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ChapterOne
DEMETRI
Famiglia.
It’s a simple word. The process of life regenerating the same genes, although slightly altered to become a unique individual. The matching blood that courses through each family member’s vein is their own insignia. A connection, one they don’t get to choose. It’s a biologically genetic anchor that ties you to someone else for life whether you want to be or not.
Most times it’s a blessing.
Other times, a curse.
The same blood that courses through my veins roars with the utmost amount of brutal disloyalty.
Standing in the shadows with an astute interest, I watch the partygoers for any sign of a threat. The women, dressed in their sexiest best, are carefree and laughing freely among their endless chatter. All of them clueless to the danger lurking.
No event at the Don’s estate should be held at face value.
My orders were given to me one week ago.
All who were gifted the invitation to attend are privileged guests, and therefore, here for a specific reason.
Every man standing on my boss’s land understands that.
Every female companion—whether wife or goomah—sees it as a social gathering.
I scan the area once again, noticing Giovanni, our top caporegime—and my unrelated brother—as hedances with his wife Isabelle. She is hard to miss with her regalbeauty and flaming red hair. Giovanni’s piercing, wise eyes are scanning the scene around them as well. His protective arms rest around Isabelle’s back with a splayed hand of armor covering her small frame.
I see my target across the yard. I watch their every move. Studying mannerisms is my specialty. Breaking skulls for information, that’s just for entertainment.
I’m a ruthless man and I make no excuses for it.
“Demetri,” my boss—the Godfather to us all—calls from across the makeshift dance floor with a slow, commanding curl of his hand.
I nod, acknowledging his order. Because that is exactly what it is: an order. I make my way across the space, weaving my way through the crowd of beautiful people celebrating the Don’s birthday. The outdoor speakers beat to a slow tune. I make eye contact with Giovanni as I move towards Mr. Heart.
Antonio, Mr. Heart’s firstborn, and the underboss of this family, stands once I reach his table.
“Sir,” I respectfully greet him once I flank his side.
He stands, placing his hand on my shoulder. The Edison lights hanging above give off a warm sense of romantic security. A blanket of artificial safety. The perfect setting to distract unsuspected targets.
Powerful men, the heads of the five families, sit in thousand-dollar suits around the circular table Mr. Heart and Antonio just exited. Smoke lingers in the air from the cherry tips of thick illegal cigars most middle-class workers wish they could indulge in. A luxury we are allotted due to our illegal dealings. The extravagances we get to obtain for the dangerous life we chose to lead aren’t fulfilling but satisfying.
The bosses stand from their seats, greeting one of our newer business associates.
An ally we once thought to be an enemy.
Cillian McKittrick, a Northern Ireland native, worked his way up to be the head of the Irish since his father had fallen ill. Both organizations have executed rewarding business ventures together. The union has been lucrative. Initially, we thought he was an enemy feeding us bad intel, but ultimately his information saved lives, most importantly, Isabelle’s. From there we quickly learned he was neither friend nor foe. He was a businessman looking to expand on this side of the pond. He came with a wealth of information, and a proposition was made in exchange for that report. He became an even richer man because of it.
Each boss exchanges the customary handshake, and a respectable greeting is spoken. When the social pleasantries are finished and the men retake their seats, Mr. Heart excuses himself and takes a few steps away with a silent order for Cillian and me to follow.
I’m quick to observe that Cillian’s interest is anywhere but on our conversation. A disrespect to the boss while he discusses business. A moment later, I recognize why. He calls out, demanding the attention of the stunning strawberry blonde with exquisite spiral curls exiting the pool house. Her full-figured five-foot-seven frame is wrapped in a blush pink, body-hugging, knee-length dress as she swaggers towards us in four-inch heels. I study her as she heads in our direction. Her steps aren’t measured, they’re natural. She’s used to wearing heels. Her strides are as smooth as her skin. Though, her smile is too bright. It’s one of an unsure, virtuous girl as she approaches Cillian. She is young, but of age. Her gaze embraces her innocence, but her body screams obscenities.
A delectable sight if I ever saw one.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never witnessed a female more achingly stunning.
“Haven,” Cillian addresses her with a warm, outstretched hand. “Please greet Mr. Heart and his capo, Demetri Carbone. Gentlemen, my sister, Haven.”
