Page 11 of The Mafia’s Fiancee

Chapter 5

Luke

Jimmy accompanied meto the fight. He never drove with me, only occasionally meeting me at the fights. He didn’t show for all of them.

“Because I’ve always tried to maintain my distance from you,” he explained when I asked what was so special about him coming to this fight tonight.

After we faced each other off at what was, in fact, the original Rossini estate, where my father lie in the bed and hooked up to all those machines, he suggested that I return Randy’s car and stick with him.

My life didn’t seem like my own anymore. I was used to working, then working overtime. Fighting. Then crashing at home for as much sleep as I could manage.

Nothing seemed the same now.

The focus that drove me to stay alert was Emma. I hadn’t stopped worrying about her or thinking about her for a moment. Even on this drive to the fight location, somewhere that was changed to keep it all secret, I tried to resist the what-ifs about where she was and if she was okay.

“And, I want to see Marchese,” Jimmy said. He maintained a stern glower on the road as he drove, concentrating but also deep in thought.

“Antonio?” I asked.

“And his father, Vincent.”

The boss. “What makes you think they’ll show?” Crime leaders usually had their lackeys attend for them. Some cartel lords showed up here and there, but usually, the big bosses stayed away.

“Because they’ve asked for a challenge one of their best fighters.”

I grunted a laugh. All this time, I’d been eager to fight higher up. To make more money and advance. Here I was, getting that fucking wish, and it was the last thing on my mind.

I understood Jimmy’s strategy. He wanted to observe the Marchese men. I did too. But this fight was nothing more than a ploy in my mind. I didn’t care about a win or money. I cared about collecting intel about Emma.

“And since they’re coming,” Jimmy said, “I don’t think that they’ve got Emma. Not in their custody.”

“How so?”

He sighed, as though he hated to discuss this because he was still holding on to the hope that I’d give up on Emma.

“Antonio’s a sick fuck. He’s obsessed with marrying Emma. If he had her in custody, he wouldn’t give a shit about watching his fighter. Or you.”

Through my peripheral vision, I noticed him glance at me. I was too busy scoping out this shitty, rundown warehouse area outside Miami.

“He’s heard enough about you and his men have seen you with Emma enough that he knows you’re his enemy, but Luke.” He exhaled a hard breath. “You cannot let him know you’re Marlo’s son.”

“Why?”

“No one can know yet.”

Yet. That was the key word I latched on to. Jimmy was scheming something. He had some kind of plan to follow if he intended to let the world know I was Marlo Rossini’s son. Just not yet.

Why?

I had a layman’s understanding of the inner politics of the mafia, but I’d ask Emma, not my uncle. I trusted her, not him.

“Trust me,” he said, hedging an actual reply.

Not a fucking chance in hell I’m making that mistake twice, Uncle.

We arrived at a warehouse, and he paused me from going in. He set his hand on my forearm and pierced me with a stern look. “Do you understand?”

I didn’t, but I could play along. I was still coming to terms that the sick, old mafia boss I saw lying in that bed was my long-lost father I never knew about. I wasn’t in any position to broadcast the news I had yet to fully accept.