The Bratva is the Russian mafia. They moved in after the fall of Communism and have been getting more organized and more powerful in Florida ever since, with strongholds in South Beach, Hollywood, Hallandale Beach and Sunny Isles, which has earned the nicknameLittleMoscow.
I take a sip of cappuccino, waiting for what this has to do with me. A quick glance at my father, his smirk still in place, tells me he’s pleased with whatever’s coming.
“As you’re aware, we’ve always considered Florida open territory with no one family having exclusive rights to operate. But that policy now has to change. We need to shore up our businesses there and need a leader to organize and protect them. It’s time to take Florida seriously. We’ve decided to promote you, Alessandro.” Carlo’s smile presses into the flesh of his cheeks as he holds out his hands, palms up. “You will be the new boss of Tampa.”
I blink. Once. Twice. This was not at all what I was expecting. “Why me?”
Sonny D’Angelo speaks up. He’s the smallest in stature, and the quietest but the oldest and wisest. His voice is gruff and shaky. The man is pushing eighty, a feat in our world. He must have some goddamn fierce guardian angels. “Well, because you’re already familiar with the area, and we’ve been very impressed with how you’ve handled your duties as your father’s underboss.”
“Also, we know you have your own beef with the Bratva,” Frank Fanelli smirks.
Fuck.
I feel Gunnar stiffen behind me. There was never any evidence that the unauthorized killing of a Bratva mafia member was us, except for the motive. We usually stay out of rival syndicate business, no need to start an unnecessary war, but this was very personal.
I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is a whirlwind. Tampa. I haven’t been there in ten years. Part of me soars at the thought and part of me is unsure how I’ll handle the memories there, unsure about bringing my dark heart to taint the beautiful city where I spent my childhood summers.
A pair of crystal-green eyes, dark lashes wet with seawater pop up in my mind.
My father’s bold stare finally gets my attention. He gives me a nod.
I clear my throat and shove away the memory. “You honor me.” My mind swirls with more questions. The first is about the family who’s already established there. “And what about the Zerillis? Are they on board? Why not promote Santino's son? And what do they say about the Bratva trafficking?”
Carlo Moretti nods. “Unfortunately, Santino has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He’s going downhill fast, and we don’t think his son Emilio has the right temperament to lead.”
“That’s an understatement,” Sonny D’Angelo grunts.
I raise a brow. “And how does Emilio feel about that?”
Carlo snorts, sounding like a bull. “Who gives a fuck. And as far as the Bratva trafficking… Santino hasn’t been able to get any proof. That will be your priority.”
The hair on my arms stands up at the way he’s side-eyeing me now, his posture stiffening. Something is coming that I’m not going to like.
Carlo glances at the other Dons, his gaze landing on my father. “Maybe this next bit of news should come from you, Giovi.”
My father leans forward and sighs, his dark brown eyes holding mine with a touch of warning. “Son, everyone here knows the Zerillis aren’t the right family to lead, but an alliance will have to be formed with their established syndicate so there’s no infighting. The only way to do that is with a marriage contract…”
No. No. No. Don’t say it.
“Between you and Giada.”
A bolt of rage hits me right in the heart.
Fuck.
He holds up a hand. “I know you wouldn’t choose this. But it’s what needs to be done. Zerilli doesn’t want pushed out, so he’s agreed to merge the family empires. With this alliance, you’ll have more power, more soldiers to fight the Bratva.”
“Besides, you can have whatever woman in your bed you want, as many as you want, as long as you do your duty with Giada and produce an heir,” Carlo adds.
I shove my trembling hands under the table and curl them into fists.
No, I can’t have whatever woman I want. The one I want doesn’t deserve to be a fucking mistress. She deserves to be a queen. Not that she’ll ever be either to me.
Gunnar rests a heavy, steadying palm on my shoulder. He understands the war going on in my head right now. He was there through it all. And also understands it’s important I don’t fuck this up. Disobedience is not tolerated.
“Of course,” I manage. “Qualunque cosa la famiglia abbia bisogno io la faro.”
Whatever the family needs.
