Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 125962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Isabella was the only connection I had to the family, and I was sure her father had merely tolerated me for the sake of the daughter he adored.
The opposite had happened. The Catalanos had pulled me close, made it clear they had no intentions of kicking me to the curb. They brought me into the fold. Gave me a home. A family. Like they had with countless other young men and women over the past two decades.
They weren’t fucking saints by any stretch of the imagination. By becoming part of the family, you were committing to a life of crime and violence.
Whenever popular culture depicted people in the organized crime business, they usually plagued them with morals, struggling over some kind of existential crisis regarding the way they made their money. It was purely to make them more likeable. To get the audience to root for them. The public operated under the guise that they needed a hero. They needed someone who was fundamentally good, even if they did terrible things. The head of the mafia sat in a therapist’s office, talking about their fears and whatever the fuck. But the problem was, that was utter bullshit.
People were inherently evil. Greedy. Lustful. Vengeful. Violent. The famous saying was that everyone had two wolves inside of them, terrible and great. Everyone was the same. What made people different, better, was which wolf they fed.
I only had one wolf.
And he was well fed.
Without this life, I would’ve ended up in jail or dead. There was no other ending for me. Now I was richer than fuck and one of the most powerful men in the country.
Now I had Sienna.
“Drink?” I offered, nodding to the bar in the corner. The one that had been here since before I could remember.
I’d changed nothing about the office.
Not even the portrait of Isabella that tore me apart every time I glanced at it. I made a habit of not looking at it, pretending she wasn’t staring at me as I made decisions to end lives, as I brutally murdered people in this very office for crossing me. I kept her there so I could remind myself I’d killed the boy that loved her, that if she was alive now she’d be disgusted by what I had become.
“A drink?” he repeated. “Most definitely. But I will get it.” He glanced to the French doors. “We will have it outside, I think.”
I smirked, nodding once. Giving orders, making decisions, came natural to him. As did my instinct to obey those orders. He was the only man living who could tell me what to do, even if it was something as inconsequential as where to sit.
I went to open the doors, letting the scent of the roses enter the room. Isabella’s favorite. It was why they were planted right outside her father’s office. Why they were lovingly tended to by her mother, not trusting anyone else with them. To this day, Sofia came twice weekly. Afterwards, we’d have espresso and croissants she’d baked fresh. A routine. One I treasured.
I took the glass that Vincentius handed to me gratefully. After this day, I needed a fucking drink. I made a habit of being sharp, sober at all times. If one used alcohol to dull the edges that came with this life, they’d die of liver failure before they turned fifty. Though they wouldn’t make it to fifty, because someone would take them out long before that.
We sat in silence for a handful of minutes, watching the sun move downward in the sky, the occasional flash of black as the guards patrolled the grounds. There were always six men, heavily armed, around the property at any given moment. Even though it was just me here these days, and I could take care of anyone brave or stupid enough to take on the Don.
It was about sending a message.
To someone who hadn’t struck in twenty-five years.
But the wound still bled.
It wasn’t just me here any longer, I remembered. Sienna lived here now too, she wasn’t fucking leaving, I would make sure of that. She had fire. Fight. But not enough. She would have to train.
With Felix, I decided.
I trusted no one else.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Vincentius finally spoke.
I shook my head. Even years retired, the man was as sharp as ever. Nothing got past him. Not even the forced engagement that was not even twelve hours old.
His tone was inscrutable. Though the Don was ruthless, merciless, he had a code. Not once in the time I worked for him had I seen or heard about a woman being held against her will. Being forced into anything. There were strict rules about such things. Rules that the Don enforced personally.
He seemed placid enough, friendly, his normal self. But that was a skill perfected over the years. Sometimes, family betrayed you. And you had to be willing to cut them out like a tumor. Erase them. In order to do that and be successful, you had to keep them ignorant to your plans right until the very end.