Chapter 17
17
M en! They’re like sheep—always needing a shepherd to guide them. Thank God they have me.
Malina Simone Cavelli Benedetto swirled the deep ruby liquid in her glass, took a sip of the 1982 Chateau Pétrus, savoring its complex full-bodied plummy finish lingering on her palate — a gift, as it were, from her father’s wine cellar.
She glanced out the vast windows of her penthouse in downtown Atlanta. Dusk painted the skyline in hues of gold and gray, and the lights from hundreds of houses and streets twinkled like diamonds in the distance.
Her 4,000-square-foot apartment was sleek and modern. No gilded lamps or tables here. Nor were there any of the heavy damask chairs her father adored. It was just functional and stylish with the hint of luxury. No clutter. No photographs and no history. Nothing that would give away her past. It was a world apart from the pretentious house she grew up in, full of cigar smoke, secrets, and betrayal.
She swirled the wine in her glass and sniffed the bouquet of sweet plums, warm spices, and smoke. Smoke always reminded her of her emancipation from the narrow minds of men who thought women were soft and ruled by emotion.
No servants here, either. She learned the hard way that even the most loyal maids, cooks, and drivers gossiped. And gossip often led to rumors, and rumors led to betrayal.
Today marked five years since she lost her father and brothers and took over the Cavelli crime family—a feat no one saw coming—and branched out to Atlanta. Malina took another sip of wine, the crystal catching the last remnants of dusk outside her window, and smiled.
Too bad dear ol’ dad insisted that while she was intelligent and cunning, no woman would ever sit at the head of the table. It didn’t matter that Malina orchestrated several high-stakes deals and saved the family business. Women were supposed to stay home, spread their legs on command and have babies.
The thought made her snort. As if!
Malina didn’t want or need a man in her life, let alone blood-sucking kids.
If she had an urge, she hired a high-priced escort—a man who looked spectacular naked and didn’t require pillow talk. They fucked in a hotel room, neither one of them exchanging names.
But that was neither here nor there.
Dad, Nico, and Jimmy were dead. Killed by her own hands.
When one had access to the best poisons money could buy, it was easy. The chemist assured her it was undetectable. Too bad the chemist had to die, but she couldn’t have her secret spilled by accident.
Malina had poured the wine for her father and brothers, watched as they sipped it, and then laughed when she told them what she’d done.
She watched as their bodies convulsed, as they clutched their throats in panic. Then she toasted their lifeless bodies and packed her bags, waited until the middle of the night, lit the match, and left, never looking back.
She set her glass down on the marble counter and turned to stare at the view. The sky was dark, the city alive and pulsing.
It was hers for the taking.
The one lesson she learned early on was power was never given. You had to seize it.
She paid her dues, fought and killed for her seat at the table. And the lesson learned at her father’s knee was once you took it, you never let anyone get close enough to take it back.
Her phone buzzed. Its shrill ringtone cut through the silence. She looked at the name on the screen. Damien. She smiled as she picked it up.
Hopefully, Damien had found Tessa Donnelly and was on his way back with the stupid woman he had trusted until she betrayed him.
She wasn’t losing all that she fought for to go to jail because some little bitch was too curious and couldn’t keep her mouth shut. The cop who took her statement learned that lesson the hard way.
Although assuming Damien could clean up the mess was proving to be a mistake.
The only thing he had going for him at this point was that he was loyal, but loyalty had its use until it didn’t.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Do you have her?”
The voice on the other end shook, and Malina smiled.
“N-not yet,” Damien stammered. Silence. “But we’re close. She’s in Haywood Lake, Florida. Marty is…”
Malina tsked. “I don’t want excuses. I want results.” She tapped her fingers on the counter. “Better yet, bring Marty home. I’ll take care of this myself.”
She hung up the phone, tossing it on the counter. Her fingers rubbed the gold and ruby pendant of a snake coiled around a dagger, a final gift from her father. As he lay gasping for breath, she’d ripped the elegantly woven chain from his neck, realizing the power was all hers from now on.
Tessa Donnelly thought she could betray them and disappear? Humph. She’d learn that no one escaped Malina Cavelli and lived to talk about it.
Malina sighed, shaking her head. Why was she constantly the one cleaning up the messes? Although flying back to Florida had its appeal—a homecoming of sorts. Maybe she’d visit the graves of her father and brothers and raise a glass of wine in mock tribute—a bitter toast to the past she burned but could never truly escape. Occasionally, she could still hear her father’s mocking voice. “Women are too emotional, too weak.”
Well, Malina wasn’t weak, nor was she emotional. She was at the head of the table now. The power was hers, and God help anyone who thought they could take what was hers.