Stop.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I reach for a towel on the table and then check the display. My father.
“Yeah?” I swipe the towel over my face and neck, the coppery scent of blood in my nostrils. The Beast still huffing and clawing in my chest, not happy playtime was so short.
“The Commission has called a meeting at the tower. You are to attend. Thirty minutes.” He hangs up.
I stare at the phone in annoyance and a touch of trepidation. After motioning for the soldiers to clean up, I dial another number. “Get Gunnar then pick me up. And I’ll need a new suit.”
***
I slide out of the black Escalade onto the bustling New York sidewalk and button my Armani jacket. The biting wind immediately chills the sweat on the back of my neck. Not much makes me nervous, but the Commission—which consists of the five New York clan heads—insisting I attend their meeting does.
Since my father Giovi LaRocca is head of our clan, he usually attends these meetings alone. He’d made me—his oldest son at twenty-eight—his underboss two years ago, but that still wasn’t worthy of an invite at the big boys’ table. Until now.
I squint up at the mirrored high-rise glistening against the cold, gray January sky, feeling uneasy about my fate. Something is about to change, and I’d bet my life it’s not going to be in a good way.
A gruff voice cuts through the traffic noise. “Ready, Sandro?”
Taking a deep breath, I give a slight nod to Gunnar, who’s standing at my side in a similar black suit, his expression also tight with trepidation.
Gunnar Lund is a six-foot-five blond, blue-eyed tank, my enforcer and best friend. Being a Swede, he isn’t amade man, but he saved my life when I was fourteen, so my father made sure everyone knew he was protected anyway. He’s one of the few men I trust with my life.
We’re quiet on the elevator ride up to the top floor. The tense silence trails us down the gleaming marble hallways as we follow the secretary to the back meeting room with double oak doors.Two muscle-headed soldiers with Ruger Mini-14 rifles slung over their shoulders eye us as we approach.
Gunnar tenses beside me. I’m not worried. I know he’s armed, too, and fast for a giant.
The secretary opens one of the double doors and motions for us to enter.
I don’t miss the way her doe-eyes skate up my six-four, muscular frame and then hold eye contact with an inviting smile. I wish I could feel something when women do this, but there’s only one woman who’s ever stirred my shriveled black heart. One I will never have.
One I will never deserve.
The first thing I notice is my father. He’s leaning back in the chair, his dark figure in stark contrast to the wall of glass windows displaying the gray city behind him. A cappuccino cup is perched in one hand and a knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
This gives me pause. I expected him to be solemn. Worried. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.
“Alessandro, welcome. Come, have a seat.” Joey Amato waves a hand glinting with gold rings to the empty seat at the end of the table. His dark eyes are a bit more serious, the bodyguard standing behind him also keeping a serious gaze locked on me.
There is respect but not trust. And for good reason. In our world, power changes hands swiftly, usually in a hail of bullets and blood.
I glance around the table at the other three New York bosses as I take a seat. They are all studying me like a microscopic specimen. I don’t like it.
The secretary has followed us in and quietly brings me a cappuccino, sets it in front of me, and then disappears back through the doors.
I fold my hands and rest them on the table, meet each Don’s eye, raise a brow at my father, and wait for someone to tell me what the hell is going on here.
Carlo Moretti is on my right. He’s a big guy with a face like a bulldog and the temper of a wounded bear. He leans forward, squints at me, and motions with a sausage finger to his neck. “You have a little something…”
Gunnar leans forward above me, snatches a napkin from the table and whispers, “Blood, you missed some.”
I wipe at my neck, coming away with some of the predator’s splattered blood.
My father chuckles. “Jesus, Sandro.”
I shrug, tossing the crumpled napkin back on the table.
Carlo’s cheeks press up in an amused smile before he gets serious again. “The Bratva,” he snarls. “They’ve gotten too powerful in Florida. We’ve let it go for too long and now thebastardihave moved from Miami north into Tampa. Rumor has it they’re trafficking. Which we know brings too much heat, too many feds to the area. That can’t stand.”
