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My cock hardens just thinking of her, and I hate how she’s rewired me. No other woman does this. Not Alanna, not anyone. Just my wife, the Rossi I’m supposed to hate. It's all a fucking mess.
The door swings open, and for a moment, I wonder if it's Alanna again, but it's Matteo instead. He strolls in, smirking like he’s caught me jerking off.
“Saw Alanna on her way out,” he says, dropping into the couch, legs sprawled as he looks at me. “Looked like she got slapped. You only got eyes for your wife now, huh?” Trust Matteo to take joy in my plight.
His grin’s aggravating, and I want to punch it off his face. I ignore him and fish for another cigar. I need something to soothe me, and it's not Serafina, then it has to be something. Ireach for the lighter by the fireplace, but my hands fumble, and I knock over the empty whiskey bottle. It clatters loudly as topples to the floor, the rug muting its fall.
Fucking hell. My mood blackens. I’m an absolute fucking mess, clumsy like some kid, and it’s her fault. Serafina’s got me tripping over myself, my poise shot to hell.
Matteo chuckles, leaning forward. “What’s this, Enzo? You’re a wreck. You actually like her, don’t you? You even let the Rossi captive go.”
I grunt, digging for my lighter, but I only manage to push it farther. My irritation spikes, a low growl in my throat. “Sod off,” I mutter, but he’s relentless, his eyes glinting.
He pulls his lighter from his pocket, flicks it, and lights my cigar, still laughing. “Look at you, fumbling like a lovesick prick. She’s got you bad, doesn't she?” I glare hard at him as I drag a hard lungful on the cigar, smoke stinging my lungs.
He’s right, and it pisses me off. These feelings—sympathy for Alanna, this ache for Fina—they’re alien, wrong. I'm not this man. I need to regain my composure fast before it careens completely out of control.
“Don't you have somewhere to be?” I grunt at him.
He grins. “No, I don't. Not now, anyway.” He pauses, and I look at him. I have the feeling he has more to say.
“Be careful with her,” Matteo says, his voice serious now, his grin fading. “Serafina’s no pushover. She's all claws and poison, that one. I saw it when we met—she’d gut you if you hurt her, and I can't help but think she's almost pure. Too pure for you.”
I scoff, but it’s hollow. I remember her laugh with him the day I'd introduced her to the men. It had been easy, unguarded. As I think about it stabs me again. She's never laughed like that with me. Sure, there's an all-consuming passion, there's anger, there's willful surrender, but I can't help the feeling that comes over me.
It comes as a stark realization. I want more from her. I want to know her from the inside out. I know her body, I have her curves memorized. My body knows her. But I want to know more. I want to know what makes her tick. I want to know what makes her laugh, and I want to be the one who delivers the jokes that makes her laugh. I've never had the craving to know another human, and it unsettles me.
I drag my mind back to the present, to Matteo who's looking at me, a considering look on his face, like he can't reconcile the man he knows to the one sitting across from him. If Matteo thinks I'm a gone cause, then I truly have no hope. I'm well and truly lost for Fina. It enrages me, the fact that I can't seem to latch on my control, and I focus on that rage as I return Matteo's hard stare.
Who the fuck does he think he is to warn me about my wife? “She’s not pure, Matteo,” I snap, thinking of her at that club, doling out discipline to that hunk of a punk with some impressive karate moves. My heart warms at the memory. “You don’t know her.” It’s more to shut him down, but I mull on it for a bit. I really do not know her. That cursed notion comes again, of me wanting to know her. I clamp it down.
Matteo shrugs, unfazed. “I like her. She’s good.” He pauses, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint. “If you fuck her over, I’ll step in.”
My blood boils, and I shoot him a look that could kill. He laughs, leaning back, like my rage is a fucking joke.
Before I can snap, a knock cuts through. Disgruntled, I say, “come in.”
Luca steps in, his face pulled tight. “Boss, we got a problem. One of our shipments—a high-grade product—got hit at the docks. Looks like a Gallo crew, but it’s messy, like they’re taunting us.”
“Or they're retaliating for the party,” Matteo offers, already on his feet, earlier traces of playfulness gone.
My jaw locks. He’s been too quiet. I should've known this was coming. If I hadn't been preoccupied with thoughts of my wife, I'd have smelt it from a mile away. This smells like his work. He's probing for weakness. Sloppy. I'm becoming sloppy.
I stand, crushing the cigar in the ashtray. “Gear up,” I tell Matteo, my voice all steel now. “We’re handling this tonight.”
Matteo nods, his face all business. I storm out, heading for the armory, boots echoing on the marble.
In the armory, I snatch a Beretta, its sleek metal cold against my palm. I check the clip, my pulse racing, the high of an impending kill already pumping excitement into my blood.
It's time to boss up. I'm not some lovesick puppy. I'm Enzo Mancini. I eat my enemies for dinner.
18
Serafina
I pace the polished marble of my father’s villa, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint musk of his old cigars. Two weeks I’ve been here, trapped in this mausoleum of stone and velvet, watching Papa fight death. He’s too stubborn, refusing hospitals, claiming enemies lurk in every corner—a truth he drilled into me long ago. A truth I'd come to learn.
His face has more color now, his voice less ragged. I feel profound relief, but my relief is drowned by a sharper fear. My period is late, over a week gone. The thought claws at me, gutting me. I’m never late. Not since I've been on the pill.