Chapter Seven
This Means War
Rafe
M y wife declared a silent war on my behalf, and I’m not sure if I could be prouder of her. I also want to strangle her because it means spending more time away from Rhode Island and our true home there.
I settle for recompense in sinking my cock deep into her asshole while Luca sharpens his knives in front of her nose, explaining why each one is so blunt.
She apologizes with her lips on every single blade and thanks him for the hours of tireless work he has put in on both our behalf like the good little mafia queen she is.
And we worship her for it.
Her cries fill the kitchen as she grips the bench tight. I slather cream from her dripping pussy over the root of my cock, working the extra slick into her as she squirms on my length.
Luca lays the last—and largest—blade out for her to thank.
She presses her lips to it dutifully. “I appreciate the hours you put in, Luca,” she whisperers, managing not to gasp as I sink balls deep into her. “Thank you for your loyalty to Rafe.”
He sheathes the knife on his belt and kneels, cupping her face in his hands and stares into her eyes, making his vow. “You are my Don’s wife, my once lover, and my friend. You have my greatest respect. But don’t blunt my knives, beautiful woman. Please,” he begs.
She laughs, leaning back to impale herself impossibly on my cock. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my friend,” she promises and milks an orgasm from me, surprising us all.
This woman.
My wife. My queen.
There is nothing I won’t do for her.
I clean us both as well as I can in the kitchen and carry her to our rooms, running the shower. She curls on the floor in her dress, ripped at the side where I threw it in my haste to enter her tight, warm body, and lets the water run over her, smearing her makeup.
My breath catches as I strip my shirt off, leaving myself barefoot in the bathroom, wearing only my black slacks from the wedding and the belt I used once to whip her ass for bratting out on me.
“You are so fucking beautiful, my wife,” I whisper, stepping into the shower where I join her on the tiles and cradle her to my chest.
Our clothes are soaked through, sticking to our skin, but none of it matters. Only her as she smiles into the crook of my neck, leaving a trail of sweet kisses and licks along my inked skin and tells me tiredly of all the things she wants to do while we remain in Cyprus.
I hold her until the water runs tepid then strip us of our clothes, wash her carefully and dry her the same. She sighs contentedly in my arms as I carry her to our bed where, for once, we don’t make love or fuck, just sink into the thick mattress and sleep, wrapped in each other.
****
C yprus’ cerulean blue waters lap at the base of my compound where I sit high above the water line looking out over the ocean at a horizon dotted with cruise ships and cargo liners, the occasional pleasure yacht. I have one, though we haven’t used it. Eduardo can have it for all I care.
He stands at my back, a steady presence, though I am still getting used to his stubbornness.
I’ve gestured for him to sit several times, but the damn man refuses, and for that I hate that I like him a little more.
The right person to entrust Cyprus to. The Gallo territories here will be well run in our absence.
Which makes this meeting the final one for this trip. Then I can pack up, and go the fuck home.
Across from me, the man who was my father’s best friend eats squid’s ink pasta, his front already stained with the sweet, black sauce.
I top his wine glass up, though it’s not quite midday.
Germundi Lacanto was my father’s greatest rival and friend, though he is not mine.
His empire has long since run its race. They fought over many things, and our mothers were close, for a time.
Once, his son was also counted as family at our table. Today’s meeting, after Willow’s not so subtle declaration of war, is to see which side Germundi sits on, and if Eduardo is going to be able to handle him on his own.
Every time I sit for a meal in this house, in any room, Armand’s ghost haunts me, looking over my shoulder, second guessing my decisions. The table is embossed with his seal, the damn chairs, too.
At this point I am so desperate to leave the place that only reminds me of my father with every step I take that I’m more than happy to end the man and his entourage here and now, and get my sleeping wife on the plane to go home.
Regina weighs on my mind. Konnor is not a patient man.
Willow ... she doesn’t know what she started.
I do, and that’s okay. Even Luca didn’t think to stop her.
But fighting a war on two fronts stretches me thin.
Too thin. I left my wife in our bed, sleeping deeply and purring in her tiny snores, because I couldn’t bear to wake her.
A sacrilege when she suffered and played so beautifully for me the night before. My queen.
I rake a hand through my hair and fix an eye on Germundi. “More wine?”
I top his glass up—again—and then mine, my stomach revolting at the reminder that U.S. wine is a watered version of the Cyprus type. At this rate I’ll be stumbling to the jet.
Damnit, I need to see if my sister is all right.
Konnor... If Willow is my ace in the hole, he’s my wild card.
Explosive, and about as trustworthy as a rat in a candy bucket. And right now, Rhode Island, with only Dom to defend the joint territories, is the entire fucking sweets store.
“Please, boy. You know, it’s not me you need to be courting. You do understand that, don’t you?” He peers at me through rheumy eyes that might or might not already be glazed from the night before.
I stare at him a moment before it hits me. “How long?” I ask softly, upending the bottle into his larger glass.
He shrugs a meaty shoulder. “A few weeks, perhaps. The doctor says I need to eat fruits and vegetables every meal. No more meat, no pasta. No sauces.” He guffaws. “I say fuck you and I’ll have sauces and wine every meal. I meet my death head on.”
And drunk as a Cyprus skunk. But hell, in his position, who’s counting. If I’d lived a good seven decades, seen my children live and my wife die, I might court death in the same vintage.
“And your wife?”
His joviality dissipates. “Jonina. I lost her, ahh, six years ago. A not so random shooting, eh? Something to think about. Your beautiful wife, yes? Babies? How long until you lose what you love, Rafe?” He watches me knowingly.
I frown. “This isn’t the conversation I invited you here to have this morning.”
The clock in the town to our west chimes noon, the Cyprus colors at their best at the height of the day. I’ve barely begun to sweat in my jacket.
Germundi shakes his head. “No, but it is one you should have had with Armand. Or didn’t he have time to tell you?” His breath catches.
I look away from the glistening waters sharply. “Tell me what?”
But the ink isn’t the only thing staining Germundi’s dirty napkin.
Fluid sprays from his mouth, a mixture of black death and red life. I stare at the spreading crimson patch as Eduardo grips my shoulder in a bruising touch. He yanks me down and away, dragging me across the rooftop flagstones into the cooler shadows.
“We need to get you back to Willow, Rafe.” He gives me a shake and a hand slaps my face.
The town clock falls silent as Germundi’s body slumps into his pasta. A hit.
“It was a fucking hit . A hit in my home ,” I roar as I stare up at him, my brow creased. A breath and my rage is quiet, considering. “Why is it every time I try to have a meal, someone fucking well dies?”
Eduardo. “It will be hell, my Don. Remind me never to sit down.” The corner of his mouth lifts as his hands fill not with my shoulders or my jacket but with two scarred, matte handguns that have seen plenty of use.
“As long as you don’t intend to shoot me or mine, I believe you were indeed the right pick for this handover.
” I pull my gun from behind my back and stand, heedless of Eduardo’s agitation.
“Where did the shot come from?” His jaw works, teeth grinding until I’m ready to knock them loose myself. “ Where ?”
“Behind me.”
I hold his gaze, and my heart stills.
“The house.”
My feet move, taking him with me toward the stairs leading back to my rooms and Willow, but my phone rings in my jacket pocket, stilling me.
I pick up the call, barely able to push out the name I need. “Willow?”
But it’s a male voice that answers, with an Irish accent.
“I told you it would be one of them, Rafe, and you wouldn’t know who. Or when. I remember you knelt for her once, when I asked you. Do you remember that?”
Fucking Konnor.
The handset cracks in my fist. “I do.”
“Good.” He draws the word out, the epitome of control, showing me who holds the cards. “I wonder what you will do now?”
Because it sure as fuck is not me.
His next words throw bile into my mouth that doesn’t subside for a long fucking time.
“Can you guess who you lose today?”