Most of the Dons nod approvingly.
My father eyes me suspiciously. He’s spent my life watching for any spark of rebellion and snuffing it out. He can see it even before I feel it.
My father stands with me. I bend forward so he can kiss my forehead. A sign he’s giving his blessing for my transition to the new position. He also squeezes my forearms in warning.
Don’t disappoint him. Got it.
I walk out of the meeting numb and stand on the sidewalk as our blacked-out Escalade pulls up. Gunnar keeps sneaking glances at me, probably wondering if I’m going to lash out. Boss of Tampa. I should be happy.
Tiny frozen flakes fall from the sky, and it feels like the world is crumbling, landing on my shoulders.
Chapter 2
Alessandro
present day
“What the fuck did you just say?” I glare at Emilio “Milo” Zerilli. Maybe I heard him wrong over the techno dance music pumping through my new Tampa club's state-of-the-art speakers. It’s 10,000 square feet of pure entertainment, featuring a spacious dance floor, multiple bars, an upstairs VIP section—where we’re currently seated—and the crown jewel: a back room on the ground floor for our illegal gambling operation. I’ve named the club The Eclipse for reasons I’m not willing to explore.
Milo holds up his hands, one of which is clutching a scotch glass. His shit-brown eyes are glassy, raven hair slicked back with pomade, and he’s wearing a gray silk shirt that’s too tight, showing off his gym-obsessed physique. “Relax, Sandro. I’m just sayin’ wedon’t have enough cops in our pocket to deal with the carnage you unleashed here in the last six months. It’s caused some… issues.”
I feel Gunnar’s energy change beside me, stiffen, ready himself for conflict resolution in the form of a fist to Milo’s face. Milo’s always been a punk, but a dangerous one. We’re the same age and spent our summers together here in Tampa at Club Paradiso, an exclusive mafia-owned beach club with a strict peace-on-the-grounds policy. Rivalries were left at the door.
That didn’t stop Milo and I from secretly trying to kill each other though. The rivalry has only gotten more savage since the New York bosses passed him over for me to run Tampa. More into enemy territory. I won’t be turning my back on him anytime soon.
Rocco, my younger brother by two years, sits to my right. Father ordered him to come with me as my underboss.
He meets my gaze with a raised brow, and I shake my head almost imperceptibly. Crazy motherfucker is always looking for a fight. I think this is the real reason Father sent him with me, to keep him on a short leash.
We had to leave our younger brother and sister behind in New York to fend for themselves with Mother, the psychotic bitch who birthed us. That guilt is its own beast.
I pick up my glass of scotch, swirl the amber liquid and let my gaze meet Santino Zerilli’s, my future father-in-law. Despite his obvious weight loss and lack of energy, he still insists on beinga part of the decision-making while he can. “You agree with this assessment?”
Santino sizes me up with dark, tired eyes. Even ravaged with cancer, no one would mistake him for anything butmafiosowith his salt and pepper hair, olive skin, gold rings, necklace and the relaxed energy of a man used to getting what he wants.
Finally, he shrugs a shoulder and lifts a finger to someone behind me. “We will need to put more cash on the streets, it’s true. But enough business. Tonight we’re celebrating the opening of your beautiful club.” He holds up his glass and waits.
Gunnar, Rocco and I do the same.
“Let’s forget our thoughts for now and focus on celebrating the moment.Su i bicchieri e giù i pensieri,”he says.
“Salute,”we say in unison.
A small cluster of women sashay over to us, clad in gold miniskirts and bikini tops.
Rocco punches me in the thigh and motions toward them as they begin to wrap themselves around the men, grinding and swaying seductively. I’d let him interview the women and pick the entertainment, so he’s itching for a compliment on a job well done.
I nod, giving him a bone. I could give a fuck. I begin to check emails on my phone as the men enjoy their lap dances.
A few emails in, I feel warm breath on the back of my neck. Before I can reach for my gun, a lanky girl who has removed her top swings her body around and seats herself on my lap. I freeze.Her long hair is brushing my arm, her bare breasts pressing into my chest, her lips inches from mine.
“Oh shit,” Rocco says beside me with a chuckle.
The music fades into the background, distant and hollow, as I’m instantly pulled back fifteen years to the sweltering summer day that changed my life.
It was the summer I turned thirteen. Us boys had been playing tackle football on the beach in front of Club Paradiso. The sons of four different mafia families, so it had gotten violent. Afterward, Rocco, Gunnar, and I—along with two of my cousins—sat with the rest of the boys in lawn chairs, feet in the surf, nursing our black eyes, bruised ribs, and bloody lips.
Gunnar noticed her first. “What do we have here?”
