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My father sometimes addresses me as Don Vitelli. I’m not stupid enough to take it as a compliment. It’s his way of never letting me forget who I am—who he’s forced me to be by retiring early. He’s schooling me from behind, the sneaky fox.
Not that I’m complaining. Having the most influential man in the Outfit defer to me has its perks among my men and with the other families, especially in times like this, rife with rebellions and factions itching to make the Outfit like the setup they’ve got in New York.
“Father, it’s a woman. A civilian. I make it a point never to send men to do something I have not done before.” I can’t consign anyone to a hell I haven’t lived in.
Father scoffs, but I see the grudging respect in his eyes. “Honor destroys us all in the end.” He tips his glass of wine to me. It’s a saying I’ve heard all my life. But he’s sixty now, which is a ripe old age for a man like him, so honor can’t be all that bad.
I reply with a shrug, “Something ought to kill a man.”
He only smiles, shakes his head and mutters cryptically. “Yes, but self-awareness is a rare virtue, figlio mio. In any case, be sure to make it quick and clean.”
It’s my turn to scoff. As if he needs to tell me how to kill a man. Although I’ve never killed a woman before, so there’s that.
“I’ll get Pietro on logistics, otherwise, nobody will know of this,” My father says, all business again.
“Grazie, Padre.”
He stands to leave but not without a respectful dip of his head.
After I’m alone, I pick up the photograph of Dr. Sophie Kellan. It’s a headshot taken from a long-range camera this morning through an open window of her house. She’s sitting in front of an easel, but she appears to be lost in thought rather than actively painting.
I take in more of her features: dark hair slicked back into a bun, high cheekbones, and an interesting mouth with a perfectly bow-shaped top lip. She's gnawing on her bottom lip, and I find myself almost reaching out to gently free it from between her teeth, curious to see what it looks like relaxed. Beyond her prim exterior, there's something earthy and raw about her. My cock stirs, and I grind my molars against the lust and regret surging inside me.
That she’s hot should not make any difference, you fucking horny bastard.
I slide the photo into my jacket coat and reach for my phone. I need to get laid. Bury myself in enough pussy to forget Sophie Kellan’s mouth, and what I’m about to do to her.
Chapter Four
Sophie
If ever there was a morning from hell, this is it. Seriously, I’m just waiting to see flames licking up the walls and the guy with the pitchfork and horns to show up.
I pick myself up off the living room floor where I’d fallen—because apparently, my own feet are trip hazards this morning.
My travel mug of coffee is empty, but the coffee now decorates my pristine cream-colored rug in a wonderful splatter pattern. Ugh, just wonderful.
“Maybe I’ll leave it and call it art,” I tell George.
It could work.
Abandoning the masterpiece for the time being, I go to drop the empty travel mug in the kitchen sink, fix my bun, which is now leaning precariously to the left, and hurry to the door. But I stop there and turn around, hand on the doorknob.
“All right, as you know, it’s a Monday. It’s going to be a long day, and we don’t want to bother Ms. Willoughby, so you hold down the fort, and I'll be back with something special,” I say enticingly.
George just looks at me. I swear he’s giving me the evil eye. He hates being left alone.
“You’re going to tear this place apart by the time I get home, aren’t you?”
George quacks. That’s a yes. Definitely a yes.
Shit.
I wouldn’t have thought a duck could do much damage, but in the short time George and I have been roommates, he’s proven me wrong. On many occasions. He kind of has a talent for it.
“I’ll throw in a bag of bugs,” I cajole, trying to sweeten the deal.
George doesn’t respond. I decide that means he’s considering my offer. Good enough.
