MAFIA BOSSES - The Box Set: An Enemies to Lovers Trilogy

by Chloe Fischer

  Marco grunted and downed the rest of his drink.

  “For a man who doesn’t like coincidences, you seem fine allowing this to happen under your nose.”

  The silence which followed was nothing short of ominous, and while Marco broke the stare between them, he could feel Giovanni’s eyes boring into his head.

  “Leave us.”

  They didn’t need to be asked twice, both Ariano and Cesare bolted up from the booth and disappeared into the kitchen without a word, leaving Marco with the wrath of his boss.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Marco chuckled mirthlessly, staring at his manicured hands.

  “I barely know where to start answering that question,” he replied honestly.

  Indeed, what the fuck is wrong with me?

  Marco felt like it could be traced back to his infancy, or perhaps even to his ancestors. Whatever it was, it was ingrained in him, long before he was a grown man and capo under the biggest don in the United States.

  He was a second-generation made man, his father Marino Sardelli one of the most trusted men who ever worked under Giovanni.

  There had never been any doubt that Marco and his brothers were going to work in the business, under this man. And Marco had not wanted it any other way.

  His father had loved the don so well, he had named his first born, Giovanni and his second Marco to show his devotion to the man.

  Marco had always looked up to his father, and to Giovanni. And he took great pride in what the family stood for and why it existed.

  From even before they could understand his words, Marino would sit his boys down and regale them with tales which always filled young Marco with awe and pride.

  “When we were in the old country, son, the government and the rich tried to take our land. They did awful things to our people, raping the women, murdering children. The farmers, our ancestors, we had to take a stand, to bond together and rise against the tyranny and the greed. That is why we are called a familia, figlios. Family is not necessarily blood but it is what keeps us together. With family, we can overcome the worst evil in this world, even when we have nothing.”

  They were so colorful, the stories about the revolts and the incredible journey that the old-world Italians fought against corruption, coming to the new world to escape injustice.

  Marco’s dream was to eventually return to Italy and die in Sardinia, on the Tyrrhenian coast, basking in the warmth of his forefathers’ victories.

  He was in his late teens before he realized that the stories, while historically sound, had little bearing on what the mafia was in 2018.

  We don’t stand for justice and rebellion in this day and age. Instead, we usually scoff at justice – unless it’s our own special kind of retribution.

  Perhaps it was his father’s strange hours and the secrecy which enshrouded the family.

  Maybe it was the memory of bloodstains on his father’s jackets or his cracked knuckles.

  Of course, there was the matter of the arsenal Marco had found when he was twelve.

  Whatever the reason, when the reality had abruptly slapped him in the face, leaving him fatherless and disillusioned, he was not nearly as surprised as his brothers.

  It was the only life he’d known, after all. His future was all laid out for him and Marco had never considered another lifestyle.

  The only thing that mattered to him then was what his father would have wanted.

  But it turned out to be anticlimactic. It seemed to Marco that all his life he had been told that he was Batman, but then he turned out to be the Joker.

  It was still cool, but not the same.

  The Joker. That should be my nickname. Who do I see about changing it?

  “Sei nelle nouvole? I’m fucking talking to you!”

  Marco sighed and stared at Giovanni, forsaking his dreams of changing his moniker.

  This is what my life has become; daydreams about changing my mob name.

  “What do you want me to say, boss? It’s too much of a coincidence. Someone is fucking talking. Maybe your new guy or – ”

  “Or maybe you’re fucking up your job and getting sloppy.”

  Marco clamped his mouth shut, knowing there was little point in arguing with the man.

  He had said his piece and if Giovanni wanted to hear it, he would.

  If not, Marco suspected they would be having the same conversation in another week.

  Sooner or later, he’s going to see that one of these men are snitches, whether or not he wants to.

  After what had happened with Gio’s daughter, Celina, Marco was surprised the don wasn’t more paranoid.

  “You watch your fucking mouth in front of the men,” Giovanni continued. “You’re gonna cause unrest among them. You know fucking better than this, Marco. Your papa taught you better.”

  Marco bristled at the mention of his father.

  “Have another drink, figlio. You’re tense. I can see it in your face. What’s on your mind?”

  Giovanni gestured for the bartender, snapping his fingers rudely until she approached, the bottle of grappa in her hands.

  “Doesn’t my boy look stressed out, cara?” he asked the long-time employee. “Look at his face.”

  “He has a beautiful face,” Tracey flirted, filling his glass and winking at him, leaning her full breasts into his face teasingly. But Marco’s scowl only deepened.

  Tracey flirted with all the men. It was an unspoken part of her job. It didn’t make him feel special.

  “You see? Tracey thinks you’re handsome. What does a handsome kid like you have to worry about, huh? Just do your goddamned job and get the next shipment through, capish?”

  Marco rose, downing his freshly poured drink in one gulp before nodding, his brow still knit.

  “Yeah, I got it,” he agreed.

  “Marco…”

  He gazed at Giovanni over his shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “You going today?”

  The old fucker had remembered.

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Good. Send him my praise, okay?”

  Marco nodded curtly again and stalked into the kitchen before Giovanni could say anything else.

  He pushed his way through the kitchen staff, making his way outside to where his Audi was parked in the alleyway behind Giovanni’s restaurant.

  Cesare was still there, smoking a cigarette.

  “You got nine fucking lives, you know that?”

  Marco unlocked the car and shrugged.

  “Just saying what’s what,” he replied flippantly, opening the car door.

  “Hey,” Cesare said, stepping toward him, tossing the butt on the ground. “Are you okay? You’ve been more of an asshole than usual the past few days.”

  “I’m good.”

  Marco slipped into his car and drove off, leaving Cesare staring after him, a perplexed look on his face.

  How the fuck do any of them know if I’m in a good mood or bad mood? He thought, his knuckles tightening against the wheel as he booted up Brickell Avenue, out of the downtown core. They think they know me but they don’t know jack shit.

  He knew he was being irrational in that moment, his anger misguided, but that didn’t stop him from continuing his mental rage as he drove.

  Just because I was born into this shit and will die doing this shit doesn’t mean they own me or know what’s in my head.

  As he continued up I-95 toward Fort Lauderdale, his heart began to steady, knowing he was leaving Miami behind.

  I need to stop, he realized as he neared his destination, his eyes resting on a shop where he steered his Audi.

  He didn’t immediately get out of the car, his hands still firmly around the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead.

  I can’t believe another year has passed. Fuck I hate today.

  Slowly, he grabbed his keys from the console and entered the store for his purchase, sweeping his hand through his dark mop of hair.r />
  A single wave fell insistently back over his forehead, blocking his widow’s peak from view.

  As he slammed the driver’s side door, he saw a group of teenaged girls turn to stare at him, giggling and whispering as their eyes lit up with interest.

  His green eyes passed over them without acknowledgement and he would have ignored them altogether if one of them, a blonde girl in a halter top, had not stepped forward.

  She twirled a strand of hair between her fingers, her brown eyes wide and innocent as she sashayed toward him in too-short jean shorts.

  “Hi,” she offered. “Nice car.”

  Marco grunted in response, reaching for the door but she stepped between him and the entrance, smiling suggestively.

  “Do you think you could do us a favor?” she asked sweetly.

  Marco stared at her, unspeaking.

  For a moment, he thought his stoic expression was enough to deter her from pursuing any further conversation, but she seemed confident in her abilities.

  His eyes scanned back toward the other three girls who were watching her with awe in their eyes. The blonde was obviously the leader of their pack.

  “Could you buy us some beer?” she asked. “We have money but we all forgot our ID’s.”

  He studied her face closely, gauging her age to be no more than fifteen, sixteen at most.

  “Beer, huh?” he asked, allowing a lazy smile to form on his lips. “Why don’t I take you to the liquor store and get us a bottle of vodka? We can all party together.”

  Her eyes blazed with interest, and she spun to look at her friends as if she had won the jackpot.

  “That would be amazing!” she squealed and then immediately checked her tone, casting her eyes downward flirtatiously.

  “I’m only taking you. Your friends have to wait here.”

  She looked up uncertainly.

  “Oh…”

  He shrugged.

  “Your call.”

  His hand reached for the handle again and she made her decision.

  “Okay!”

  “No, Sasha!” one of her friends called.

  “It’s okay!” Sasha insisted. “I’ll be right back!”

  “You should listen to your friend,” Marco snapped, pushing her aside. “She’s apparently the only one with a brain in your group.”

  “What?” Sasha asked, her brow furrowing in confusion, the smile still trying to hold on her face.

  “Never mind,” he snapped. “You’re not even smart enough to understand a life lesson when it’s staring you in the face.”

  “Does that mean we’re not going to the liquor store?” she pouted after him as he tried to brush past her.

  “Sasha!” her concerned friend yelled. “Forget about it!”

  Marco rolled his eyes, the disgust showing plainly on his face.

  “Wait! Can you still buy us beer?” Sasha pleaded, and Marco whirled to stare at her, his eyes flashing.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “You just agreed to get in a stranger’s car for a sip of vodka. You know what’s next? Selling your ass on a corner in Hialeah for an ounce of smack. Get your shit together and go home to your parents until you acquire some brains.”

  Sasha blinked, tears filling her eyes and her friends flocked to her, pulling her back as if Marco had physically wounded her.

  “You’re an asshole!” one of the girls cried, hugging Sasha to her.

  “You think I’m an asshole?” he laughed. “You haven’t seen shit yet if you all continue down this path.”

  He stormed into the store and signalled for the clerk.

  “There’s a bunch of kids hitting up customers for beer out there. You should call the cops,” he muttered, turning away to find what he was looking for.

  Jesus Christ, now you’re the moral voice for every messed-up teenager you come across? You need a serious adjustment, Amico. Or some pussy. It had been a while since he had gotten laid, after all.

  When he left the store five minutes later, the group had vanished.

  He continued along until he reached the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale, guiding the vehicle into the cemetery parking lot.

  Grabbing the flowers from the driver’s seat, he inhaled shakily before getting out of the car.

  Time to pay his respects.

  Chapter Two

  Andrea drummed her fingers against the table, captivated by the length of the nails on her right hand.

  Do women really wear their manicures this long? It’s fucked up, she thought, staring at them in disbelief, the red of the polish causing her to blush slightly.

  Nothing about ‘Sofia Morano’ reflected her real personality, and as she sat at the bar waiting, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was going to blow her cover as soon as she opened her mouth.

  “You have this woman inside you,” Agent Draggan had assured her. “You just have to channel your inner Sofia and run with it.”

  They couldn’t have started me with pretending to be someone a little less… sexy, huh? I had to walk in, red dress and stilettos, like the whore of Babylon.

  In all fairness, while the dress was red, it wasn’t crimson or cherry. It was a deep, matte color which was very flattering to her dark hair, blue eyes, and olive complexion.

  And it was stylish, not slutty, but that was all a matter of perception to a woman who had last worn a dress to her sister’s wedding two years earlier.

  “You want to stand out,” Terry explained. “But you don’t want to attract the wrong attention. This is Miami after all. The competition is somewhat fierce.”

  “You don’t think these claws will attract the wrong attention?” she demanded peevishly.

  “They aren’t as bad as you think,” he sighed. “Are you sure you’re a Miami-Dade detective? You’re acting like you’ve never seen people outside before.”

  Andrea was embarrassed, but she hid it smoothly.

  “Sorry,” she replied sharply. “My experience with mafia wives is limited to VH-1.”

  The agent snickered.

  “Well then you should be adequately educated.”

  Sighing, Andrea glanced at her watch again and the bartender winked at her, leaning over the bar, her full bosom almost spilling out the top of her low-cut top.

  A small, tasteful tattoo licked her neck just beneath her ear.

  “Hot date?” she asked, and Andrea’s head whipped up, her black hair tumbling around her bare shoulders.

  Every encounter you have, every word you speak, every smile you give going forward belongs to Sofia. Don’t forget that. Draggan’s voice echoed in her head.

  Andrea moaned, dropping her palms onto the bar for effect.

  “I thought so,” she muttered. “Goddamned Tinder.”

  The blonde behind the bar grinned, her eyebrows raising as she nodded understandingly.

  “Yeah, I’ve had my fair share of those too,” she conceded, sympathetically. “Welcome to Miami.”

  Andrea sighed dramatically.

  “Can I get another?” she asked, forcing a depressed note into her voice as she signalled at her empty glass. “May as well drown my sorrows while I’m here.”

  “Ah, chin up,” the server laughed, reaching for her glass. “It’s Tinder. Pull out your phone and make another connection.”

  “No thank you,” Andrea replied. “One rejection is more than enough for one night. But thanks anyway.”

  The bartender made a commiserating noise as she slipped the drink before her.

  “I’m Tracey,” she offered, holding out her hand and Andrea accepted it.

  Sofia. Your name is Sofia.

  “Sofia Morano.”

  Their palms met and for a terrifying second, Andrea was afraid her hands were drenched in sweat.

  The blonde studied her face.

  “You’re not from Miami, are you?” Tracey asked and Andrea had to swallow a laugh.

  She had been born and raised right here in Cutler.

  But Sofia
hadn’t.

  “Richmond, Virginia.”

  “Ah,” the bartender chuckled. “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you dress the part, but you’ve got the ‘good Southern girl’ thing going on. You can take the girl out of the south…”

  Andrea’s smile froze on her face.

  I knew it. I’m going to get found out. Shit! My cover is blown!

  She willed the panic to subside and tried to reclaim Sofia’s confident state of mind.

  “Just trying to blend in,” Andrea said quickly and Tracey laughed, placing her hand over hers.

  “Trust me, honey, you don’t want to blend in. Everyone in Miami looks the same. You want to stand out.”

  Andrea glanced at the bartender’s hand, wondering if she was reading too much into the gesture, but her cop’s intuition told her that Tracey was not merely being friendly.

  I wonder if her angle has ever been questioned.

  Andrea mentally filed Tracey away for future use.

  When she got in touch with Agent Draggan later, she could have him check her out.

  “Anyway, pretty girl like you won’t take long to get noticed. Especially not in a place like this,” Tracey continued, her smile widening as she shifted her eyes toward the entrance, slipping her hand back to her side of the bar.

  Andrea turned to see where she was looking and her heart sped up slightly.

  Of course. She was inside Il Toro for a reason.

  Everyone knew that Giovanni owned the high end Italian eatery in the heart of downtown, and that his crew frequented the spot.

  The problem was, there was no rhyme or reason as to when they showed or for what reason.

  “You should start there and become known as a regular. Make friends with anyone you can. You’re the new girl in town, sweet but ready for adventure,” Draggan told her. “You might not contact anyone for days, but at least you’re making your presence known. Use your ears, not your mouth. Don’t ask a lot of questions and don’t volunteer information. I know that you haven’t had the full FBI regimen of training, but I think you’re ready.”

  Bullshit, Andrea thought, watching as Carlo Suzzi and his wife wandered inside the establishment, dressed like a Hollywood starlet couple.

  Angela Suzzi was dripping in diamonds from ears to hands, a mink stole around her shoulders despite the eighty-degree heat in the evening.