Fuck is that going to make this difficult. Boring people don’t take risks or date questionable men. They certainly don’t look kindly on mobsters transforming into seven-foot-tall werewolves who like to maim and kill and fuck while they are still covered in blood.
“Should I keep an eye on her, Mr Benetti?” Dino’s question pops me out of a spiralling kidnapping plan that involves tying my girl up and breaking her into a million pieces until she only knows what way is up because I tell her so.
“No,” I bark too quickly. “No, she’s Junelle’s friend, treat her with respect. This is a wedding, ain’t it?”
Dino is definitely not convinced by my reaction, but he’s been around long enough to know to keep his mouth shut. I say goodbye and transform back into my wolf. I’ve got shit to do. Being the boss doesn’tallow for distractions like this. My mate is safe, she’s surrounded by my family, people I trust with my life. I will hunt her down in the morning.
For now, I’ve got a rat to squeeze.
The run should have done me some good. Besides the fact that I could always use some more exercise, finding Cheyenne has clouded all my thoughts. As I approach the small hunting cabin that hasn’t been used for that purpose in decades, I recentre myself on the task at hand. I can’t let on to Andrea that I’ve found my mate at his wedding. This is a big weekend for him. I don’t want to overshadow it.
Outside the cabin, Ugo stands guard outside of our rat cage with a suit bag draped over his shoulders.
I’m not sure how the little human shit stain who runs one of our swimming piers was able to get enough information to have one of our capos locked up stateside, but I’m going to find out. As an associate, he’s not in the know. He’s not a made man, and he most certainly ain’t a fucking wolf. Which means we are going to start our little interrogation in human form.
“Hey, boss,” Ugo grins, canines sharper and deadlier. He is my go-to guy for scaring the shit out of people who don’t want to pay up or shut up. He’s akiller through and through, but a loyal enforcer I’d trust with my life.
“How was the drive up?” I make chitchat before I shift down. I’ve got to refocus my wolf on the task at hand before I can turn human again.
There aren’t two fucking wolves inside me. That is some fucking Grade A bullshit. Werewolves aren’t born, they are made, just like all the people in our little syndicate. The transformation changes you physically, emotionally, mentally. It brings out all your traits as a person, but it also adds more beastly ones. And those new ones sometimes try to run the show.
Like now.
“Fine, ya know how it goes.” Ugo shrugs. “They scream, they fight, they beg. Andrea and Junelle were on the phone the whole drive up, discussing flower arrangements while he fucking cried in the background. I thought she was gonna come out here and rip his fucking throat out herself.”
This is yet another shining example of why Junelle is perfect for Andrea. My nephew, second in line for head of the Benetti family, is a soft guy. He likes things to be neat, solved with a bit of conversation and maybe a contract being signed. His parents wanted him raised book smart, God rest their souls, but he’s not a killer. Junelle will slit a man’s throat over the brunch table if he gets in her way.
How did Cheyenne and Junelle ever become friends? College roommates doesn’t automatically mean friends for life. My new niece doesn’t trust easily, but that could just be my assumption based on the circumstances of our introduction.
It’s not something I enjoy doing, but I force the change. Ugo throws the bag at me, and I put on my black suit. It’s a bit warm for it, but appearance matters in cases like this. I slap Ugo on the shoulder and head inside.
The air is stale with hydrogen peroxide. Humans can’t smell it, but it lingers after a clean-up. Andrea and Marcello, our capo based here in Italy who is also my second cousin on my father’s side, play cards at a small garden table. The shit stain hangs from a chain in the ceiling. His sandals scrape against the tiled floor as he swings slowly, whimpering and muttering a prayer through his split lip.
“You get lost, Tino?” Andrea smirks as reveals his hand, a full house.
Marcello falls back into his chair with a groan, before tossing his watch at my nephew. Okay, maybe he’s soft, but he’s a bit of a card shark. Not like any of us have played fair before in our life, why start with a game of cards?
“Just some business at the villa,” I explain, giving him a look. He rolls his eyes. We both know I won’t sayanything in front of the rat until his still-beating heart is stomped flat under my boot.
“Junelle won’t like that,” he hums. “I’ve already had to give her bad news tonight.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The florist isn’t trying hard enough, so I need to have a little chat with them,” he says quickly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
A smirk forms on my lips. Yeah, I’ve seen how a chat from Andrea can change a man’s mind. Whatever they’re fucking up, the florist will soon have a different tune to sing.
“Giuseppe here would like to explain himself, boss.” Marcello brings us back to business. “He is very, very sorry.”
The rat nods. I get a closer look at him under the light, see the tear tracks lining his cheeks, the swelling around his jaw. The boys have roughed him up a bit, but it’s nothing serious yet, nothing permanent.
“How long have you worked for us?”
“Ten years, Mr Benetti,” he whispers, struggling to form the words in English.
“Were we not treating you well?” I switch to Italian.
“Yes, I mean no, no, you treat me very well, sir.” He flinches when I take off my jacket.
