He took a step forward and the intense look on his face created an image of a predator. When he slowly lowered his gaze, it wasn’t as if he was undressing me with his eyes.
The powerful savior was ensuring I hadn’t been hurt.
Suddenly, he was crowding my space, yet I wasn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. I felt a strong pull to him, more so than I had before.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked, the timbre of his voice even huskier than before.
Intension vibrations tickled every nerve ending.
“No. I think he was running from someone, trying to find a way of escaping.”
When he laughed, while the sound was subtle, the vibrations would last for a very long time. “He was. You should know better than to fight back.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I wasn’t brought up to become a victim or to allow a bad man to try and control me.”
My statement seemed to amuse him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He reached out, curling his fingers and I found myself leaning in. The light brush of his knuckles left me paralyzed with a sinful moment of desire.
“Then sadly, I’ll need to walk away.”
After another sweeping look, he took a step backward. “Because not only am I a very bad man, but I would enjoy nothing more than controlling you.”
CHAPTER 3
Alexander
The sudden silence was jarring, the cutaway from the small but powerful brass band trailing behind the procession a stark reminder of why the family had been gathered on a gloomy day. The band’s slow, mournful hymns had done nothing to improve my mood or the thoughts of retaliation.
There was no doubt Vitelli Russo had ordered the hit on my father.
Soon, he would learn what pain truly felt like.
As required for the jazz funeral as demanded by my mother and grandmother, everyone participating in the several-hour event was dressed in somber attire, the pitch-black clothing fully embracing the ache everyone in our family felt.
There would be a celebration of life following the proceedings, all those invited changing into more festive attire. The same band would descend on my parents’ home, providing upbeat music as everyone drank and gorged on lavish foods.
While maintaining traditions was important, I had no tolerance for pretense. A man had been murdered, gunned down in cold blood, and no celebration or Hoodoo as still practiced by my grandmother would bring my father back from the dead.
Now we were finally standing in front of the tomb purchased several generations before, a location where my father would remain for a year and a day, the tradition popular in New Orleans. The walk through the ancient cemetery had taken a full thirty minutes and with every moment and every step taken, my anger had increased.
Soon, the rage would be out of control.
The protocol was in place even so soon after my father’s death. I stood in front with Sinclair to my left, Montgomery then Jaxon, the powerful slain Don’s sons all together. All other family members and guards hidden in the crowd were positioned behind us. Including my mother and sister.
This was the way of our father’s mafia and his father before him. While there was no formal ceremony, I’d already been crowned the Don.
Given the escalation of the war, the Russos would soon learn the price of destroying a legacy would be fraught with agony unlike anything they’d ever experienced before. While I’d been advised by almost everyone that since Russo had yet to lay claim to the horrible act, I should be careful in laying blame until absolute confirmation, in my gut I knew Russo was responsible.
The timing had been too perfect.
As soon as the priest took his position I swept the perimeter of the cemetery, studying the faces of everyone in the crowd. Maybe I was hopeful Russo would show his ugly face. After all,there were several important members of society who’d come to pay their respects.
Maybe they were merely gawking, enjoying the loss of power within such an influential family.
My brothers, sister, and I shifted toward our stoic mother and I had a direct view of her lovely face and haunted eyes as she tried desperately to cling to what little comfort her children could provide.
My uncles and aunts flanked the massive stone fixture, both men hiding their fury much better than I’d managed since learning the horrific news.
Emmeline had taken our father’s death the hardest, the sound of her racking sobs like a dagger driven through my jugular.
