Mafia Obsession (American Mafia #1)

1. Ares Zervas – Manhattan

Ares Zervas – Manhattan

“Lucia,” I say my cousin’s name softly. “I am speaking now, please do not interrupt me again.”

I fucking hate that.

My hand tightens around the hilt of a knife I’ve slipped from my jacket the minute she walked into my office at Club Wicked with that…man. The muted thump of music bleeds through the walls, but all I feel is my blood rushing through my veins, seeing her torn dress.

“Ares, I’m fine. Ian and I were just dancing.” Lucia nervously adjusts the strap under her jet-black hair as if I haven’t noticed.

I noticed the second my bouncers brought her in.

“I told your guys it was nothing.”

Standing to my full height, I say, “Those guys are in charge of the club, the dance floor, and the bar. I’m in charge of you and resolving this problem.”

With my eyes on her, I point to the man Lucia’s personal guard dragged into my office. The problem.

Lucia’s jaw clamps shut as she looks at me.

Really looks at me. Then she glances around my lavish office, where every guard stands at the ready to act on my command.

My cousin knows what I am. What I do. What my father, her uncle, did.

Even if she and Lola, her twin, were too young to remember when Lucien Zervas was high-ranking in the Christou Greek Mafia.

And the falling out of favor, an event that put us all at risk.

I know she remembers Alexander. My older brother, who killed our father and Mr. Christou, then took control of the mafia in our name. But Alexander is gone. Killed by the Irish. Leaving me to end that war.

Now I stand as the head of the Greek Mafia.

And this man I’m staring at had the audacity to put his hands on my blood, tearing her dress.

“Lucia, you are a descendant of the most powerful Zervas line,” I tell her quietly. “We are bred from Gods. That means no man gets to decide where your consent ends.”

Her eyes lower. “Ian didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what Ian meant,” I shout. “I care what he did.”

I acknowledge him, this Ian, for the first time. He didn’t matter until now. Now it’s time for him to be punished.

“Ian,” I say, his name tasting offensive on my tongue.

“Sir, I had no idea she—”

“Silence,” I roar.

Tension in the room thickens. Two bouncers tighten their position in front of my office door. Lucia’s guard shifts nervously. She was touched on Razor’s watch.

Ian’s gaze moves from my towering, wide frame to Lucia with pleading eyes, as if she can save him.

Perhaps she came in here thinking she could.

She was raised to have a voice. To not shirk behind a man.

I have a brief comic memory of her calling Griffin Quinlan, the head of the Irish Mob, a ‘meanie.’

“Hold out your right hand,” I say to Ian, moving in front of him.

He blinks up at me. “What?”

“Your right hand,” I repeat. “Give it to me.”

Ian’s face reddens, panic blooming. “Please—”

I grab his wrist and yank until the tendons give way.

“Ow! Fuck, what are you—”

My grip locks his hand in mine, torque precise, pressure absolute. Bone gives way with a wet crack that echoes in the office.

He screams high and animal-like, then drops to the floor.

I crouch just enough to make sure he hears me. “Be glad it’s just your hand. I can kill you. You’re nobody. But I want you to feel this pain to match the anger burning in my soul for what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he cries out.

“Liar! You touched what didn’t belong to you,” I say calmly, and still holding his hand, I squeeze until I feel several smaller bones break.

Again, he cries out. “Next time, it will be your skull that I crush. Or your eyes gouged out.”

I let go, and Ian grabs his broken hand, his breath coming in gasps. His eyes tear up while holding on to whatever dignity he has left.

I nod, and my two bouncers haul him up, his feet barely touching the floor as they drag him from my office.

His sobs fade down the hall. They will put him in one of our cars where my brother Atlas will explain that retaliation is futile and that I’ll make good on my escalation threat if I ever see him again.

When the office is silent, I turn back to Lucia.

She drops into a leather seat in front of my desk, shaking, and I don’t like seeing that. She should never be afraid of me. I kneel in front of her and take her hands in mine, careful not to frighten her since it’s the same hand that just crushed the bones of a man.

“Lucia,” I say. “No one dares to rip your clothes without paying a price for it.”

“Mother was right.” Her throat bobs. “You really are terrifying.”

I smile faintly at what my aunt must think of me. Alexander was her favorite. I’ve never been anyone’s favorite. I’ve learned to live without love. Love is not for me.

“Only to people who deserve it.” I rise and press a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She huffs a weak laugh. “I’m sorry I caused problems for you tonight.”

“Protecting you is never a problem for me.” I lift her chin. “How is French Craft? Didn’t burn it down yet, have you?”

“I hate it, to be honest.” She shrugs. “I’m the senior sous-chef, but the head chef treats me like he hired me from McDonald’s, not from La Varenne.”

“I haven’t been to your restaurant in a while. It’s time I pay a visit,” I say casually. “Remind your boss who he’s dealing with.”

She snorts and swats my arm. “You’re insane.”

I laugh under my breath. If anyone else did that, touched me and called me crazy, they’d be dead before their next breath.

“Men overlook and harass women in the workplace all the time, Lucia. My visit there sounds long overdue.”

I glance up to see Razor, Lucia’s guard, standing stiffly by the door. He’s gone pale and avoids my eyes.

“Pride,” I say to one of my seven guards, named after the seven deadly sins.

Pride steps forward. Big. Brooding. Terrifying. “Boss.”

“Take Lucia home. Stay with her tonight.”

“I have a guard, Ares. Why is Pride—” Lucia trails off, the realization settling in that her date isn’t the only man who will be punished tonight.

Humor gone from our exchange, I press a finger against her lips. “Do not question me when it comes to punishing your guards. They protect you. But they work for me.”

I lower my head for her to honor me with a kiss on my cheek.

“I understand,” she whispers and gives me a quick peck. “Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me.” I smile and then give a look to my other guards to seize Razor.

In the time it takes for Pride to escort my young cousin out, her guard has been brought to the floor, guns at his head.

The room goes quiet again as I stand over Razor. “You swore an oath to protect my blood. How dare you let a man touch her. Tear her dress and walk around my club half-exposed.”

He tries to speak, but I take out my gun and jam it into his mouth, breaking several of his teeth. He groans in pain, but I cock the hammer to shut him up.

“You were paid to do a job,” I snarl. “And you failed.”

“Please,” he cries, his mouth contorted in pain.

“You won’t need those teeth anymore. You ate your last meal. I hope it was something worth savoring over.” I yank my gun out of his mouth and use a handkerchief to wipe away the blood and drool. “Take him downstairs.” I wave a hand to Wrath, the head sin. “You know which room and what to do.”

Which means: Make it quick. And stage it right, so his family doesn’t suspect anything.

The guards don’t question me. They’ve been trained not to. Razor is dying tonight.

If they mess up, tomorrow it could be one of them.