Twisted Devotion (Ruthless Arrangements #3)

Chapter 1

Cristiano

The back room of the Rosso Nero smells like cigarette smoke, spilled wine, and fear.

Alfonso Galbiati sits in a wooden chair in the center of the room, his expensive shirt wrinkled, his bottom lip split and swelling.

Blood has dried in a thin line down his chin.

He’s trying very hard to look tough, but his hands are clenched and his eyes are sullen.

I drag a chair across the floor and position it directly in front of Alfonso. The screech of wood on concrete makes him flinch.

Good.

He should be nervous.

When I sit down, our knees almost touch. Alfonso meets my eyes with an arrogant sneer, like I’m beneath him.

I smile.

“Alfonso.” I lean back in my chair, relaxed. Friendly, even. “Mio amico. Do you know why you’re here?”

The Italian words pass smoothly over my tongue. These past five years in Italy, I’ve become fluent.

“Because your animals dragged me off the tables like I’m some kind of criminal.” His voice comes out nasal, petulant. “My father is going to hear about this. You can’t just—”

“I warned you,” I say, cutting him off. “Last month. Do you remember? I told you that if you were caught cheating at my tables again, there would be consequences.”

One warning was more than generous.

I don’t like my generosity being thrown in my face.

“I wasn’t cheating.” He says it automatically, like he’s recited the same lie a hundred times to a hundred different authority figures who never pushed back. “Your dealer made a mistake. I was counting cards, that’s not illegal. It’s strategy.”

Behind him, Nico shifts his weight. Paulo coughs into his fist, a sound that might be a laugh.

They’ve both heard the dealer’s account.

They know exactly what Alfonso was doing.

Marking cards with a thumbnail, signaling to a friend across the room.

Amateur-hour shit that insults everyone’s intelligence.

But I don’t bring that up. Not yet.

“Counting cards,” I repeat, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s an impressive skill. You must have a very good memory.”

Alfonso’s shoulders relax slightly. “I do. I’ve always been good with numbers.”

“I can see that.” I gesture at his clothes, his watch. “Your father’s given you a good education. Expensive things. Plenty of his money to splash around.”

“I make my own money because I’m fucking good at cards.” There’s pride in his voice now. He’s forgotten the split lip, the blood, and the men standing behind him with folded arms.

“You’re an intelligent man. Molto intelligente. And yet here you are, in the back room of my gambling den, insisting you were just counting cards.” I let the words hang for a moment. “Alfonso, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t think you were counting cards. I think you were cheating.”

His face flushes. “I wasn’t—”

“But I’m willing to give you a chance to explain yourself.

” I lean forward, hands on my knees, gazing into his eyes and making myself seem friendly.

Nonthreatening. “Sometimes men make mistakes. Sometimes they think they’re smarter than everyone else in the room, and they try something stupid.

It happens.” I shrug. “I’ve done it myself. ”

He blinks at me, caught off guard by the admission.

“The thing is,” I continue, keeping my voice warm and reasonable. “I can’t have people thinking they can cheat at my tables. It’s bad for business. You understand that, right? If word gets out that someone got away with marking cards, every two-bit hustler in the city will try the same thing.”

“I didn’t mark any cards,” he mutters, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.

“All right, Alfonso.” I smile again. “But my dealer says otherwise. And my dealer has worked for me for three years without a single complaint. So either he’s lying—which would be very strange, since he has nothing to gain from it—or you’re lying.”

Alfonso’s jaw tightens. He looks away, staring at the wall.

“Here’s what I think happened,” I say, my voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, like we’re friends sharing a secret.

“I think you came into my casino with your friend. I think you’d had a few drinks, maybe you were feeling confident, and you thought you could pull something off.

Mark a few cards, win a little money, have a story to tell later. ” I pause. “Am I close?”

He doesn’t answer.

“The problem is, Alfonso, this isn’t the first time. We had this exact conversation last month.”

“You can’t do anything to me.” His voice rises, defensive and whiny. “My father—”

“Your father,” I interrupt, “would be very disappointed to hear that his son is a cheat and a liar.”

The color drains from his face.

“Don Rodrigo is a good man,” I continue. “An honorable man. A man who values his reputation.” I tilt my head, studying him. “How do you think he’d feel if I called him right now and told him what you’ve been doing? Cheating. Lying about it. Bringing shame to the Galbiati name.”

Alfonso’s hands are shaking now. The sneer is gone, replaced by something that looks like panic.

“Or,” I say slowly, “you could tell me the truth. Right here, right now. You could admit what you did, apologize, and we could put this whole ugly business behind us.”

“I…” He swallows hard. His eyes dart to Nico and Paulo, then back to me. “I wasn’t…”

“Alfonso.” I lean in closer, my voice soft and almost kind. “All I want is the truth. That’s all. Just tell me what really happened, and we can move on. I promise, it’ll be easier if you’re honest with me now.”

The silence stretches. I can see him weighing his options. Pride versus survival. The lies he’s told himself versus the reality sitting in front of him.

Behind him, my men are perfectly still. A reminder of where he is and how badly he’s fucked up.

Finally, Alfonso’s shoulders slump.

“I was marking the cards,” he mutters.

The admission is so quiet I almost miss it.

“What was that?” I ask. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

His voice is stronger this time, laced with shame and anger at himself. “I was marking the cards. With my thumbnail. I’m sorry. I was drunk and stupid, and I thought I could get away with it.”

There it is.

Behind Alfonso, Nico’s eyebrows rise slightly. Paulo’s mouth curves into a smile as he glances at me. Alfonso Galbiati, the spoiled son of Don Rodrigo, has never admitted to being wrong in his entire life. And I just got him to confess.

“There.” I reach out and pat his cheek, my hand lingering for just a moment. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You did well, Alfonso. I’m proud of you.”

He looks up at me, and for the first time tonight, there’s something like hope in his eyes. Like maybe this will all be okay. Like maybe I’ll let him walk out of here with nothing worse than a bruised ego and a lesson learned.

I stand up, my chair scraping back. Alfonso watches me, wary but hopeful.

“You know,” I say conversationally, “my father used to say that a man who can’t admit his mistakes isn’t a man at all. He’s a child.” I move behind him, my footsteps slow and casual. “And you just proved you’re not a child anymore, Alfonso. You told the truth. That takes courage.”

I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders. He’s tense beneath my touch, but he doesn’t try to pull away.

“The problem is,” I continue, my voice turning to ice, “I already gave you a warning, and you ignored it.”

My hand slides into my pocket and closes around the flick knife.

My grip on Alfonso’s shoulder tightens mercilessly, pinning him in place. I lean down so my lips are close to his ear.

“You thought I was soft,” I seethe. “You thought because I’m American, because I smile and talk nicely, that I wouldn’t do anything. That your father’s name would protect you.”

The knife opens with a click. I drive the blade into the side of his throat and twist.

Alfonso makes a wet, choking sound. His hands fly to his neck, but it’s too late. Blood pours between his fingers, hot and red, spraying across the concrete floor.

“Do you think I care who your father is? Vaffanculo. I’ll tell him his son died choking on his own lies.”

I rip the knife out.

Blood erupts from the wound, spraying across my shirt, my hands, the floor. Alfonso topples forward off the chair, convulsing, drowning in his own blood. His eyes are wide and disbelieving, like he still can’t quite comprehend what just happened.

I stand over him, watching the light fade from his eyes.

When he’s finally still, I fold the knife and push it back into my pocket.

Nico snorts with laughter. “Alfonso Galbiati has never admitted to being wrong in his entire life. His father had to pay off half of Naples to cover up his messes.”

“Then I’ve saved Don Rodrigo some money as well as the fate of having a pathetic son,” I say calmly. “Nico. Call Don Rodrigo. Tell him his son died because he didn’t know when to stop cheating.”

Nico nods. “Yes, boss.”

“And, Paulo, get someone in here to clean this up. I don’t want flies irritating the customers.”

“On it.”

I step over Alfonso’s body and walk toward the door. My hands are still sticky with blood, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve had worse on me.

“Let’s get some espresso.”

Forty minutes later, we’re seated at a busy café that overlooks the piazza where locals shop at market stalls and pigeons fight over crumbs.

My men sprawl in their chairs around me, cigarettes smoldering between their fingertips, laughing about things that would make ordinary people sick.

Nico is telling a story about a man who owed him money and thought he could hide in his mother’s basement.

The punch line involves a hammer and three broken fingers.

The sun is warm on my face, but I barely notice it. Five years in Italy, and I’ve never stopped feeling cold.

A waitress approaches our table for the third time in thirty minutes, though she only just brought us a second round.

She’s pretty, dark-haired, and has a wide smile that’s just for me.

At the next table, two women in summer dresses keep glancing over, giggling at something Paulo said, but their eyes slide toward me.