenance.
“I know,” he says as he stands and drops his arms to his sides.
“They raped and beat Camilla until she tried to kill herself.”
I can’t breathe through the fury and guilt squeezing my chest. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there when my older sister needed me most.
“They did,” he responds.
I step toward him. He stands his ground, never dropping eye contact despite my intensity.
“They kidnapped Serenity and attacked Nico Russo. My younger sister almost had to raise her child without its father,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I know,” he says.
I pull my knife from my belt and hold it on my upturned palm in front of me. Fiero’s unflinching response solidifies my belief in him. I trust him with my life.
“They will feel every inch of this knife as I sink it into their body over and over and over again,” I promise.
“They will,” he confirms.
Unable to find fault in his response yet too dissatisfied with my ineptitude, I press the tip of the knife to my outer forearm and apply the barest pressure, proving how deadly sharp I keep my blade as fresh crimson flows down my arm, creating new designs within my intricate tattoos.
“I will slice and dice,” I emphasize his ridiculous choice of words, “until they beg for mercy, but they’ll find I don’t have any. They’ll tell me their deepest, darkest secrets, and I still won’t stop. They’ll scream and cry and plead, but I’ll just keep cutting even when they beg for death.”
“You will,” Fiero says with the same cold conviction now condensed behind my sternum.
“Everyone will know it’s a mistake to fuck with the Vivaldi family,” I vow.
“They already do,” he says.
Despite the certainty in his dark eyes, I don’t believe him.
“It’s been six months since Camilla’s attack. Six months of no leads. Six months of these teste di cazzo running free. Six months of—”
“Terror. Six months of pure terror. For six months, you’ve tortured every stronzo stupid enough to stick his head up. No one with half a brain will step a toe out of line when everyone knows you’re on a hate-fueled warpath,” he deadpans.
I freeze and dig the knife a little deeper into my flesh, using the sting to center myself.
Because he’s right. The bastardo is right.
“It’s not just you, either. Nico Russo razed an entire block just to snuff out threats.”
I grind my teeth and twist my blade to renew the pain.
“That wasn’t Nico. It was Serenity and me. Nico was still in hospital.”
Fiero tilts his head and quirks a brow.
“And you waited until now to tell me?”
“I couldn’t recruit any of our men. We couldn’t leave traces back to the Vivaldi family, since it was in Russo territory. They weren’t married yet, and my father wouldn’t have approved.” I pull the blade from my arm and return to the sink. As I dip my knife under the still flowing faucet, I meet Fiero’s glare over my shoulder. “Serenity didn’t want Nico involved until he was back on his feet, but with his second and third also in the hospital, she needed help.”
“So you cut me out?”
“There was nothing to cut you out of. I couldn’t even be there,” I snarl as I shake the water from my blade.
Droplets land on my white shirt. I grunt in annoyance as I spot a tiny speck of red near my waistline.
A plume of dust rises from the counter as Fiero flops my garment bag on top. He knows me so well. He snagged it from my trunk and hid it near the doorway as I questioned the poor souls no longer alive in the other room.
I grunt in thanks and dry my blade on my pantleg before unzipping my bag and setting my knife on the open flap to preserve its cleanliness.
Fiero chooses a new counter to lean on as I unroll my sleeves and unbutton my shirt.
“So what’s next, boss?” he asks.
I shrug my shirt off my shoulders and drop it onto the flap before pulling my undershirt over my head.
“Should I keep bringing you dead men walking, or is it time for a new strategy?”
I unfasten my belt and meet his eyes as I pull it through my belt loops.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be my consigliere? My uncle will always side with my father. I could use you in—”
“Nope. I like the dirty work. All the posturing and backstabbing ain’t for me,” he interrupts.
I shuck my trousers down my legs, leaving my underwear in place, and work them over my shoes before adding them to the pile of dirty clothes.
“That’s a shame, since you’re so good at stabbing me in the back,” I retort.
“How the hell did your delusional ass come to that conclusion? I’ve never stabbed you in the back,” he says.
“You let me rampage for six months before you said anything.”
“I like my balls attached to my body, thank you very much.”
He has a point. I haven’t been receptive to criticism recently.
“Besides, we get along so well because we handle shit head on. Eye to eye. Straight and to the point. Stabbing in the back is so unsatisfying.”
Yet another point in his favor. I wash my face, arms, and chest in the sink again before yanking a few baby wipes from the container in the bottom of my bag and running them over my legs. Once I’m satisfied no blood hides within my tattoos, I shake out the towel rolled at the base of my bag and dry from head to toe before pulling on a fresh pair of trousers.
“Pause the deliveries for now,” I decide.
He nods. I slap a bandage over the tiny cut on my arm, pull an undershirt over my head, and settle it in place before threading my arms into a button down. As I systematically fasten my buttons, he waits in silence.
When I open my mouth to speak, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my old pants. I curse and fish it out of the fabric before checking the screen.
I answer my father’s call with a curt greeting. The tenseness of his tone lifts the hairs on my nape. He ends the call after I voice my understanding.
I stick the phone in my new pants pocket and add my keys and other things from the old pair before tucking in my shirts and fastening the front.
“Expect a call after I figure out what my father wants,” I say as I thread my belt through the loops and close the buckle.
“You got it, boss,” Fiero quips.
His insistence on remaining a nameless soldier only solidifies my conviction that he’d be amazing as my second-in-command.
Removing my suit coat from the hanger, I pull it on and smooth the lapels before slipping my knife into my belt and closing my garment bag. Dressed in clean clothes and ready for whatever menial crap my father throws my way, I lift the bag from the counter—careful to hold it away from my outfit—and stalk through the building to the side door.
Fiero knows the drill. He’ll ensure we leave nothing behind.
Yet again, he’s perfect consigliere material, if he’d just get his head out of his ass and see reason.
I toss the bag into my trunk and slide into the driver’s seat before pulling away from the derelict building and heading directly to my familial home. My senses heighten as weight settles onto my shoulders. Driving through the ornate gates only increases the guilt lodged in the pit of my stomach.
Even though I’ll inherit the entire estate, I haven’t considered this my home in years. It feels more like a job—or rather an unwanted responsibility I can’t escape—so I bought a multi-family townhouse near our work building and outfitted it for increased safety.
Self-hatred curdles my stomach. If I had welcomed my sisters into my home instead of selfishly keeping my private space to myself, would their futures look less bleak than they do now?
As the thought crosses my mind, I push it aside. Serenity and Nico are happy. Dwelling on what ifs only leaves a man trapped in the past.
I must remain in the present—with my sights on the future—for the sake of my family. My parents have survived the cutthroat world, but it’s time for me to take over and accept responsibility, no matter how reluctant my father is to step down.
Fiero may not have said it directly, but he hinted at the truth. I let my emotions box me in for too long. Now I need to lean into cold, hard calculations.
For my family. My parents. Camilla. Serenity and her growing family.
I park in front of the family garage and wave away the attendant before striding in through the side door of the house.
“Mio figlio, you’re home,” Mamma says from the kitchenette.
I stop to exchange kisses on the cheeks and accept her open scrutiny as any wise son would. After admonishing me for being away too long, she points me toward my father’s study and warns me against keeping him waiting.
As I pass the dining room, I note the preparations for guests but pay little attention since my parents enjoy hosting small lunch parties often, but the somber air as I step into my father’s study sends my brain into overdrive. Knowing better than to skip the formalities with my father, I greet both him and my uncle before following their lead and joining them on the couches.
When my father splays his fingers over his armrest and squares his shoulders, I mentally brace myself while maintaining my attentive yet comfortable posture.
“There are rumors we need to dispel.”
My heart lurches, but I blank my mind and relax my face. I haven’t tried to keep my activities a secret from him, but I never asked his permission to go on a torturous rampage, either.
We should be beyond this. I’m not a child. He raised me to take over the family empire, and I’ve proven more than capable, yet he stunts my authority at every opportunity.
“We never expected Serenity to marry first. What happened to Camilla was horrible.” Uncle Narciso rolls his glass between his fingers as he considers his next words. “But we salvaged the relationship between the Vivaldi and Russo families with your younger sister’s wedding.”
“It’s only been two months since Serenity married, but we can’t ignore the rumors when they’re costing us business,” my father says.
I quirk a brow despite the dread settling in my gut. This is not the topic I expected to discuss.
“Which rumors?” I ask.
“The ones about you being gay,” my father says.
“Or infertile,” Uncle Narciso sneers.
A muscle ticks in my father’s jaw as he clenches his teeth in disgust. My mind refuses to grasp the ridiculousness of the conversation.
It’s true I haven’t visited our clubs recently, but anyone with half an ear to the ground would know it’s because I’ve been busy elsewhere.
“You’re getting married in four months. We expect a pregnancy announcement before the end of the first year.”
I blink at my father. He must be joking, but his unwavering gaze tells me otherwise.
My parents always made it abundantly clear my marriage would never actually be mine, so the news doesn’t shock me, but the timing fills me with unease.
I fix my suit coat and relax deeper into the couch as though I don’t give a shit and meet his watchful eyes.
“Who am I marrying?”
“Aurora Achilles.”
Disbelief runs down my spine. The last time I saw Aurora Achilles, she was an awkward and scrawny preteen. Dressed in a frilly white dress for an outdoor summer wedding, she’d pulled her brother away from me as though I had the plague, then fainted right at my feet. At nineteen, it was the most embarrassing moment of my life.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
Something in my uncle’s countenance splits my attention between him and the thoughts thundering through my mind.
If Aurora is eighteen now, then she’s seven years younger than I am. She must have been about twelve years old when she fainted at my feet, so it’s been over six years since I’ve seen her.
In fact, I’ve not heard anything about her since then either. No one has even said her name. Her parents rarely miss social events, but they never mention her or her brother.
My unease grows.
“Why the long face, Giorgio?” my father asks.
When I meet the calculating gleam in his dark eyes, ice encases my soul.
“I haven’t seen her in years. She was still a child the last time I saw her.”
“Does it matter what she looks like now?” My uncle chuckles as he clinks the ice in his glass. “She’s eighteen. I doubt you’ll have trouble wedding and bedding her.” He takes a sip and sets his glass down on the coffee table. “You’re both in your prime. Just have some fun breaking her in and knocking her up, then go back to playing around at the club.”
I grind my teeth and suck down a steadying breath before leaning forward and propping my elbows on my knees.
“She’s an Achilles, mio frio. I’m not sure that’s the best advice, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
His pupils shrink as I glare at him, daring him to refute me.
The Achilles family may not be as prominent as the Vivaldi family, but they have their own power. As one of New York City’s founding mafia families, only the stupid would dare cross them.
My uncle isn’t dumb. He wouldn’t say something so insulting in public, but he shouldn’t say it in private, either. Not after throwing unexpected news at me.
I sit back and sigh.
“Fine, then. A wedding in four months. When do we meet my bride-to-be?” I ask.
“Now. They should arrive any minute for lunch,” my father says.
It’s an underhanded tactic, and I don’t appreciate him using it on me, but voicing my frustration won’t help me now.
I aim unimpressed eyes at the man I once revered and allow more of my respect to fall away. With rage, guilt, and self-hatred fueling me, I see him as I’ve never seen him before.
Yes, he’s a powerful, deadly man, but he’s no longer the protector I once assumed he was.
We both failed my sisters, yet he shows no remorse.
“Good. Let’s get this over with, then,” I growl and wrap my determination to remain aloof in their presence around my spine.
It won’t be difficult. All I have to think about is how humiliating it was to have a tiny, gangly mafia princess wrapped in frills pass out at my feet.
Until I step into the foyer and come face-to-face with a fallen angel. With emerald eyes, legs for days, and trim curves that would tempt a saint, Aurora Achilles may be the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I’m so fucked.
