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He glances at me in the rear-view mirror. “So, are you going to tell me what your plan is for the girl?” His Italian accent is thick as his tongue rolls around the syllables. He’s been here for a year now, coming from my hometown of Reggio Calabria in the south of Italy. We grew up together, but my folks brought me to America when I was sixteen.
Since the moment Mario arrived, I knew he had to be close because he was always my sanity when I was younger and not thinking straight. And I’m thankful for him.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. There’s no question, I must go through with the wedding, but I know that’s not what he’s asking. He knows me better than I do myself, and he wants my response on whether she’ll take her place by my side.
There aren’t any rules in our family that say I must be wed to step into the role of Boss, but I’m not sure my father would be pleased if I go back on my word. In the contract, it states she must take my last name, and she must bear my children, an heir to the Familia.
“You know, you’re a bad liar, cugino,” Mario says with a smirk. “She’s gotten under your skin.”
“It’s not even been two days,” I bite out, frustration flowing through me at the accusation. I don’t want to admit it, but something tells me Mario will needle away at me until I’m confessing every damn thought I have about her. “Make sure she has the studio ready for tomorrow.”
“Are you going to watch her dance?” he queries, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone which only frustrates me more. I pin him with a glare, only for him to laugh out loud, the sound echoing in the space of the car.
“You’re a fucking stronzo, Mario.” I pull out my cell phone and find a message from Valentino waiting for me. When I tap it open, my attention is caught on the order. “Take me to the warehouse,” I tell Mario without looking up. I respond quickly to Valentino to let him know I’m on my way.
“What’s going on?” Mario’s question has me looking up with a smile on my face. It’s the first one I’ve allowed myself to have since my little ballerina walked into my home.
“The men have brought in Olivetti,” I inform my best friend. The man in question has been eluding us, but still dealing within our territory. Tonight, he’ll learn nobody crosses a De Rossi. And the grin on Mario’s face confirms just how much fun we’re about to have.
Mario presses his foot on the gas, taking a quick left turn, only to earn himself screeching tires and blaring horns from the drivers behind him. “Sorry about that, boss,” he says with a chuckle, even though I’ve told him repeatedly to call me by my name, he persists on the title of boss when we’re on a job.
It doesn’t take long for us to reach the warehouse. This place is owned by the De Rossi clan, and we ensure that it’s in frequent use. From captives who’ve stolen from us to men who have sullied the family name. And there are also times when we bring in the worst of the worst—criminals who do sick shit in the world. It’s our job to make sure the city is cleansed of vile human beings. And I’m the one who does the cleaning.
When we pull up into the warehouse, I push open the car door and am assaulted with an ice-cold breeze, which promises we’re in for a terrible winter. Only, I enjoy the cold. It’s the only time I’m able to breathe in deeply and forget the stench from the enemies I kill.
In summer, a body rots quicker, the smell is stronger, and I tend to draw out the torture, which only makes the memories more tangible in my mind. Even when I don’t want them to be. Buttoning up my suit jacket, I take in the area, which is empty aside from the three cars parked beside ours. So, it’s taken three of our men to get this asshole tied down.
Right on the edge of the city is a derelict warehouse that’s been in my family since I can remember. My father used it when he was Underboss, and when I stepped up the ladder, he gave me the keys. Most children reach twenty-one and receive keys to a home, or a car, or some other mundane item, but I got my own torture chamber.
“Looks like they had their work cut out for them,” Mario assesses, noting the blood that trails its way toward the entrance. That’s a lot of crimson for a man who still needs to go through the trauma of my questioning.
