Chapter 8 Francesco
FRANCESCO
Islam the bedroom door behind me harder than I mean to.
For a second, I stand in the center of the quiet room, staring at the dark wood panels and neatly folded clothes my personal help laid out for me on the sofa. My hands curl into fists.
I shouldn’t have gone to her room. Shouldn’t have kissed her.
And it’s not because I regret it. I’ll never regret it. It’s because the taste of her is still on my tongue, and it will be for a long time.
My mother’s words from many years ago filter back into my ears. I was twelve, maybe thirteen. I was desperate to learn more about the mafia, about the ways of our family. My father told me the things he thought were important. Obedience. Wisdom. Loyalty.
But my mother was the one who taught me about weakness.
“If you want to be a powerful man, never fall for a woman.”
I’d laughed, surprised that my conservative mother was suddenly talking to me about love and women.
But when she didn’t crack a smile at my amusement, I knew she was serious. She took my face in her hands, something I’d stopped her from doing because I believed I was no longer a little boy.
“Love makes men soft, Francesco. Weak. And no weak man can rule the world. Don’t forget that.”
I didn’t.
Not when she died. Not when I made my first kill. Not when I climbed up in the ranks, higher than anyone my age.
And yet here I am, burning for a girl I’m not supposed to want. A girl with the power to bring me to my knees.
I won’t let her do that. I won’t let her discover the power she has over me.
I’ll do what is right. I’ll marry Silvia happily and stay away from Lia. Duty over desire, always.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I pull off my jacket and toss it onto the bed. My body feels tight and stiff. The tension in my shoulders is unbearable. I yank my tie loose, tearing at the knot like it’s the reason everything is falling apart. My shirt hits the ground, followed by my pants.
Cold air hits my skin as I head straight for the bathroom. A cold shower is the only thing that can tame the raging desire in me right now. My head spins with the sound of her voice, her soft moans…
My chest squeezes as I remember her parting words.
Don’t kiss me if you’re going to pretend like I don’t exist tomorrow.
My jaw twitches as I enter the bathroom and step into the shower. That’s exactly what I should do. Pretend like she doesn’t exist.
I squeeze the knob hard, and I’m greeted with a downpour of freezing water. I welcome the bite. I remain still under the water for a few seconds, like it’ll rinse it all away. Her voice. Her face. The feel of her mouth on mine.
I brace a hand against the wall.
Two years. Two years since that night in her room. And now, all the hard work I put into getting her out of my head—leaving, distracting myself with work and other women—has been flushed down the drain.
I was honest when I told her that no one has ever gotten under my skin like she does. No one has ever made me feel like I’m losing the one thing that I’ve always had—control.
Except her, and she does effortlessly, without even realizing the effect she has on me.
My free hand drops to my dick. I’ve been rock hard since I felt her soft body in my hands, since I felt her palms caress my chest and rest over my pounding heart.
I shouldn’t do this; I shouldn’t let my primal desire for her keep overriding my common sense.
But I do.
The water beats against my back as I picture her on her knees before me. Not forced or shamed or broken. Just her, looking up at me like she’s hungry for me, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I picture her mouth slightly parted, her eyes hazy with arousal and longing.
A groan slips past my lips as I palm myself, imagining my cock in her mouth, stroking it against the warm walls of her throat. I feel my cock swell against my hand until it hurts, throbbing as I pump back and forth. I move slowly, trying to savor the feeling.
My forehead drops against the tiles as my fingers tighten around my cock. I hear her moans in my ear, a sound that will haunt me for years.
My eyes squeeze tightly closed as a surge of pure ecstasy pulses through me. My hand moves faster now, and I squeeze and thrust harder until I can’t control myself anymore. I let out one more grunt of pleasure before coming hard, spilling all over the marble floor.
When I finish, I sag against the shower walls, and I let the shame do what it wants to me.
I walk down to the dining table in time to meet Elio and Zia Clara having breakfast. When I approach and greet her with a kiss to the cheek, she looks up at me, surprised.
“I can’t remember the last time you had breakfast with the family,” she comments softly.
She never said anything about my behavior over dinner last night, even though I know she was probably confused… and curious.
And the one person who should have didn’t. The truth is, Silvia knows I do not feel strongly for her. I care for her, yes, but we both know that she wouldn’t be my first choice of a lifelong commitment if I had my way.
It’s one of the things I like about our relationship. There’s a mutual understanding. We respect each other’s privacy. We don’t ask too many questions or make too many demands. As long as we look perfect before our families, the mafia, and the Society, we are good.
I exchange pleasantries with Elio as I settle in.
Breakfast is easy. When Zia Clara mentions something about the engagement ceremony, I start making plans about the logistics, guest list, and seating.
The look of surprise doesn’t leave her face.
I’ve never shown interest in what will happen on that day, leaving the planning up to Silvia, my aunts, and the event planner.
I hop on a video call with Silvia to delve further, and when we start talking about florals, she laughs.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her genuine laugh before. It sounds beautiful.
This marriage might not be so terrible after all.
My laughter dies a little when I spot Lia passing behind the table with a tray.
I look away and focus on my call.
The sooner Silvia and I get hitched, the better.
For the next few days, I play my part. The dutiful fiancé.
The responsible heir. I oversee preparations for the upcoming ceremony.
My father is still the head of the household on paper, but my name carries the heavier weight now.
Caterers check in with me. The orchestra submits a song list. I sign off on everything.
Lucia, who joins in, insists on handling the décor, and I find out she’s actually good at doing something other than getting in trouble.
Silvia seems content. She’s active whenever she is around the house and doesn’t disappear like she usually does.
Lia doesn’t exist.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I always catch her in the corner of my eye. Carrying decorative tablecloths, wiping the table after a meal, and serving wine to my aunts.
I pretend like I don’t see her, like I don’t notice what she’s doing. But I do, every single time.
And now, I notice she’s been spending more time with Marco. All hands are on deck for the big day, so she’s always assisting him with one chore or another. I see her talking to him freely, like he’s not her boss. I catch them laughing together a few times.
I try to ignore the rage and envy coiling hot in my gut, refusing to act on my emotions.
When it starts to get difficult, I decide I need to distract myself by getting my hands a bit dirty.
My right-hand man informed me this morning about a breach. Some hacker got their hands on one of our old safehouse ledgers. He has the lists of important names, coordinates, and codes. Most of it is outdated, but it’s still dangerous in the wrong hands.
We track him down and find his address. His apartment is on the fifth floor of a low-rise building in Dorchester. He has a ridiculous amount of tech gear spilling out of every corner of the house, yet it didn’t take more than one minute to break into his apartment.
He’s wearing only a pair of boxers when we barge in. God, how easy does he keep planning to make this?
He’s much younger than I thought. Early twenties, probably. He’s lanky, with a boyish face. Before he can rush to pick something up, probably a gun or a high-tech weapon, the barrel of my Glock is pressed directly on his forehead.
“Don’t scream,” I say quietly. “You’ll just die faster.”
I decide to torture him in his home instead of taking him to the warehouse.
I have no interest in making the boy beg for death, not that I plan to go easy on him, anyway.
The apartment smells like stale pizza and beer.
We don’t waste time. Nico yanks a chair out from under the desk, and I grab the kid by the arm, shove him down hard.
He squeals like a pig, arms flailing until I twist one behind his back and start tying him up with his own monitor cords.
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” he blurts. “I didn’t know it was real—I thought it was—like a game or something—please just let me live, I’ll never do this again.”
His grating voice starts to get on my nerves, especially since I know he’s lying.
He recognized us the second we stepped through the door.
His eyes dropped straight to the ink on Nico’s forearm—a coiled black serpent, tucked behind tribal lines.
To anyone else, it’s just a tattoo. To those who know the name La Mano Nera, it’s a death sentence.
Then he starts to beg.
I tape his mouth shut and get to work.
I roll my sleeves up slow. One fold at a time. Blood’s pumping in my ears, loud like a war drum. I look at him. Oh, how unfortunate he is. Just a skinny little parasite who got curious.
He whimpers when I crouch.
“You know what your biggest mistake was?” I ask, calm as still water. “It wasn’t the files. It wasn’t even breaking through our firewall.”
I reach for his jaw, grip it hard, force him to look at me. Blood trickles from the corner of his nose.