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Prologue
MAX—AGE 20
“She’s fucking dead, D.” I stare at my best friend Dante in horror as the bottle of brandy I drank last night threatens to make a sudden and violent reappearance.
His older brother, Lorenzo, stands behind him, his fingertips on the girl’s neck, checking for a pulse we all know he won’t find. Her lips are blue, for fuck’s sake.
“Calm down, Max,” Dante says in that cool, calm tone I’ve come to know so well. On any other occasion it might actually work on me, but not today.
I look past him, my eyes searching Lorenzo’s face for a sign that she isn’t dead. Maybe she passed out from too much vodka and cocaine, maybe—
His eyes leave her face and lock on mine. “We’ll take care of it,” is all he says.
“No!” I shake my head and rake my hands through my hair. “We can’t fix this. I fucking killed her, Loz,” I shout.
“Keep your voice down,” Lorenzo whispers angrily. “I said we will take care of it.”
I look down at her face again. Her ash-blond hair fans over the pillow, and the covers are pulled up over her naked body, protecting her modesty. Apart from the blue tinge to her lips, she looks like she’s sleeping. But the dark purple bruising on her neck—that I don’t even remember putting there—is unmistakable.
Bile burns the back of my throat. I’m a fucking monster. I don’t even remember taking her to bed, let alone fucking her and wrapping my hands around her goddamn neck. But that’s my thing, right? Choke them until they almost pass out? It makes the orgasm more intense. I’ve been into it since I first discovered the pleasure that can be found between a woman’s thighs. I’ve never attempted it while drunk off my ass before though. I never let it go too far.
Until now.
I stare at her. Nineteen years old. A life full of promise snuffed out by one careless act. My head spins so hard, I sway on my feet.
“Max! I asked you if anyone saw you coming in here together?” Dante asks, and I realize I must not have heard him the first time.How long has he been speaking to me?
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I was out of it. I don’t even remember bringing her in here. I don’t remember…” The words stick in my throat, and I almost choke on them. I’ve killed plenty of people before, and I’ve taken great pleasure in causing people pain. But this is something so much worse. I completely lost control, and I am a man who thrives on control.
Dante places his hands on my face, turning my head so I’ll focus on him instead of the dead girl in my bed. “It was an accident, compagno.”
Compagno? How the fuck can he still call me his friend after what I’ve done?“I killed her, D.”
Lorenzo checks his watch. “It’s not even ten yet. We can take her to the funeral home and incinerate the body before anyone even notices she’s missing.”
I blink at him. “This is Fiona Delgado we’re talking about. You don’t think her father is going to lose his fucking shit when he finds out his only daughter has disappeared? Everyone knows she was here last night.”
Lorenzo scowls at me. “And I am Lorenzo fucking Moretti, and if I want her to disappear then she will. Bruce Delgado will believe whatever the fuck I want him to.”
I swallow the knot of emotion that seems lodged in my throat. “I can’t ask you to do that for me. If anyone finds out…” It’s one thing to take out our enemies or to kill in the interest of business, but to strangle a girl to death during sex is on a whole other fucking level.
“They won’t,” Dante assures me.
“You’re our brother,” Lorenzo adds. “And this was an accident.” He says the last words with such conviction that I almost believe him.
ChapterOne
TWELVE YEARS LATER
JOEY
“Good girl,” Max says with a smirk as my right foot connects with the pad. I’m grateful that my cheeks are already flushed from the workout because those words coming from his perfect mouth have me about to melt into a puddle.
I, Joey Moretti—a one hundred percent card-carrying feminist—would gladly drop to my knees and crawl to this man if he told me to.
“You’re not done yet.” He nudges me with the pad, waiting for me to kick him again. Because our workout isn’t even half over. He works almost as hard as I do in these training sessions—pushing me to my limits and making me faster and stronger every time.
I hit him with another roundhouse, and his grunt of approval causes warmth to pool in my center. I doubt I’d work even half as hard for any other trainer, but Maximo DiMarco isn’t just any trainer. He is the reason I get out of bed every morning. He’s one of the most feared men in the city, but to me, he is sweet and funny and kind. And the fact he has a body that looks like it was chiseled by the gods themselves, not to mention the most incredible dark brown eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life, doesn’t hurt either. But he’s also my older brothers’ best friend, the right hand of the Cosa Nostra, and as off-limits to me as any man can be.
