Katarina.
God, she looked edible in that dress today.
My stubborn, useless brain instantly fixates on the warm amber of her eyes and the curve of her waist. I down the whiskey in one burn, slam the glass onto the table, and stare at the ceiling.
Stop it. You let her go, remember? Idiot.
Fuming, I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts of women who used to be enough to distract me. A year ago, I would have called one of them to scratch the itch. Now? Even the idea feels exhausting.
Katarina has ruined me for anyone else. It’s a personal hell I need to escape before I go insane.
Seeking a distraction from my sexual frustration and peace invaders, I leave my office and head down to my pub that occupies the ground floor ofLux. Though it is only five in the afternoon, patrons are starting to drift in.
I claim a stool at the far end of the bar and nod to Gio, who is tending the bar.
Gio has been my bodyguard since I was 15; he’s only 10 years older than me. When I decided to retire, he didn’t want to be left behind in Sicily. He said life would be ‘boring’ there without me, so I let him join me. He now helps run my businesses here.
“Tuttu beni?” I ask as he wipes down the mahogany counter.
“Business is good. You okay?” he responds, eyeing me.
Even he must see the frustration written all over my face.
“I’m alright. Just feel like a clock wound too tight,” I watch him pour me a glass of whiskey. He hands it to me, and I down it in one burning swig, letting the heat coat my throat while he watches.
Just then, a voice cuts through the ambient jazz, arrogant and fucking annoying.
“Make it quick. I got places to be,” the man’s grumpy voice announces in Spanish.
I arch an eyebrow at the direction of the voice. Two men are sitting a few seats down.
One is a heavyset man smoking a cigar, looking like a union boss. The other is wearing a navy blue Italian suit that obviously costs a lot, his hair slicked back with too much gel.
“Now, don’t be disrespectful, Alfonso. You know you owe me your position in the Senate.” The shorter fellow says.
“I don’t owe you shit. My business is with your boss, not you.” The grumpy one responds, their voice growing even louder, making it hard to ignore them. When I catch a glimpse of the man again, I recognize him.
Well, I’ll be damned.
This is the asshole rumored to be Katarina’snew boyfriend. I’ve seen him on the news recently, being all smug when asked about his relationship with her. He could have denied the rumors, but he acted all coy so the media could have a field day. He’s not even remotely in her league, so anybody in their right mind knows that that rumor is bullshit.
Still, my contempt for the vile rats like him, who think they can use Katarina’s name like that, doesn’t escape me.
I shake my head and signal Gio for a refill, trying to calm the irrational urge to punch something. Once Gio refills the tumbler, I hear the plump man speak again.
“The Italian’s in town. He wants the first shipment at the docks by noon Friday—insists on inspecting the goods himself,” he wheezes, then hacks mid-sentence, his smoker’s cough echoing off the bar like a walrus’ bark.
This just got fucking interesting.
Are they talking about my dear Nicolo?
If so, they’ve just handed me a valid reason to terrorize them, beyond the grief he’s given Katarina with the press.
Gio and I exchange a look. He heard them, too. I already briefed him on the intel that Nicolo is in Argentina.
“He doesn't make demands. I make the calls.” Alfonso responds, and this time the other man laughs.
“How clueless are you? Do you think a few deals buy you power? You follow the chain, or you lose your head. Themafiadoesn’t play.”
