The Accardi Twins: A Mafia Romance Duet

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Joshua

M y cell phone vibrates across the top of the bedside table again as the woman between my legs looks up at me. “Don’t stop.” Fisting handfuls of her dark hair, I push her mouth back down on my dick as I grab my cell and answer it. If Fiero is calling this late, something must be up. “Don Maltese,” I say. “This better be important.”

“You need to get to Staten Island ASAP.”

I stifle a groan as my balls lift and a tingle builds at the base of my spine. “I’ll be there as quick as I can,” I say, stroking Sorella’s hair as she works me faster.

Fiero hangs up, and I tug on my regular fuck buddy’s hair, forcefully shoving her face down as I thrust up inside her warm skillful mouth. Pleasure zips along my spine as I fill her up with salty cum, ignoring her muffled protests when I keep her face locked in position until I’m fully done. “Thanks, babe,” I say thirty seconds later, releasing my firm grip on her hair. Hauling her up the bed, I slam my lips against hers in a quick kiss. “I need to go.”

“I understand.” She softly drags her nails through the dark-blond strands of my hair. “It’s not like you ever stay the night anyway.”

Sorella is mafioso . Her father, like his father and grandfather before him, is one of our soldati , and she’s the second youngest of seven sisters. The poor bastard kept on trying for an heir, but it never happened.

Sorella is on my list of reliable fuck buddies because she understands the score, she is discreet, and she knows not to expect anything but mind-blowing sex. The instant I sense she wants more, I’m out. I have always been up front with the women I screw. It is sex and nothing else. Kissing and hugging is kept to a minimum. I don’t shower them with gifts or take them on dates. I have never taken any woman to the penthouse I call home, preferring to rail them in hotels or their apartments, so the message is received loud and clear.

Attachments are not my thing.

Love will never be something I indulge in again.

Bettina drilled that point home in the most devastating way.

“And I never will.” I spear her with a sharp look. “If our arrangement no longer suits, say the word, and it ends now.” I slide out from under her, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

“I wasn’t complaining,” she says as I stand, buck naked, and walk to the chair where my clothes are neatly folded. “Just stating a fact.”

“A fact that won’t ever change,” I remind her, glancing over one shoulder as I tug my boxers up my legs and reach for my pants.

“I’m aware, and I’m fine with our arrangement.” She glides out of bed and grabs her red silk robe, wrapping it around her tempting body. “How can I help?” She stands in front of me as I pull my black pants on. “Coffee for the road maybe?”

“That would be good.”

She leans down, as if to kiss me, before straightening up. “Coming right up.”

I finish getting dressed and walk out to the kitchen, snatching my keys and wallet from the island unit where I left them.

“Black with no sugar,” she confirms, handing me a silver travel mug.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” I squeeze her ass before walking toward the exit. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m at your disposal.” She smiles, and despite the impending shitstorm I suspect I’m facing, I have a smug grin on my face as I close the door behind me.

After a quick stop at my place to change out of my suit and switch my Maserati for my Land Rover, I’m on my way. At least there isn’t too much traffic on the roads at four a.m. on a Thursday morning, but it still takes me forty minutes to reach the large shipping hub Don Maltese and Don Greco own.

Fiero and his buddy Massimo—the man presiding over all Italian American mafioso in the US—own this building on Staten Island and a Colombian manufacturing plant in Cali. They’re into all kinds of shit, but their real estate and property development business is the most visible and a legit front to hide their illegal drug production and shipping empire.

Fiero and I currently manage the supply and distribution of drugs to the five families in New York and our Irish partners, and we oversee the street trade on behalf of the other dons in The Big Apple. They washed their hands of the street business years ago, preferring to supply VIP clients who frequent our various bars, clubs, restaurants, and casinos. It’s safer, and that’s where the real money is made. But someone has to supervise the street trade so other parties don’t invade our turf. I offered to help six months after my twin and I finally took our rightful places on the board of The Commission. Fiero and I have worked closely ever since, and we work well together.

My partner in crime is waiting in the parking lot when I pull into my assigned space, leaning against the wall in what might appear to be a casual stance. But I can read his body language, and he’s seriously pissed.

“What’s happened?” I ask after I exit the car and stride toward him.

“We’ve got a big fucking problem.”

“Tell me.”

“I’d rather show you.” Instead of heading back inside the building, he moves toward the side door that leads portside where one of the Accardi cruise liners is currently docked.

We walk in strained silence toward the large ship, tipping our heads at one of the men who stands guard at the gangway. Stepping onto the ship, I follow Fiero to the elevator that takes us to the lowest level where the secret stowage area is housed.

When Caleb and I inherited our family business, after our cousin Luca handed it over when we turned twenty-one, the shipping part of the Accardi Company empire was vastly undervalued and underdeveloped. Given what Fiero and Massimo had set in motion, it made sense to use our ships to ferry the narcotics from Colombia to the city. In the almost six years since we’ve been at the helm of the company, I have largely focused my interests on developing the shipping business, moving from commercial freight transporters to luxury cruise liners, legitimizing the business and using it as a front to move huge quantities of drugs on a regular basis. We also ship supplies to dons in other states, and it’s the most lucrative aspect of all our businesses.

It has always run smoothly. Until now.

Fiero punches in the code to the main container area, and I grind my teeth to the molars at the scene awaiting us inside.

“Fuck.” I scrub a hand along my smooth jawline as I inspect the empty cargo holder, the pile of dead bodies, and the river of blood staining the floor. I step to the side to avoid ruining my shoes.

“That’s putting it mildly.” Fiero pounds his fist into the wall.

“Is everything gone?” I ask, lifting my eyes to the wall-mounted cameras.

“They took the lot, and this is going to cause major issues with O’Hara.”

Diarmuid O’Hara is head of the Irish mafia and a man we have worked closely with for years. “It’s O’Hara’s inability to control his operation that’s caused this in the first place.”

“We don’t know that for a fact.” Fiero cleaves a hand through his jet-black hair. For years the dude dyed it white-blond, and he was notorious among mafioso circles. The day he became the new Maltese don he went back to his roots.

“We know the Irish are involved even if our spies couldn’t conclusively confirm it.” I shake my head as I walk toward the body spiked to the wall. “How are they one step ahead all the time?” A muscle clenches in my jaw as I inspect the barely recognizable face of the latest informant we had implanted into the rank and file of the Irish a mere five weeks ago.

“It seems obvious now.” Fiero walks to my side, and we both stare at Aldo’s garish remains.

“We have a rat,” I surmise, shoving my hands in the pockets of my black cargo pants.

“And possibly spies,” Fiero adds.

“We need a new plan.” I turn around and head toward the door. There is nothing else to see here.

“I have already called Massimo. He’s convening an emergency session of the board. This can’t wait.”

We step into the hallway, and the air barely seems less suffocating out here. “Someone wants a war.”

Fiero levels me with a lethal look. “If they keep this up, they’ll get it.”