I feel my cock strain at the images that rushed into my head. Releasing a strained breath, I pinch the cigar tighter between my fingers and take a greedy drag, letting the burn steady me.
Since that night, even on the morning of the wedding, I found myself thinking about the ginger from the club. And that’s not supposed to happen.
Women throw themselves at my feet, left and right. I’ve had models, whores, the ones that pretend to be saints but turn out to be sluts.
And not once have the memories from the sex, no matter how great, lingered. That alone makes me hate it. Because it means something’s changed. And I don’t fucking like change.
My intention that night was to let off steam, fuck the living daylights out of any woman who concedes, and pretend like the night didn’t happen.
Now that’s all thrown to shit. She’s ended up being my wife.
I froze for a split second when I saw her at the altar. Somehow, I thought Dean was trying to pull a fast one on me. But I slipped the ring on her finger anyway because there were greater things at stake.
I care more about the alliance than which sister I marry. Pre-wedding sex changes nothing, because that’s all it was. Allshewas. A fling. And even now that she bears the title of my wife, I don’t see her as such.
Thatwould require me to give her my trust, love, and loyalty. And one thing became clear for me the day I watched my father being murdered by the ones he trusted the most: Loyalty was a myth. Love was a weapon. And I would never be caught unarmed.
Dean would have to answer for this shenanigan. I hate being tricked.
I stub the cigar into an ashtray and pick up the telephone, dialing a line. “I need updates,” I grit out once my second-in-command picks up.
“On it, Boss.”
A few seconds later, Matteo’s short figure strides through the door with a pile of papers in his hands. Today, his long hair is packed into a bun rather than slicked back. It makes his square-shaped face obvious without the distraction of loose hair.
Not that it matters. He has loyalty, not allure.
“Capo (Boss).” He bows slightly and starts to speak even before I can nod. Good. I hate time wasters. “The Russians.”
“Che ne è di loro(What about them)?”
Those bastards have been proving stubborn since I seized pieces of neutral property which they claimed to be theirs. They aren’t.
“Sono rimasti in silenzio(They’ve been quiet).”
To suddenly go quiet after losing said valuable pieces of property is strange. No one just relinquishes power without a fight. They’re definitely plotting something.
My jaw locks tight, wheels spinning in my head.
After claiming my position as the Don of the Moretti empire from my treacherous uncle, I built my name so high that even principles and systems bow to me. I restored power and legacy to the Moretti Mafia.
Today, enemies hesitate before whispering my name. The world trembles when I speak. Kings of commerce kneel to shake my hand because they see power and respect it. They know that to defy me is to invite death itself.
“Watch them,” I grit out, hands already snaking up to the ashtray to find my cigar. I hate cowards. “Follow them. I don’t want any surprise attacks.”
“Sì, Capo(Yes, Boss).” Matteo finally drops the pile of papers. I don’t bother to look at it. He continues.
“An arms deal went south last week. But—”
My eyes burn holes into his skull. “I ordered no arms deal.”
“Non il nostro(Not ours).” He shakes his head, his brown eyes holding mine.
“Then that’s none of our business.” I fist my hand into a tight ball.
He clears his throat, muscles tensing. I slide my gaze to his, and he looks tentative, as if waiting for my command.
I slowly uncurl my fist, leaning casually against the soft leather chair. “Parlare(Speak).”
