He stared at me unblinkingly for a long moment, that hand still banded around my throat, so hot it scorched my skin. The air around us throbbed in time with my pulse. There was a flush in my cheeks I could feel and a heaviness in my gut I told myself was anger instead of something more carnal.
I watched as the darkness in Dante’s eyes warmed with something other than anger. I sucked a sharp breath into my mouth, tasting his peppery cologne accidentally as he brought my face closer to his in order to rasp his stubbled cheek against my own and whisper in my ear, “Who knows, lottatrice, maybe you’ll find more pleasure being in bed with the devil than you would have imagined.”
DANTE
What happens after the fall of a dynasty?
The big bang and flash of fireworks exploding in a decades-long show of glitz and glamour, dissolving into wisps and embers and then… into nothing.
It leaves a huge ink-black sky ripe for the filling.
A black hole just waiting for someone to step up and control the void.
The mafia of old died in the 80s after the trial of Arturo Accardi hit the final nail in the coffins of the Old Guard. The public hits, Made Men caricatures wrapped up in tailor-made Prada suits with gold chains and pockets bulging with rolls of fat hundreds, were gone.
But the mafia itself could not be killed.
Not then, certainly not now, and if I had to hedge a bet, not ever.
The mafia was founded on the idea of brotherhood and greed, both so essential to the human existence it could never be snuffed out.
So, we iterated, reiterated, again and again. We were an amorphous shape, constantly changing with the times and adapting better than any other institution or organization because we didn’t have to worry about pesky things like the law or morality.
The mafia originated in Sicily because, after decades of constant invasions and shifts in power, the natives developed a finely honed sense of loyalty to their neighbors over their loyalty to the government. As a result, they were able to maintain a culture based on their unique community and not that of their oppressors.
The mafia was founded as a result of a greater power trying to cut Italians down, so Italians created their own organization to fight back and police their own.
This was why even after the massive governmental and police attacks on the American mafia in the 80s, families of organized crime not only still existed… They fucking thrived. Not even cancel culture could cancel the mafia. Some institutions existed outside of time and place. La Famiglia was one such institution.
Where did I fit into any of that?
Well, in this life, my third in thirty-five years, I was Dante Salvatore, capo of the Salvatore borgata.
Charmingly mad, bad, and entirely too dangerous to know.
Or so they said.
Few people knew the real me, but perhaps the one who loved me most currently sat scowling beside me, drinking an expensive glass of Chianti as if it was cheap American beer.
“It is not for them to doubt us,” Amadeo Salvatore muttered darkly into the wide bowl of his glass, dark brow knitted together into one long, furry line. “They are to listen and obey. You have to earn respect to get respect. Is this a concept youth today cannot grasp?”
I grinned at my pseudo-father, noting that even at eleven at night after a full day of work, his Brioni suit was still immaculately pressed. Tore prized control over almost any other quality. He was intractable with his rules, rigid in his regard for conformity within the Outfit.
Yet, he’d taken a reckless runaway British lad under his belt and groomed him like a son, even knowing the wildness in his blood would never cool.
We were a good contrast, he and I. He was cold and calculated. I was instinct and hot-blooded brutality.
Together, we ran one of the most successful outfits in a country we hadn’t even called our own until five years prior.
Sitting on the patio of my two-story penthouse in one of New York City’s most storied and expensive apartment buildings overlooking Central Park, the lights of the city beyond shining like jewels spilled at our feet, it was impossible not to feel the power and prestige of our urban empire.
“It might have something to do with the fact that their capo is currently embroiled in a years-long trial with no end in sight,” I drawled dryly before sipping the full-bodied wine.
Tore grunted at that, as displeased with my arrest as picnickers were by flies at a summer spread. Arrests, police surveillance, and blackmail were all frequent and natural consequences of our illegal enterprises. Tore had been inducted into the mafia as a young man and spent his entire life living in the shadows of the Camorra’s powerful embrace. He believed absolutely in its power to crush any opponent, even one so grand as the US government. After all, it had been done before. Many, many times.
I was yet unconvinced.
We were powerful men, the head of the snake of an extensive criminal empire with a widespread network of connections to grease our way out of tight corners.
But this was different.
That fuckface USA was determined to be the next Guiliani and bring down the New York City mob. No one gave a shit about the mafia in a time of national and global acts of terrorism, but Dennis O’Malley was convinced he could cut the line straight to the top of success by taking down the glamourous Camorra.
Even that was nothing, white fucking noise, compared to the real problem.
I hadn’t killed Giuseppe di Carlo in that shithole deli in the Bronx.
I wished I had.
But no.
It wasn’t me who planted a bullet between the motherfucker’s eyes.
It seemed the di Carlo Family was cleverer than their inbred ugliness lent them credit for. They’d set up one of the only people I’d ever loved.
And I’d go to jail, the grave, whatever afterlife there was for sinner men like me a thousand times over if it meant keeping Cosima safe.
So, there we were.
It was a helluva predicament.
“We got the Irish bastards sniffing around our garbage looking for spoils,” Tore muttered into his wine. “Jacopo caught a few of them lingering by the Hudson, scouting warehouses. I tell you, I should’ve killed Seamus Moore when I had the chance.”
It was a complicated story, the one between Cosima and Elena’s mother, Caprice, and her ex-husband Seamus. Caprice and Tore had fallen in love once, long ago, and had a torrid affair that led to the birth of Cosima and her twin brother, Sebastian. Caprice had cut Tore out of their lives because of his mob dealings and raised the twins as Seamus’s offspring until the Irish bastard sold Cosima into sexual slavery and disappeared for years.
He’d cropped up in New York City, our city, last year working for Thomas “Gunner” Kelly and his group of Irish thugs. He’d abducted Cosima for reasons known only to him, and since then, he and the gang had been sniffing around our outfit.
It was hard not to agree with Tore. Some men deserved more than death, and Seamus Moore was one such person.
“Soft heart,” I reminded him. “A powerful man’s downfall.”
His thick brow arched, cutting thick creases into his broad forehead. “And you, figlio mio, are a hardened criminal with no soul, si?”
I didn’t bother to shoot the old coot a look. We both knew well enough that I had one weakness, and it was exactly that. The precious few chinks in my armor were made by the love I held for him, for my brother, and his wife, my best friend, Cosima.
I’d do anything for them. Had done anything for them.
Without question, without qualm.
This was what family meant to Italians.
Mafia or civilian, we protected our own at all costs.
Which was why I was on trial for murder when I had nothing to do with the murder of di Carlo and his thug.
“Yara won’t let you down,” Tore mused.
It was unusual for Italians to fraternize with outsiders, even taking their bigotry as far as sticking to one region of the
country, but Tore was different. I was different. Thus, our borgata was different. The Salvatore’s dealt with all manner of nationalities and genders. So while the other arseholes in the Commission might ridicule me for having a non-Italian female lawyer, I didn’t give a fuck. In my experience, diversity was modern and just good business sense. Criminality and brotherhood didn’t just run through Latin blood. It was color blind and sexless.
“She’s not got the blood, but Persians understand family perhaps just as well,” Tore continued before finishing off his wine with a pleased hum.
“They do,” I agreed, sudden agitation coursing through me like lactic acid after a hard workout.
I stood abruptly and went to the stone balustrade, leaning against the cold barrier with my wineglass clasped loosely between my hands over the ledge. The light from the street shone up through the Chianti, illuminating it to a rich, carmine glow that brought the image of Elena Lombardi unbidden into my mind’s eye.
She was…unexpected.
Nothing like mia sorella di scelta, Cosima. She had none of her boldness or unstudied sensuality. She was not a natural flirt or a warm, radiant energy in a room.
She was, in essence, an ice queen.
Not only because she was coldly analytical, almost brittle with latent hostility, with a cutting wit that slashed her opponent like the dangerous edge of an icicle.
It was because she seemed encased in ice, fossilized like some ancient creature at the time of their death. Only Elena’s death was an emotional one.
I knew all about Daniel Sinclair’s affair with Giselle because Cosima spoke openly with me about everything. I knew about Elena’s shame and despair, and I could even understand it to a point.
Once, I’d fancied myself in love with Cosima. Truthfully, any red-blooded man would fancy themselves in love with her at some point, maybe even from just looking at her exquisite face across a room.
It wasn’t her looks that did it for me.
Beauty was easy. I was a handsome man, a powerful one with money to boot. I could have fourteen gorgeous women in my apartment within the hour if I so desired.
Beauty was boring.
What interested me about women, about Cosima back in the day, was the intricacy of the structure beneath the façade. She was made of steel rods and titanium beams with a mind like a three-dimensional chess set.
A lifetime of deceit, duplicity, and tragedy coupled with a degree from Cambridge in psychology had given me finely honed X-ray vision. It was easy enough to see beneath the skin of a person to the bones of what made them unique.
Elena was not such an easy study.
She was elegant from the column of her swan-like neck to the tips of her high-heeled shoes, but there was also an odd nervousness in her manner, an alertness to those around her that spoke of her desire to adapt and conform, to please everyone at any cost.
In my experience, insecurity like that was corrosive, and given what I knew from Cosima about Elena’s past actions and mistakes, it didn’t surprise me she was known as a bitch.
I didn’t mind working with a bitch.
In my humble opinion, they were underrated.
Cutthroat, whip smart, and ruthless were all characteristics anyone in the underworld needed not only to thrive but also to survive.
And I had no doubt after all the stories from Cosima, but more, after seeing that haunted look in her eye when I’d asked her about sacrifice only hours earlier that Elena Lombardi was a survivor.
“You have that look on your face,” Tore noted as he joined me at the ledge.
“Mmm?”
“The look of a man figuring out a puzzle,” he surmised. “More specifically, the look of a man trying to figure out a Lombardi woman.”
My lips twisted wryly. “You’d know all about that.”
“I am an expert,” he agreed easily with that quintessential Italian gesture, a shrug so small it was almost a tic. “I hope this time it is not my daughter who has caught your eye.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” I drawled, “I do not have a death wish. If Alexander believed my love for his wife was anything but platonic, I’d be dead already.”
Tore’s laugh was full of praise for a man who’d once campaigned to murder him. If he could understand anything, it was possessiveness, and Alexander’s totalitarian ownership of Cosima pleased him because it meant she would always be safe in his company.
As a man with many enemies, this was reason enough to approve of a son-in-law.
“So, Elena,” Tore said, turning his back to the stone wall to rest his elbows on it, his dark gaze fixed to my face. “She intrigues you.”
“The way one villain might intrigue another,” I allowed. “Cosima thought she was doing me a favor in making Elena swear to take on my case, but I have this portentous impression she will do more harm than good.”
“Cosima says she is a very good lawyer, no?”
I inclined my head. “A good lawyer in general is not good enough for me. I don’t need a prudish, judgmental woman caught up in Family affairs.”
“No,” Tore agreed. “Get Frankie to dig up what he can on her.”
I was already shaking my head. “She’ll be as clean as a fucking whistle. No, she will be a consummate professional, I’m sure, hardworking and loyal.”
“Then I do not see the problem.”
“No,” I agreed uneasily, staring down at the illuminated wine; the very same glossy shade of deep red echoed in Elena’s unusual hair. “But you see, I am not a professional, and there is something about all that studied perfection that makes me eager to break her.”
Tore’s grin was a slicing movement across his broad face. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and chuckled darkly. “You are facing prison, Dante. I say, have fun with the girl. Hell, make her cry, get her to quit, whatever you want. Just don’t let it get back to Cosima, or she’ll castrate you herself.”
I smiled mirthlessly at the truth of his words, but I couldn’t quell the feeling like shaken soda overflowing inside my chest cavity. The feeling that was all itch and acid and not at all pleasant that had something to do with Elena Lombardi.
My fucking lawyer.
Tore had been right before. It was the way I felt when normally faced with a seemingly impossible situation and problem. The urge to break apart the pieces and glue them back together in a way that worked for me was nearly impossible to resist.
And at my heart, I was a hedonist.
So, I admit, I didn’t try that hard to resist.
“Bene,” I agreed suddenly, clapping my hands before I rubbed them together in anticipation. “I have little time left as a free man, so I better make good use of it. Are you coming?”
Tore’s mouth twisted wryly. “I thought the time when you needed hand holding to seduce a woman had passed.”
I snorted. “I was talking about going to the hanger to visit the first of our problems, vecchio. I just came from her house, Tore. I’m not some eager young stronzo. I don’t want to fuck her. She doesn’t look like she could even take my cock, let alone enjoy it. I just want to fuck with her. I have a feeling she’ll be a challenge, and I haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“Not since Cosima,” Tore noted with faux nonchalance, but he was a cunning old man, and there was a glimmer of intrigue in the golden eyes he’d passed on to his daughter.
I didn’t respond because I wasn’t thinking about golden eyes.
I was thinking about a pair of steel ones as hard as armor and wondering just what kind of instrument I’d need to break that metal barrier in two.
DANTE
Mason Matlock was strung up with rope from the ceiling of the airplane hangar we kept out near Newark Liberty Airport in New Jersey. He’d been there for a very long time, left to hang like a butchered cow being drained of blood. Mason too was being bled out, slowly and carefully by a thousand cuts from the blade of my right-hand man, Frankie.
I stepped through the cool pool of congealing blood
as I crossed the asphalt to stop before Mason’s slumped head. His clothes hung off him in ribbons, some fabric saturated in warm blood, other pieces dried to his skin from past injuries. He was a beautiful tapestry of what could happen to a man if he fucked with the Camorra.
If he fucked with me or mine.
My leather-gloved hand snapped out to smash against Mason’s cheek, slapping him so hard he woke from his semi-comatose state. His head jerked back as a groan exploded from his pale lips.
“Wakey, wakey, brutto figlio di puttana bastardo,” I said with a sinister smile as he fixed those bloodshot eyes on me, his pupils dilated with pure terror. “You ready to talk to me yet?”
I’d learned early on that the two most powerful motivators in this life were fear and love. I’d grown especially talented at manipulating both in my enemies, even using one to heighten the other if necessary. Mason Matlock was a spineless stronzo who had nearly gotten Cosima killed because of his capitulation to his uncle Giuseppe di Carlo’s desires, but he had no fear of bodily harm. This wasn’t unusual. Most men who grew up in the mafia were inured to violence.
I wasn’t deterred.
If physical pain didn’t break him, perhaps emotional brutality would.
So, when Mason muttered something in the negative, I was ready.
When I snapped my fingers, Jacopo stepped forward to hand me a phone with a video already presented on the screen. I grabbed Mason by the chin and forced him to look at it.
“This is your sweet sister, Violetta, isn’t it?” I purred as I forced him to watch the footage of his younger sister gagged and tied to a chair, struggling to avoid the hands of my man, Adriano, as he ran a knife gently down her cheek. She jerked, and the metal cut into her flesh, blood beading like a string of ruby across her jaw.
“You motherfucker,” Mason barked, finding the energy to spit at me. I wiped it off my cheek with a flick of my fingers. “You fucking motherfucker! She has nothing to do with this.”
When Heroes Fall Page 6