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You don’t even remember his name, the rest of me agreed.
The judgment in Gio’s eyes didn’t escape my notice. They flicked to the security monitor in front of me.
“I’m telling you to be damn sure your house is clean. Before it starts infesting mine.”
I ran a tired hand down my face. Ever since he’d paid off Elsa, Gio had been looking for a way to reshape our relationship.
He had never drawn a line between me and the family like this before. He was serious about this, which made me more alert than I wanted to be while tipsy.
A rat was good for no one.
A rat at L’Oscurità was worse.
It meant everyone I gave a shit about—Asher, Lucy, Niccolaio, Gio, Everett, and the rest of my family—were at risk. I would have taken care of the rat without being asked.
When people fucked with what was mine, I left them without a dick to fuck with.
Simple as that.
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” I slid my phone out of my pocket and unlocked the screen, dismissing Gio.
He nodded.
“See you around, son.” His footsteps paused a few feet short of the door. “You see Old Man Tony’s daughter lately? She’s got tits out to here.”
He stretched his arms out a foot away from his chest.
I spared him no attention as I said, “Kindly fuck off, Gio.”
He laughed all the way out the door, and when the handle clicked shut, I let out a long exhale.
This—caring for my family—was how I always got roped into the mafia life. I had gotten away with just running L’Oscurità for a while, but all signs pointed to my reprieve coming to an unwilling end.
And I wasn’t close to ready for it.
Chapter
Three
One painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier.
HELEN KELLER
ARIANA DE LUCA
“Deep breaths, Ari,” I muttered to myself, much like the homeless woman who’d taken up residence outside my new apartment building two days ago. “You can do this. Everyone has their first big cover.”
My affirmations fooled no one.
The likelihood of coming out of this cover dead outweighed my probability of living.
I might as well get used to pasty skin and the matching hand-me-down funeral dress Aunt Nadia had made me promise to wear to the grave.
I sent my handler Simmons a quick coded text message, letting him know my position, and then I pushed him out of my mind.
I hated being partnered with him. Simmons had a recognizable face—a near replica of his dad’s, who served as the secretary of state for the current administration.
Nine out of ten times, someone recognized him before he could even start his cover. The bureau still hadn’t pulled him from fieldwork.
