9. Luca
9
LUCA
The flames licking up the screen of my phone as I watched that stronzo’s yacht burn matched the fear in my heart.
Ana.
There was no reason for her to be on a bratva boat in Nice, no reason for me to think it might be her. And yet I couldn’t slow my pounding heart or ease the terror for her safety. Panic wouldn’t help the woman I’d let walk out of my life a week ago.
Reining in my irrational fear, I forwarded the video to Angelo Costa, the fucker who’d sent her to Europe for the summer after she graduated, to get her out of the way so he could consolidate his empire after Ana’s father’s death. Asshole.
Me
Was she on that boat?
My phone rang immediately.
“Costa,” I snarled. “Where is she?” The silence on the other end of the line ripped my heart in two.
“I still don’t know,” he answered, his light Italian accent weary. “This is the first lead I’ve had since she disappeared.”
Holy shit. She had been on the boat.
“The explosion was three hours ago. I’m boarding a plane now.”
“Plane?” I asked, dumbly.
“Some investigations are better handled in person.”
“I’ll join you,” I said instantly, determined to see the woman I loved, to find her and save her and never let her go again.
Costa laughed, the fucker. “The Russo heir, whose sister destroyed everything Ana holds dear? Who’s willing to fuck her but doesn’t have the balls to marry her? You think you’re going to drop everything and do what? Run around Nice looking intimidating until I find her?”
“I—”
“I’m flying from Sicily to Nice, asshole. Stay in Yorkfield and keep playing at your father’s feet like the child you are.”
He hung up, leaving my heart shredded and aching as I stared at the phone.
I ran my fingers through my hair, heedless of the blood that stained them. Tonight’s interrogations had run long, and without Lorenzo, my father didn’t have anyone else to turn to.
I missed Sofia. Missed Ginevra. Missed Lorenzo. One by one, they’d escaped Papà’s iron fist, leaving me behind to hold the empire together as his health declined.
And Ana.
Ana’s gorgeous green eyes that glazed over with lust when I ran my tongue down the satin skin of her pussy.
Ana’s tattoos, nowhere a bathing suit wouldn’t cover, works of art she’d paid for in beatings by her father.
Ana’s piercings—her nose, her belly button.
Ana’s laugh when I’d teased her about her desire to pierce her nipples one day, and the warm heat of her mouth when she kissed me to distract me from taking her to get them right then and there.
Ana’s courage as she’d negotiated her graduation and promised her father she’d let him marry her off when she was done.
Ana’s stubborn unwillingness to let her name define her, even though she’d been raised to be a perfect mafia princess and one day, a perfect mafia wife.
And her fucking pride that allowed her to walk away from me with her head held high when her asshole of an uncle shipped her off to Europe to shop her around to eligible bachelors so he could shore up the family name here in Yorkfield without her interference. Without her dangling in front of the men he worked with, salivating over marrying into the Costa empire.
And what could I offer her? Fucking nothing .
Not when her father had viciously attacked both of my sisters.
Not when my father hated the Costas.
Not when my younger sister shook up the power balance in Yorkfield by leaving us to run her own fucking family, backed by Dante Oscuro’s empire.
I too had obligations to my family and keeping her as a side piece wasn’t fair to anyone, not to her, not to me, and not to my future wife.
I thumbed open my phone and sent a text to Matteo Zanetti, an employee of one of my sister’s boyfriends.
Me
I need a favor.
Matteo Zanetti
??
Me
There was a yacht explosion in Nice. I need eyes on it. Need to know if this woman survived.
I sent him a photo of Ana, one of my favorites—no makeup, a genuine smile, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing one of my button-down shirts as she looked up from studying on my bed.
Matteo Zanetti
Ana fucking Costa? Reach out to Angelo.
Me
If Angelo had given me the answers I wanted, I wouldn’t be messaging you.
Matteo Zanetti
I’ll have to tell Dante. And Sofia.
Me
Just find out if she’s alive.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, then wrenched my emotions back under control.
Me
Please.