Mafia Darling (The Kings of Italy Book 2)

I knew something was wrong as soon as Giulio, Marco and five of my men crowded into my office on the yacht. We had dropped anchor off the coast of Napoli, not far from Enzo’s beach house.

“Papà,” Giulio said in his most reasonable tone. “You should sit.”

Marco grimaced, knowing me well enough to understand how this came across. No one told me to calm down or take a seat. I was the head of this ’ndrina, the capo, and I could never show weakness. “Tell me,” I barked, remaining on my feet.

“A message has come in from D’Agostino,” Marco said. “It’s bad.”

I appreciated his directness, but my gut cramped all the same. What had D’Agostino done to her? If he had hurt her, I would bomb the entire Gulf of Napoli, skull fuck his corpse, then go after his wife and children. “Show me.”

Giulio handed me the phone and I froze. My glorious girl was on her knees, her face covered in tears while a Glock was shoved in her mouth. Enzo had her restrained, ropes crossing her body, under her breasts, and I could see the terror in her eyes.

A red mist coated my brain.

I couldn’t think, the anger so swift and so violent that I threw the phone across the room, where it cracked open against the wall. With a roar, I flipped the desk over with both hands, papers flying and my laptop sliding to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Giulio ordering the soldiers out of the office, but I was too busy lifting a chair and hurling it across the room to care. I was a berserker, hell-bent on the destruction of everything in my path.

I tore the room apart. Broke furniture, cracked lamps. The framed pictures were thrown to the ground, where glass shattered. I cut my hand at one point but didn’t stop. I couldn’t rid my brain of that image, the woman I loved being mistreated. Tortured.

Because of me.

I caused this. I sent her away and left her a target for my enemies. And, for what? She had only honored my son’s secret. I should have appreciated such loyalty to my own flesh and blood. Instead I cast her out. My love, the mother of my child.

Porca puttana! I shoved my hands in my hair and pulled hard on the strands, certain I was coming apart at the seams. I had to get her back. I had to get her back and rip the skin from Enzo’s bones. Then I would somehow convince her to forgive me.

Please. God, please, do not take her from me.

I don’t know if I could survive it. While Lucia’s death had been a tragedy, it didn’t destroy me. Instead, I had dedicated myself to killing those responsible and raising my son. Retribution for her death was enacted coldly, methodically, mostly because I knew it was expected of me.

But losing Francesca? It would break me.

The image of the gun in her mouth returned and I lunged for another chair, needing to throw it against the wall, but Giulio and Marco were suddenly behind me. They held me tight, even when I snarled and lunged like a wild dog.

“Papà, basta,” my son said. “Let’s work on getting her back.”

It took a few minutes, but the haze slowly began to clear and I could think once again. “I’m fine.”

Marco and Giulio released me and I straightened my cuffs with trembling hands. “We go tonight.”

“Rav,” Marco started. “We aren’t ready. We are waiting on the Sicilians.”

I made a deal with some of my Cosa Nostra associates in exchange for their help in killing Enzo and retrieving Francesca. “Tell them they have”—I checked my watch—“four hours to get here, otherwise the deal is off. And so is our truce.”

“Fuck,” Giulio muttered, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

Marco frowned at me. “We cannot go to war over this. It’s bad for business.”

“I will start a thousand wars to get her back.”

“Then think about Crimine,” he said, reminding me of the annual gathering of La Provencia, the ’Ndrangheta leaders, coming up. It was held in the mountains and many of our important decisions and alliances were made there. “They’ll expect you to answer for this.”

“I will do whatever the fuck I want, cugino, and those old men can’t stop me. Not when I bring in the most profits.”

“Papà, she . . .” Giulio seemed to be struggling for words. “We are helping her escape D’Agostino, but then you must let her go.”

I would do no such thing. My son, however, could believe whatever he wished. He’d soon learn how I planned to deal with Francesca. “Of course,” I lied. “Now the two of you get out.”

Marco glanced at Giulio. “Go tell them to be ready.” Once we were alone, my cousin gave me a pitying look that set my teeth on edge. “Rav, you’d best prepare yourself for the worst. She is a liability and Enzo—”

“She is not a liability, she is the mother of my child. And Enzo will keep her alive, if only to use her to torture me.” It was what I would do, after all.

“Do you think he knows she’s pregnant?”

The sheer terror of that possibility caused my balls to nearly retreat up into my body. I had to believe Enzo didn’t know, or else he would’ve used the information to his advantage. No doubt Francesca was smart enough to try to hide the pregnancy as best she could. “Doubtful, or else he would have mentioned it.”

“Still, you need to remain practical and not let your temper get the best of you. That includes not growing angry if she wants to leave once we have her back.”

She was my woman and I was never letting her leave. “You don’t need to worry.”

“My job is to worry, remember? And with everything going on, it seems to be more than a full-time job.”

“You can take a vacation once we have Francesca back.”

“And leave you to deal with Enzo by yourself? I don’t think so. Not to mention we need to learn why no one was watching the beach house cameras when she was kidnapped.”

Vic had been on duty that afternoon, but he wasn’t a guard, per se. More like a computer hacker whiz. He’d been in my crew for almost seven years, and had worked in my home for the last three. “You don’t believe Vic’s story about a security update?”

“It could be a coincidence, but I don’t like coincidences. And what of the others? Vic doesn’t work alone.”

I dug the heels of my palms into my eyes. “We’ll deal with that when we return—including discovering how Enzo knew where to find Francesca.”

“The beach house was no secret. You know how the men gossip.”

I had replayed the video of the masked man dumping Sal’s unconscious body a thousand times in my head. Something still bothered me about it. “Yes, but the man in the house . . . It was like he knew exactly where he was going.”

“Maybe.” Marco exhaled heavily. “We’ll get Enzo to talk.”

Yes, we definitely would. “Is everything in place?”

Marco folded his arms across his chest. “Other than the Sicilians, yes.”

“Good. Call them now. Impress the importance of haste.”

“I will. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I knew exactly what I was doing. I would save Francesca from that bastard if I had to burn the entire world down to do it.

Francesca

Enzo stayed for dinner.

I tried to hide in my room, but I was ordered to the patio to eat with Enzo, Mariella, and six of his men. The outdoor space was softly lit and lined with beautiful, fragrant flowers. Gentle waves crashed onto the beach in a rhythmic soothing sound. The scenery would’ve been romantic under any other circumstances, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I picked at my spaghetti alle vongole, aware that everyone was surreptitiously watching me. Was the food poisoned? Were they all waiting for me to eat it, then keel over at the table?

Mariella tried to keep the conversation going, but Enzo’s men were uninterested in talking, remaining silent, and Enzo gave her one or two word answers. Finally, he looked at me. “Don’t care for the pasta, Frankie?”

“I’m just waiting for the poison to kick in.”

“Now, why would we poison you? You are much more valuable alive than dead.” He pointed to my dish. “Take a bite.”

“I’m allergic to shellfish.” It was a lie. I loved clams.

“I have an adrenaline pen in the house. Go on. It’s rude not to eat in our country.”

I knew this to be true. Zia had given me a hard time about leaving food, even before I was pregnant. I swallowed and looked down. Was there poison in there? Probably not. If Enzo wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already. I twirled pasta on my fork, added a clam, then brought it to my mouth. Goddamn, that was good. Garlicky and rich, with the perfect seasoning and hint of the ocean. I wanted to hate this country, but its food won me over every time.

“If you start to feel sick,” Enzo said with an arrogant lift of his brow, “please let me know.”

Asshole. I ignored him and kept eating, suddenly starving. I guess being tied up and having a gun shoved in my mouth had really worked up an appetite.

“This is my nonna’s recipe,” Mariella said. “I make it for Enzo all the time.”

“You mean when he’s here and not at home.” No idea why I’d said it, but these people were not my friends. We weren’t at a dinner party where I was required to be polite. Fuck all of them.

Enzo chuckled and put his hand on Mariella’s thigh. “It is no secret that I’m married. My wife is aware of Mariella. It’s okay with her.”

“How progressive of you.”

“There is no such thing as monogamy in Italia, Frankie.”

Super. Life lessons from my kidnapper. “I suppose Mariella is afforded the same privilege, then. What about your wife? Can she sleep around, too?”

His expression hardened, lips thinning into a cruel slash. I saw the capo in that moment, the one who killed and tortured for a living. “It is not the same for women.”

“So much for being progressive.”

Everyone’s head swiveled back and forth, watching us. Mariella appeared horrified, but Enzo seemed amused. Mostly. “Did you speak to Ravazzani this way? Not holding your opinions back?”

“I have a brain and I prefer to use it. Anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off.”

Mariella gasped, while Enzo’s gaze darkened, sharpened into something hungry and fierce. “You have a mouth on you. Perhaps you need a lesson in respect.”

Fear shot along my spine. Shit. Why had I spoken so openly? And why had I used curse words? Did he see this as a challenge? That was a dumb question. Of course he did. Now he had to put me in my place in front of his men. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly.”

“Too late.” He pushed back from the table. “Come. You are going to get on your knees and beg for forgiveness from every man here.”

What the fuck?

Beg for the forgiveness of these murders? Was he for real? Everything inside me wanted to scream, No, I won’t do it. I knelt in the past to Fausto during our sexy games . . . but those days were over. I bowed to no man, not any more.

Except how could I refuse? Not following Enzo’s order was like a slap in the face. He would have to punish me—and who knew whether this house had a dungeon?

We stared at one another. Panic and dread filled my mouth, drying it out. Would he relent if I asked for his forgiveness right now? Damn it, why did I always make trouble like this? All I had to do was sit and eat quietly, and I hadn’t been able to manage it.

The moment stretched with the entire group waiting to see what I would do. I gathered my pride and decided this would not kill me. I could endure a few minutes of humiliation to stay alive. Pushing back from the table, I started to rise—until a faint noise sounded and the soldier across from me fell back in his chair, a bullet hole in his forehead.

Oh, my God.

I watched as another soldier went down with a bullet, and then Mariella screamed. Chaos erupted, and I dove under the table. As the men scrambled, Enzo came after me, apparently unconcerned about Mariella, who was still screaming out there.

Another soldier dropped to the patio, dead. I covered my mouth, trying to hold down my pasta. What was happening? Some rival gang attack?

I knew it wasn’t Fausto. He couldn’t have been clearer on the phone in Enzo’s car, especially after having ignored me for three weeks at the beach house. If there was a rescue team coming for me, it wasn’t from Siderno.

My father?

That also seemed unlikely. Papà hated me more than Fausto did.

Enzo grabbed my arm. “Kick off those shoes. We need to run.”

I obeyed, leaving my flip flops on the deck. If nothing else, I needed Enzo to keep me alive right now . . . though I would still be looking for a way to escape.

He began tugging me to my feet, but shots were still whizzing all around us. “Wait!” I shouted, not moving. “Is it safe to be running around right now?”

“There’s a panic room in the master suite. I will take you there.”

Oh, no way. No way in hell. That would send my claustrophobia into overdrive. And what if he locked me in? He could die and I would have no way to escape. “I can’t go into a panic room.”

“Dai, woman. I have no time for this.” Carrying a gun in one hand, he jerked me up roughly with the other, not even caring when I stumbled. Instead, his hand pushed my head down and forced me into a half-crouch position, then he towed me inside.

The rooms were eerily empty. I supposed all of Enzo’s soldiers were fighting the gunmen outside. Enzo cursed and shoved me toward the stairs. “Get moving.”

“Let me just hide in a closet,” I begged. “I won’t move, I swear.” I mean, I would run as soon as his back was turned, but Enzo didn’t need to know that.

“No, I need to keep you safe. You’re half of my plan to destroy Fausto.”

“Fausto doesn’t care about me!” Jesus, didn’t he get it by now?

“Look around you. He cares very much. Now, get your ass upstairs.”

As he tugged me up the steps, I looked around wildly for a way to avoid the nightmare of a panic room. Anything I could use to distract him or hit him with. There had to be a way out. No one was coming to save me—I had to save myself.

We arrived at the top of the stairs and I pretended to trip. When I slipped out of his grasp, I rolled to my back then used my legs to kick at the side of his right knee with all my might. The joint gave a sickening pop and he howled in agony, leaning over to grasp the iron railing for support.

I didn’t wait. I shot to my feet and flew down the stairs as fast as I could, hurrying toward the front door. Enzo shouted at me to stop, but I kept going, praying his injured knee hindered him long enough for me to get outside.

There was no one guarding the front. Jerking open the door, I saw a Range Rover waiting in the drive and I sprinted toward it. Suddenly, I was lifted off my feet. “Let me go!” I tried to wrestle free, kicking and wriggling, as someone dragged me back toward the house. “Stop. Let me go, you asshole.”

Whoever he was, he was too strong, and I found myself once more in the foyer of the beach house. Enzo waited inside, his furious eyes focused directly at me, the promise of retribution burning in the dark depths. “You fucking whore. I should snap your neck for that. Take her to the panic room,” he told the guard. “I’ll deal with her later.”

The guard started marching me toward the stairs—then I heard a pop just before he fell forward, and I had to rip my arm out of his grasp to avoid collapsing to the floor. The back of the guard’s head was now missing, blood pooling onto the tile, and I bit back a scream. I spun toward the door to see who was attacking—and found Fausto there.

Oh. My. God.

His white t-shirt and black pants were covered in blood, a huge knife strapped to his thigh. Flat, cold eyes swept over me for the briefest of seconds, almost dismissing me, before he took one step inside, his gun trained on Enzo. This was il Diavolo, the angel of death. A man who thrived on killing. A shiver went through me and I forgot how to breathe.

Fausto had come for me. How? Why?

While I was frozen there like an idiot, an arm wrapped around my throat and jerked me into a hard chest. Cool metal met my temple. I tried not to move, certain that I would die. Even if Fausto managed to shoot Enzo there was every chance that Enzo’s gun would fire and pierce my skull.

Enzo’s rasp sounded in my ear. “Did you like the photos I sent, Fausto?”

Fausto answered, his voice cool and detached. “Let her go. You’ve lost, Enzo.”