Chapter 0025
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Chapter 0025
“I’ll never harm innocent people again,” Moretti started, which is how I knew the second part of the deal—my part—would be something I didn’t like.
Where I hated killing, Moretti reveled in it. Innocence or guilt mattered not. For him to agree to a ceasefire meant he wanted something big from
- me.
“Go on,” I said anyway.
“We’ll work together. Marcello and Moretti. Our two families in the drug trade together? We’d make a fortune. And as long as we’re both making money, there’ll be no fear of betrayal.”
“No.” No hesitation in my word. No time wasted on silly considerations of his offer. I was a killer, a leader of bad men. A deviant and a criminal. A man who’d burn in hell for all eternity when I finally left this earth.
But even I had lines in the sand I wouldn’t cross.
“You haven’t even heard—”
“I said no.” I leaned forward to set my half–drunk glass on the low tabletop between us. “Unless you have something real to offer, I’ll be on my way.”
I gave him the benefit of a moment, a heartbeat, to
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offer me something else, something I wouldn’t immediately refuse. But I knew he wouldn’t Moretti had made his fortune in drug trade; it was unlikely he’d reconsider.
“Good–bye, Moretti.” I rose from my low sofa, “I consider our previous altercations to be ended. But should you pursue anyone under the protection of my family–including medical personnel–my retribution will know no limits.”
He stared up at me, that muscle feathering his hard jawline again.
“Watch your back, Moretti.” I swept from the room before he could answer. My men followed like suit- clad ducks in my wake.
With this meeting, I’d bought us a moment’s peace, but no more. This wasn’t over. It’d never be over. I was the only thing standing in the way of Moretti’s drug empire, and we both knew it.
Which meant Layla was still in danger.
I’d put her under my protection, tied her to my family in Moretti’s eyes. Made her a target. And now there was no way to undo that. No way to let her go without leaving her to the Moretti wolves.
I strode through the restaurant, passing another private room along the way. Laughter escaped through the wide–open door–drunken women
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giggling flirtatiously.
Not something that would have—should have— been more than a passing observation. Except as I swept past the door, a familiar face caught my attention. Dragged it into the room beyond.
I halted dead in my tracks.
Leaned through the door.
And peered inside.
Marco Ricci–the father of Layla’s child–reclined on a wide leather sofa. A woman on his left lifted a glass of wine to his lips. The one on his right kissed down his neck. A third perched on his lap, laughing.
Like Bacchus, the fucking Roman god of wine and hedonism.
How could Layla have chosen him? Sure, she knew he was dating other women, but this? Did she know about this? Anger at Moretti, frustration over the situation I’d found myself in, the past eight years of abstinence, all of it escalated into a crashing red
rage.
I stormed into the room before I could stop myself, before I could reclaim my mask of calm–of the Mafia king.
Before even my men could react, I marched across the room, shoved past the women, and grabbed
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Marco by the collar. I lifted him from the couch, slammed his shoulders into the wall behind.
His beautiful grey eyes rounded into terror as he stared up at me.
And I glared down at him, anger and spite making me irrational, violent. Dangerous. “You’re a terrible liar, aren’t you?”
