Page 12

“No one knows where Martinelli is.” A scar-faced don at the end of the table spreads his hands. “A ghost for years.”

“True,” Gabi agrees, his eyes dark. “But he left his daughter behind. Sophia Martinelli.”

The name hits me hard, and my body stiffens.

Sophia.

My memory uncoils with the image of the highway five years ago. I’ve never forgotten the way that young woman trembled in front of the headlights. I watched her strip off her clothes—spurred on by my command—with shaky hands.

I recall the indelible sight of her in just a bra and panties and how the harsh headlights and softer, frost-glazed moonlight gave her pale skin a luminous glow.

Every curve etched itself into my mind. The soft slope of her shoulders. The faint sheen of sweat along her collarbones. The delicate rise and fall of her chest. I never stopped wondering if those pebbled nipples were because of me or the cold.

I remember searching her. I could’ve asked any of the men with me…but I wanted to touch her myself. The moment my hand slipped between her skin and the thin fabric—navigating the gentle hollow of her waist and the vulnerable line where her thighs met—I knew it was a mistake.

She trembled, bare to the world, the darkness around us swallowing everything except for her as I tugged the paper from the heat of her flesh.

I remember how her lips parted. The way her skin flushed under my gaze. I’ve spent my life learning how to read people as much as I’ve learned how to hurt them, and I knew she didn’t feel remorse. She felt desire, and that branded itself into my marrow. That’s why I kissed her when I ran into her a few years later.

“Why do we need his daughter? She’s not the one who committed the crimes.”

Izzy’s query drags my mind back to the present.

“His blood runs in her veins,” Gabi snarls, clearly displeased with his sister’s challenge. “Blood for blood. She pays.”

Izzy doesn’t back down. “That’s not father’s legacy.”

“Don’t tell me about legacy when I’m trying to avenge my father, woman!” Veins pop in his neck. “You watch your mouth, or I’ll punish you in ways that’ll put your so-called legacy to shame without caring you’re my sister.”

Izzy snickers, wholly unbothered. “And what will you do?”

As they both erupt into a shouting match, murmurs rise in the room. My hands curl into fists.

Someone needs to stop this, and no one seems brave enough to put his neck on the line to interrupt the legacy heirs of the mafia.

“Enough.” My words cut through the smoke. The two siblings’ eyes widen as if they’ve just realized they’re not alone. I shuffle forward, every eye settling on me.

I meet Gabi’s gaze, and for a split, unguarded second, I realize he’d pick up a gun and shoot me down right here if it wouldn’t cause a civil war with the dons who are loyal to me.

“Do you have something to say, Enforcer?”

“Yes, Padrino.” I add a little bow.

He glances around and then back at me. No one moves. With each passing second, the pin-drop silence grows.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“She’s innocent. The Martinelli girl. A mere teacher abandoned herself when Vincent betrayed us. Old codes say family sins do not pass to daughters. Only sons.”

That sets off loud arguments as the dons talk over each other about whether the traditional codes still hold.

Gabi’s loud laughter restores civility. At the sound of his prolonged, hollow howling, everyone goes silent again. “Soft, Enzo? Since when do you show mercy? Dante rotted in prison because of Martinelli. Died cold because of that rat. Or have you forgotten?”

Dante’s name slices deep. The pain ages but never dulls.

“I forget nothing,” I growl.

“Then remember loyalty,” Gabi snaps before coming closer. “Remember your oath to this bloodline. Are you with us or with her?”