“My aunts,” I said, already hauling ass to slip the robe over her shoulders and pull on my sweatpants. I had to be careful. Time didn’t exist when I was with her. That could be a dangerous thing in my world.
I flung Mia over my shoulder after we were dressed, taking off out the back door. The last thing I heard was voices fading into disbelief.
“What the—!”
“What has happened here—!”
“S-Saverio!” Mia’s words bounced out, but quicker than before. I was almost running. “We have to go back! I need to—”
“No can do,” I said, going beyond the gates and getting lost in the citrus groves. We’d have to hose off and then take the long way back. My old aunts were the original Sicilian security systems. “Unless you’re ready to become a widow. My aunts are old school, and they don’t take any shit. Least of all from me.”
“Oh, that’s right. Trouble.” She spelled the word. Then she heaved out a sigh and went limp over my shoulder. “You’re lucky I love you,” she muttered.
“Yeah,” I said, kissing her leg. “I know.”
Chapter24
Saverio
The Ducati trembled between my thighs, anxious for the ride. My old man would be riding ahead of me, Rocco next to him. Matteo next to me. Brando and Mariano were staying behind to keep an eye on Mia. It was the first time I’d left her since we got married. But her safety came first, and the situation with Arsenius Bykov needed attention.
The fake wedding drew them out, and one of our men was killed. Two purple roses in whittled coffins were delivered to Mia’s apartment in Paris. The fuckers were sending it through the mail. Elio Ascari’s family had reported him missing. One of Luca’s properties in Florence had been vandalized—meaning, a truck being driven by itself had tried to smash through the gates. The men took cover right before it exploded.
We never did business on the property in Modica. It was off the grid. Couldn’t be traced. And unless Bykov had somehow figured out who my old man really was, the property held no connections to any of us.
Matteo revved the bike, feeling the speed in his blood already. My old man lifted his hand in a sign that meant it was time to roll. He and Rocco took off at the same time, me and Matteo following. The street was wide-open this far out, and we were hovering around 180 miles per hour. The four us were decked out in all black gear, except for our bikes, which were blood red. Italian colors were hand-painted inside of the shape of Italy on the side.
We took a tight turn, and my body leaned with the speed, my knee barely grazing the asphalt. After the land straightened, my old man’s bike went up.
Fucking showoff.
He was doing a wheelie going at high speed. Not to be outdone, Rocco did one next. Followed by Matteo. I dropped speed a little, hit the throttle hard, pulling the front wheel of the bike up. I hit the back brake, coming down straight, cruising for a second or two. I hit the throttle again, passing Matteo, my old man, and Rocco.
There was no doubt why Luca Fausti loved this. Why he thrived in the fast lane. It was intoxicating. It sent adrenaline rushing through my blood. Not much compared to it.
One thing did come to mind, though.
Being trapped in a room with a starved lioness who scented blood and was about to pounce.
My lioness.
A grin came to my face when I thought about how she pounced on me before I left. I sucked in a breath through my teeth when I thought about her curves and how they were more dangerous than the turns we were taking.
Just the thought of her shot another rush of adrenaline through me.
I thrived on the rush she sent through my bloodstream.
She was my ride or die.
No less than my wife would ever do for me.
We rode for an hour and half before we arrived at the building. My old man ruffled my hair and called me a showoff as we approached. Rocco and Matteo laughed. The sound was so similar, it was hard to tell the difference between them. Guido and Vincenzo waited outside. Vincenzo stood with his back to the door of the restaurant, taking drags off his cigarette. Guido kept fanning his face, trying to get the smoke to move.
They might have been brothers, but they were total opposites.
We all shook hands and then entered the restaurant. Tomatoes, garlic, and red wine seemed to simmer in the air, with an undercurrent of fish. It went straight to my stomach. But we had some business to attend to first.
While the rest of them took their seats in the private room, I followed my old man into the back. I’d follow him into war without him even asking me to. There weren’t many like Mac Macchiavello left in the world. There was a reason they called him the Machiavellian Prince of New York back in the day. He out-schemed the best schemers. No one could best him. He moved like a ghost in smoke. He survived hell and came back even stronger. He was what legends were made of.
