* * *
I hover outside Sloane’s bedroom for a few minutes, silently arguing with myself. I want to crawl into bed beside her and offer her comfort, but I don’t trust myself to keep it PG, and I can’t take advantage of her. She’s had a big shock, and me making moves on her when she might not be fully in control of her actions would be a mistake. So, I force myself away from her door and go to my room.
I jerk off in the shower, imagining Sloane’s in here with me, and I come in record time, something that is becoming the norm these days. I dry off, grab some pajama pants from the dresser, and conk out the second my head hits the pillow.
It feels like I’ve just closed my eyes when my alarm goes off, and I smother a yawn as I throw back the covers. Dressing quickly in jeans, a black sweater, and boots, I borrow one of my old man’s coats and then head out.
It’s still dark out when I walk into the large garage. Half the vehicles inside are mine. I’ve been storing them here because parking spaces are limited at our place in the city. I only have the Lexus SUV and my BMW Series 8 Coupe at the penthouse, but I’ll be moving everything to Connecticut when the new house is ready. Now, more than ever, I’m very keen to leave The Big Apple behind. It’s safer for Elio and Sloane in Glencoe.
I grab the keys to my black Maserati and slide behind the wheel. Then I set off for the forty-minute drive into the city. I don’t usually take bodyguards with me if I’m out alone because I can handle myself. But with the current situation, I think extra backup is smart, so a few of my guys are trailing behind me in an SUV.
The sun is rising when I pull into Commission HQ, arriving the same time as Don Maltese. We walk to the elevator together. “Glad you’re all safe. That’s some bullshit to pull at a wedding.”
“I’m furious,” I admit as we step into the car. Fiero presses the button for the top floor, where the conference room is. “They took aim at Papa too.” They tried to take both of us out.
“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“We’d better.” I crack my knuckles, incensed to have missed the opportunity to beat the truth out of the three traitorous pricks.
“You still okay for later?” he asks as the numbers climb on the panel.
“Yeah. Elio’s looking forward to it. He was telling Sloane all about Armani yesterday in the car on the way to the church.”
Fiero’s face lights up at the mention of his one-year-old son. “He’s into everything now he’s walking. I spent yesterday putting locks on all the cabinet doors.”
“I can’t wait to see the little guy,” I say as the doors open.
“We have additional guests,” he supplies as we step out into the hallway. “Rowan and Tullia.”
I arch a brow. “They patched things up?”
Last I heard, Mazzone junior was tapping the older Maltese sister, but no one considers it serious. Apparently, they’ve been fucking around, on and off, for years. According to Joshua, Ben isn’t overly pleased his eldest son is messing around with Sofia. She’s known to be a ballbuster and fiercely independent, with stated intentions to never settle down. She’s a good few years older than Rowan, and they certainly set tongues wagging when they first started hooking up when he was nineteen.
The Mazzone heir has been good friends with the youngest Maltese daughter since they were kids. If he was going to hook up with anyone, we all thought it’d be Tullia. Rumors are she thought so too, and it’s why she hasn’t been speaking to either of them in recent times. Sounds like it’s a bit of a mess, but it’s nobody’s business but their own.
“Seems like it, but I didn’t ask.” Fiero shrugs. “I stay well clear of my sisters’ love lives and the resulting drama.”
The rest of the New York dons are in the room when we enter, as well as Agessi from Philly. Most of us are casually dressed. Formality is usually the standard, but early-Sunday-morning emergency meetings are the exception. We grab coffee and pastries before taking our usual seats around the table. Massimo dials in Mantegna, Volpe, and Pagano and starts the meeting by explaining what happened last night.
“What can you tell us about the guys?” Agessi asks, directing the question at me.
“They were all under thirty, and my guess is they were relatively new recruits because I didn’t recognize any of them.”
“They might not be DiPietrosoldati,” Mantegna says.
I nod. “True.”
“Did they have tracking devices?” Joshua asks.
“Yeah, but they’d been cut out recently. All of them had stitches and bandages on their upper arms.” I take a sip of my coffee. “It’s how we knew they were one of us.” In recent years, our loved ones had an additional tracking chip installed at the back of their necks. The general masses are not aware of it, and it’s extra peace of mind for our families.
“It’s got to be the cartel,” Caleb says, drumming his fingers on top of the table. “They must have put them up to it.”
“We can’t afford to make assumptions,” Ben says, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “The obvious conclusion is it’s the cartel, but what’s the motive? They knew coming for us at a family wedding was a suicide mission.”
“It could’ve been a warning shot,” Volpe says.
“Seems silly to show their hand like that if it was,” President Greco says.
