PRESENT DAY #2
"We’re leaving now. Sorry for the interruption," Martin adds, practically bowing like one of the waiters earlier, his head almost slamming into the damn table. Pathetic little bug.
But just as we’re turning away, a voice stops us.
"You’re pretty, Sun."
Whoa. A compliment from the mob boss himself. Anzo’s eyes are still locked on my face.
"Thanks," I say, throwing him a wink. "You’re kinda hot too. And cold at the same time."
I shoot the ‘subtle’ compliment back at him because I know how powerful those words can be, especially with a certain kind of guy—the kind that doesn’t hear them all that often.
And judging by how standoffish and unapproachable he seems, I seriously doubt he’s the type who gets casually showered with praise. People are probably too scared to cross some invisible line around him, to get all jovial or chummy with a cold-blooded killer.
My well-trained eyes roam over his figure, and the inner stylist in me activates.
Average height, maybe five-nine. Slim build.
He probably doesn’t spend his days fending off comparisons to Apollo.
That slicked-back hairdo that screams mafioso?
Not helping. He’d look way better if he loosened it up a little, styled it in a way that felt more youthful.
It would totally work, especially with his regular, symmetrical facial features and a solid hairline. No signs of it receding.
He also has a small metal plate on his temple, some kind of cybernetic implant?
"Sun’s a nickname?"
"Nope. Name. And what’s yours?" I say it on purpose, even though I already know.
Through all of this, Anzo’s black eyes stay locked on me, not letting go for a second.
But did the sound of my name make him shift, just slightly? Like a tiny flicker of something deep in his pupils.
"Wanna sit down?" he asks in a neutral tone.
Carl gapes. Martin’s eyes go wide. Even the guy with the scar raises his eyebrows. But I don’t flinch. I know my game.
"Thanks, but I’m not that kind of boy."
"Oh yeah? What kind are you?"
"We’re leaving, Sun!" Martin growls, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me away.
I throw Anzo another wink over my shoulder.
"Special," I say. And just like that, we’re gone.
We barely make it back to the table before Martin goes crazy.
His fingers dig into my arm, hard. "Have you fucking lost it, Sun?! These guys are killers! They don’t hesitate. If they want something, they take it. You do not want to be on their radar!"
I roll my eyes and fake a yawn, then drop into my chair. Our food’s already getting cold.
"Geez, you’re so uptight. I was just saying hi. No big deal. Chill out and pull that stick outta your ass."
Martin clenches his jaw like he’s trying to grind his teeth into dust. That sculpted, handsome face of his is practically glowing red with rage and… panic.
"I swear, you’re out of your fucking mind. You don’t mess around with people like that, Sun. They’re real-ass criminals."
Yeah, well, the only person I’ve ever loved was a criminal, so that argument falls pretty flat.
Martin stabs his fork into his steak and starts eating like it personally insulted him. His eyes stay glued to his plate, but mine keep drifting toward the mobsters’ table.
Anzo’s talking to Martin’s uncle, but every now and then, his eyes flick back to me.
Quick glances, but I know what they mean: I’ve caught his attention.
Maybe I’m spoiled by the way men look at me, but it’s not like I ask for it. The attention just shows up. What am I supposed to do, swat it away like snowballs?
But since I hate being unprepared, I set my phone next to my plate and start typing ‘Anzo Ferro’ into Search.
Martin’s throwing daggers at me with his eyes. God, he hates when I look at my phone around him. But I ignore it.
A flood of results comes up, so I scroll through a bunch of articles. Some are legit news outlets, and the first page is full of them. The others, more sketchy little blogs full of gossip and speculation, are buried on the last pages of the search results. But they’re way more interesting.
Anzo’s forty-six. Took over the family business in his twenties.
The official story is that his brothers were killed in a Russian attack, but some reports hint that might not be the whole truth. A few even whisper, very carefully, that Anzo himself might’ve been involved.
By the ninth page of results, I find a niche gossipy blog titled The Truth Only I Know , all about the Ferro family. It’s not exactly flattering.
One article claims that while nothing was ever proven, it’s basically an open secret: Anzo killed both his brothers. One older, who was expected to be the next capo, and one who walked away from the family after finding his fated mate.
Apparently, Anzo took in the dead brother’s kids, four sons, and raised them himself.
Of course, betas can’t legally adopt alphas.
Once they hit puberty, there’s a risk they’ll go into Musth , so they need alpha energy to stabilize.
For that reason, their legal guardian on paper was Anzo’s uncle, Alberto Ferro.
Each boy lived with Alberto starting at sixteen, during that dangerous period.
After about a year, they moved back to Anzo’s estate.
The oldest is Rocco. There’s even a picture. I recognize him instantly as the scarred guy. Not my type. He’s almost thirty now, already Anzo’s underboss and heir apparent.
Next is Luca, twenty-eight. A purple alpha. Acts as Anzo’s bodyguard and caporegime.
The younger two barely show up online. No photos. I manage to get their names in one article: Mauro (26) and Eliano (20). Also alphas. The older one is supposedly mute.
But then something grabs my attention. Big time.
I lean in and whisper to Martin, "Did you know Anzo’s married?"
Martin’s mouth falls open, but not for the reason you’d think.
"You’re reading about him? You’re fucking nuts."
I stick out my tongue and go back to the article.
And that’s not even the last surprise. Summer, the current husband, is actually Anzo’s second. The first, Moon, is no longer part of the Ferro family portrait.
The internet has conflicting info about what happened. Some articles play it vague, hinting that Moon died from an overdose. Others go straight to claiming he and Anzo got divorced. A perfect mess of half-truths and hearsay.
Only this one blog, The Truth Only I Know , quite strongly suggests Moon basically vanished without a trace, and no one’s got the balls to ask what actually happened. Did he piss off Anzo and get… dealt with? Who knows. One thing’s for sure, he’s out of the capo’s life.
And then it gets even better. Turns out, the man Anzo’s with now is Moon’s younger brother. So technically, Anzo married his own brother-in-law?!
The whole thing’s fucked up in a way that feels medically unsafe.
Ignoring Martin’s stabbing gaze, I keep reading.
The family Moon and Summer come from isn’t mafia-connected at all.
Anzo apparently met Moon at some charity event.
According to an old post I found on The Truth Only I Know , their parents are True Mates, both immigrants from Iceland.
That catches my attention real quick, but aside from that one sentence, I can’t find jack shit else about them. They seem super private.
Martin’s voice buzzes in my ear like a damn fly.
"Why are you still reading about them? Some sick curiosity? These people have Mayor Ronalds in their pocket. Probably the police chief too. Poking into their business is fucking stupid."
I shrug. Actually, I don’t even know why I’m reading this. It’s not like I give a shit about Anzo. Betas never did it for me. I mean, yeah, there’s a bit of a thrill imagining what it’d be like to meet the big boss of the mob.
Unlike the old-school guys, just plain brutes, he’s kind of famous. Gets invited to fancy galas and shit, because he’s way more polished than his father and grandfather, who were just street thugs.
Anzo’s known for speaking out, loud and proud, against the Beta Activation Program in the media. Being a beta himself who ‘made it’, beating out two alpha brothers for the throne, he sees it as his mission to defend beta rights.
Eventually, I get bored of reading about him. And what would I even want with him, really? Gold? I’ve heard mafia guys buy their side pieces houses. For a lot of people, that’d be a dream.
But in truth, I’m not some desperate money-chaser, no matter what I say to people. That whole persona is just a mask I wear, the expensive, high-end boyfriend who only goes for rich heirs and sons of dynasties.
It’s my little game, a way to kill the boredom, the emptiness, the anger.
And I already have quite a bit of money saved up, thanks to my modeling gigs and a buzzing social media account with millions of followers.
I made a decent chunk playing warm-up sets with my band before my brother Bay’s concerts too. So no, I don’t need to go chasing after old pricks, and suck their musty dicks.
But I’m not stupid either. I know that as long as I’m young, I can milk it for what it’s worth.
Even if it’s not my ultimate goal, I’m open to taking the chances that come my way. I don’t exactly have a career plan anyway.
But if nature gave me something worth showing off, why not cash in?
Other people use their genius brains or insane work ethic to get ahead. Genius was never my thing.
I wasn’t a bad student, just disinterested as hell. My parents had to pay for tutors just to get me to crack open a notebook. I scraped by, barely, bored out of my mind in most classes.
Geography was the one subject I actually liked. I loved travel blogs, nature shows, wildlife docuseries, flipping through atlases. But what am I supposed to do with that, become a teacher? No thanks.
I glance up and look toward Anzo. Whatever. Nothing’s gonna happen anyway. That interaction we had? Way too brief. I shouldn’t even let my thoughts go there.
Some forbidden thrill, some adventure? It’s ridiculous.