1. Manuel
ONE
MANUEL
Eleven Years Later
L ampposts lit up the streets of Paris, casting a romantic glow as I made my way to the Marchetti venue where Reina Romero’s fashion show was due to start. Though Enrico was technically my nephew, he was only five years younger than me—the son of my older brother. Enrico and I, along with his brother, were raised as cousins since we were all close in age, but we were all raised in the world of the Omertà, where the only vow that counted was the one given to the mafia.
Over the last few decades, the organization in Italy had changed and adapted, allowing it to flourish. The five ruling families—Marchetti, DiMauro, Agosti, Romero, and Leone—had developed a finely honed sense of loyalty among their citizens, but we’d also made powerful alliances with the Irish, Russians, Brazilians, and Greeks. And through Kingston—the infamous Ghost—even with the Ashfords. Together we ran one of the most successful criminal organizations in the world, the Thorns of Omertà.
We had plenty of people who opposed us, and they never hesitated to strike from the shadows.
Like now.
I sensed the presence behind me and came to a stop in front of the window shop. I casually flicked a glance at the display, my eyes locking on the reflection behind me.
I turned slowly and met the fucker head-on, but before I could utter a single word, my stalker took off running.
The ignorant man would need to be taught that nobody ever escaped me. I trained too hard, kept my body in too strong a physical state to let myself be a target. And if they happened to outrun me… well, I always found them.
I started running, grateful for the loaded gun in my holster but pissed off about my custom suit and shoes. If we weren’t in the middle of the city, I’d shoot the motherfucker and get on with my night.
My loafers pounded against the pavement as I closed in on him, stretching my arm out and grabbing him by his collar. I spotted an alley and yanked him into it. He fell onto his knees, and before he could stand up, I propped my foot on his shoulder like my own personal footstool.
“No use running,” I said, my voice sharp. My eyes fell to the tattoo on his hand, a Chinese symbol in the mouth of a skull. “There’s nowhere to run.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Mercy.”
He knew better. There was no mercy in this world.
“Why are you following me?” I asked instead.
“I’m n-not,” he stuttered, his accent thick.
I sighed. “Who are you following, then?” The full moon over us glimmered as I waited for his answer. I pulled out my gun and shoved the barrel against his skull. “Who?”
“Atticus,” he choked out. “He’s in Paris.”
My brows furrowed. Atticus Popov was an enigma, causing trouble everywhere he went and disappearing before you could get your hands on him. His son, Danil Popov, had expanded on what Atticus started and turned it into one of the most successful organizations in the Balkans, possibly beyond too. But this was not Balkan territory.
“Why is he in Paris?” I demanded, pressing my foot harder against his body.
“Attending a fashion event at Marchetti's venue.”
I scoffed. “Why would he be at the Marchetti venue?”
“I don’t know, man. I’m just following orders.”
“What are your orders exactly?” He hesitated, and I pushed the barrel of the gun farther into him. “I hate repeating myself.”
“To find Atticus and an old mistress of his. There’s a price on their heads. That’s all I know.”
Atticus really fucked up when he went against Lykos Costello, the head of the Greek mafia. Some of us were old-school, which meant no flesh for sale. If a woman took it upon herself to enter the sex trade— consensually —that was her own business. But Atticus, being young and ambitious, thought he knew better and teamed up with the Albanians, the Triads—the Chinese mafia—and the Tijuana cartel to move flesh over the Greek territory.
His first mistake.
No move was made on Greek territory without the Costellos’ permission, and there was hell to pay if you got caught. Especially if the business transaction could start a war.
But Atticus thought himself smarter. Then, to make matters worse, he turned around and began selling the flesh to the Cortes cartel, fucking over the Albanians, the Tijuana cartel, and the Triads, making himself and anyone connected to him, forever a target. As the years went on, organizations forgave and forgot, but the Triads never did.
Until roughly eleven years ago.
The word on the street was that the score was settled—we all knew better than to ask questions.
“Are the Triads after Atticus Popov again?” He didn’t have to answer, it was written all over his face. “I thought the score was settled.”
“We thought the same, but we were wrong.”
“Meaning?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew he wouldn’t divulge anything else.
“Well, hunting on territory that doesn’t belong to you or Atticus is punishable by death,” I remarked.
“Please, I have a family, a kid?—”
I pulled the trigger before he could finish the sentence and watched as his body hit the pavement with a loud thud.
By the time I went back home to shower and put on a fresh suit, the fashion show at the Marchetti venue was finished. Instead of returning home, for some unfathomable reason to me, Enrico went to a goddamned nightclub.
Music pumped, obnoxious and loud, giving me a headache even standing outside the club, and I seriously debated leaving Enrico to his own devices. I was too old for this shit. We were Italians, used to loud people and big families, but not even that came close to the sound of the bass assaulting my ears right now.
“What the fuck was Enrico thinking coming to a club like this?” I muttered under my breath. Just as I braced my senses for further insult, I spotted him exiting the club with a redhead on his arm, and understanding dawned on me. My nephew was about to get laid. The corner of my lips lifted. “Thank fuck.”
I really wasn’t in the mood for crowded places and loud people, especially after a run-in with the Triads man who had put Atticus Popov and the Marchetti name in the same sentence. What in the fuck made them believe that Atticus would be attending the Marchetti venue? We didn’t do business with the Popov family.
Enrico ushered the girl into the car, his driver taking them away, and I decided to take a detour. With my nephew—who was currently speeding down the Parisian street toward his home—being the sole reason I was here in the first place, the expectation to stay and suffer vanished. Free to go . I was just about to turn around when a young woman caught my eye. She was short and curvy with long, wavy auburn hair, fair skin, and green, cat-like eyes. Her nose was small and straight and her mouth lush and pink. Even in the cloak of the night, I envisioned how perfectly they would look wrapped around my dick.
I’d been with countless women in my forty-five years on this earth—actresses, models, even an opera singer—but none had ever made me pause. Yes, they piqued my interest and made my dick hard, but my heart never blipped at the sight of any of them. Until fucking now. At the risk of sounding like a complete puss, my heart beat triple time over this woman. For a moment, I’d completely forgotten where I was, the entire world giving way to the gorgeous woman swaying her hips to the music.
Just as I was about to turn around, a melodious burst of laughter traveled over the din of the club, captivating me. She was bent at the waist, chuckling so hard that her whole body shook. It was contagious, and I found my mouth twitching, smiling right along with her. Then my heart skipped. Again .
I frowned. Fuck, this wasn’t normal. Maybe I needed a checkup. This had to be the first sign of a heart attack.
Her friends sauntered down the street but she fell behind, her attention on the phone in her hand. Her brow furrowed and she started typing, unaware her friends were getting swallowed by the crowd.
It took no time for the vultures to descend, surrounding her like she was their next meal. Something about her seemed to trigger a protective instinct in me and I wedged my way through the group of men.
“Touch me, motherfucker, and I swear to God, I’ll have your hands sawed off.”
I stopped mid-step and an incredulous breath left me. She was pure fire.
I let my eyes drift down the slope of her back, circling her trim waist and dipping to her full hips. It was then that one of the assholes put his hand on her shoulder, and in one swift move, I shoved him away from her.
“You don’t fucking touch her,” I roared, surprised at my own reaction. I took a step forward, straightened my shoulders, and looked down my nose at him. “And you better run from this woman or I’ll ensure that the saw she just mentioned is nice and sharp.” I’d enjoy nothing more to be quite honest. “Now, apologize and get the hell out of here.”
The men dispersed faster than a speeding bullet, running with their tails between their legs.
“None of them apologized.” A pouty voice pulled my attention back to the woman whose eyes were now shining with mischief.
“We can always go after them, bella, ” I offered, watching her like I’d never watched a woman before. “You’d like that, sì ?”
Her full pink lips curved up and… I actually clutched my chest this time. What the fuck? I stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
“It’s tempting, but I can think of better ways to spend the night,” she said, her voice playful. She had a pleasant voice and a blinding smile. Radiant and mesmerizing. And her eyes… I had never been so captivated by a woman’s eyes, pulling me into her web, their long lashes batting up at me and filling me with sinful ideas.
She must’ve taken my silence for rejection because her face fell.
“Well, thanks for jumping in like a gentleman,” she said. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you don’t seem?—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Her eyebrow arched in surprise and the corner of my mouth lifted in a smirk. “After all, a gentleman always pays.”
She let out a soft chuckle, her gaze burning through me. Something told me forgetting this mesmerizing woman with the auburn hair would be impossible.
“Yeah… I don’t think you’re a gentleman.”
“Beautiful and smart,” I remarked. “A deadly combination.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
“I guess you’ll find out.” She stood there, staring up at me, cheeks flushed. “One drink,” she breathed.
I nodded. “Just one.”
Famous last words.