Dark Mafia Heir (Mafia Vows #3)

Chapter 18

18

Antonio

“ H ow many dead?”

“Ten.”

“How many injured?”

“Twenty-five.”

My fingers curl into the edge of the desk, the sharp edges of anger slicing through me, and my teeth clench hard enough to start a fucking headache. “Damn it! And are they being tended to? At the hospital? Fuck !”

Giovanni barks off in Italian at the other end of the line to someone, and I hear him walk away from the background noise. “Twelve now confirmed, Nio. Twelve dead. And yes, those injured have been rushed to the hospital. Nio, we can’t fold our arms and do nothing about this. This was a direct target. Whoever the fucker is knew we were offloading shipments today. They fucking knew we’d have more people inside that warehouse.”

There is no doubt about that. The warehouse by the docks was one of our biggest. Built and structured to be untouchable. My mind is already running through possibilities, calculating the losses, and, most importantly, who had the balls to pull this off.

It is bad enough that we have twenty-five men injured, but twelve men dead is a punch to the gut.

I’m slipping on control, trying not to lose the last shred holding me together. “How?”

“I don’t know.” I feel the frustration and anger radiating off him, and know that the rest of the men would be out for blood. “One of the workers here said, everything happened so fast. People in masks came in fast, armed to the teeth. Looked professional. We’re still piecing it together. But someone has to pay, Nio. They have to fucking pay.”

I stand, and the chair scrapes against the floor. My blood burns under my skin, but I subdue the urge to crash something against the wall. Allowing anger to rule my thoughts is a weakness, one I can’t afford right now.

“Call everyone back to the house,” I say. “I want eyes on every detail—surveillance, witnesses, anything. If someone so much as sneezed near that warehouse, I want to know. Tell Lorenzo to meet me here in ten minutes.”

“Yes, boss,” Giovanni says, and the line goes dead.

My best guess on who’s responsible is the Camorra. Salvatore fucking Russo. But I can’t act on an assumption even if everything inside screams that I am right.

I toss the phone onto the desk, pacing the length of the room. This wasn’t just an attack—it was a message. And whoever sent it will regret making me their target.

The meeting with the men is long and strategic. Every one of my men is affected, and, though they don’t try to show their distress, their anger is palpable.

Luca says it will take more than a few days to trace the culprit. Lorenzo’s already sharpening blades, ready to go on a foot hunt, no matter how long it’ll take. I give him permission, appoint more men to accompany him, and dismiss the meeting.

Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and the day after that. They are going to be needing a lot of rest tonight to face what’s ahead of us.

By the time I get to my bedroom, I’m already crumbling under the weight of fury and exhaustion. I don’t bother with asking Agatha to send up my dinner, or going to check on Vivienne in her room. Without a doubt, one look at the hands of the clock striking midnight on my phone screen, I know she’ll be asleep.

I toss my phone on the nightstand, drop my gun beside it, and take a quick shower. Fifteen minutes later, my head hits the pillow, I drag up the covers, and it’s night out.

At least, I think it is.

I’m not sure how long I’m out, but there’s a movement that groggily pulls me out of a dark dream. My gun lies on the nightstand, but I don’t reach for it. I don’t move. Hell, if I’m even breathing.

Keeping my eyes closed, I listen intently, taking note of every movement. The door creaks gently, then there’s a shuffle of feet. It’s soft, so soft, I might still be dreaming. Only, I’m not.

I’m more certain of this idiot’s presence when the bed dips beside me, and one of the pillows brushes my arm.

There’s a sudden stillness, a familiar one.

The first time I ever shot someone, I placed my finger on the trigger, looked him in the eyes, and . . . hesitated. I fucking paused, because I knew, if I took the shot, there was no coming back from it, ever. The reason I can recall it now is because I took the shot.

My eyes open, and, with precision and mastered skill, I twist to my side, snatch the pillow, and flip the culprit on his back.

I frown.

Correction: her back.

Wide-eyed and stricken with fear, Vivienne’s chest heaves, and she tries to push me off her. I don’t budge.

“So, you’re the idiot.”

Unlike her usual spitfire self, she looks frozen, and I can’t tell if it’s because I interrupted her plan to suffocate me to death or hovering over her like a predator. On any other day, I’d let her off easy with a slap on the wrist. But today was far from regular. I lost twelve men, and twenty-five were fighting for their lives. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain the idea of my wife sending me off to an early grave.

“You tried to fucking kill me?”

“Antonio. . .” her voice is barely a whisper. “You’re. . .you’re naked.”

I glance down the length of my body. As a matter of fact, I am, stark naked; and somewhat displeased to see that my dick is not resonating with my anger. Instead of shrinking, it stands erect, hard , poking her thigh like it seeks permission to go inside.

I’m furious, but, even in the heat of the moment, I cannot deny that I want her. That her body calls to mine like a fucking siren and, instantly stands at attention.

So, my anger takes a different turn.

Without her permission, desperately, I crash my lips against hers, and kiss her as fiercely as the turbulent storms brewing inside me would permit. She gasps and moans into my mouth, eyelashes fluttering as I devour more of her.

This is one of those moments when I expect her to punch my chest or bite my lips until I hiss in pain and throw her out of my bed.

She wants to kill me, and I am torn between a decision to physically cause her pain or pleasure. But, were both insane, because neither of us let go.

Vivienne drives her tongue into my mouth. It’s warm and wet, evoking a growl from the depths of my soul, and I nip on upper lip, sucking deeply while she angles her head to give me deeper access.

She wriggles so much, her night dress rises higher above her thigh, and when she sighs, I pull away from her mouth, latching instead on one of her breasts through the silk fabric. She arches into me, filling my mouth and nose with the scent of flowery perfume.

Tugging the fabric lower, her pink tits peek above the white lace above the loose neckline, and I graze one with my teeth.

“Oh, my God.”

Lust clouds my vision, and I leave a hot, messy trail of kisses from her breasts, to her collarbone. I get to the spot on her nape that leaves her as weak and jiggly as jellies, and I make sure to mark her with teeth. The spot glows a faint red, and I slip my hands between her legs.

She’s already wet for me. I expected nothing less.

My finger finds her clitoris, and I press my thumb against her, rubbing intentionally to see her lips part and legs stretch wider in pleasure. There something about watching her revel in such intimate vulnerability that stirs a heavy possessiveness inside me.

I want it to stay this, longer than I should. Just me and her, and moments like this that I could call mine— ours.

Any more observations at this moment, and my chest would explode from foreign emotion.

With one last flick, I eject my fingers, and grabbed her hips closer.

“I want you inside me, Antonio,” she whines.

I clench my jaw, positioning my throbbing head at her entrance. One moan is all it takes to melt my resolve, and I slide inside her.

We curse at the same time. Her eyes roll backward, and my eyes slam shut briefly.

She’s so fucking warm, all I think of is staying buried inside her.

Her legs go around my waist, and her hips move, demanding.

I thrust, slamming deep enough to hit her G-spot. Her toes curl behind me, and her fingers fist into the sheets beneath us. She mumbles something incoherently, but my name is a repetitive mess on her lips.

It fuels me, knowing how desperately she wants me. Knowing how desperately I want her.

I drive into her again, hitting her just where she needs me.

And when I feel her slipping, letting go, ready to release. . .

I pull out of her and don’t go back in.

Her questioning eyes fly open, and her mouth hangs agape.

“Anto—"

“You can’t always get what you want now, can you?

The smile on my lips is dry and wicked, and very much intended to be so.

Deep down, I’m restless and aching to slide back in and come inside her, but my intention from the start was to punish her, and the forlorn look on her face is sufficient proof that I’ve succeeded.

“Antonio, please, don’t?—”

“The next time you try that stupid shit, I’m going to fucking punish you more than this, gattina. You keep proving that I’ve given you much more freedom than you deserve.”

I don’t even think she realizes it, but her eyes are pleading, asking me to reconsider, and I know it has much more to do with me finishing what I started than my annoyance at her action.

Knowing she gives no shit about me and rather prefers having sex, it leaves an uncomfortable squeeze in my chest that coerces me to climb off her.

She tries to speak again, but I beat her to it.

“Get out.”