Page 18 of Broken Mafia Bride

I tear my hand away, sneering at him. “Sometimes, Tommaso, you have to forget about business. Being in the mafia isn’t just about making money, it’s blood and death.”

“Stop acting like a fool!” he snaps. “You think if she saw you like this, she’d even want you anymore?”

It happens so fast, I barely have time to register that I’m moving. The hand with the gun smashes against the side of his face, causing him to stumble away, blood trickling down one side of his face. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again. You have no idea what she’d want.”

He stares at me, expressionless, but there’s something smug about it, like he knows that I know that what he’s said is the truth.

“And none of it is relevant anyway since she’s not fucking here!” I roar, panting. For me, the worst part is the not knowing. Not knowing if she’s still out there, scared, alone, or if?—

I don’t even want to think about it.

Some part of me has accepted that she’s gone, while some stupid, hopeful part still believes she’ll turn up. When I need Matteo to do what he knows best and dig her up, the bastard decides to disappear. Almost like he knew I wouldn’t let it rest until he did.

“Fuck off if you want to,” I finally tell him, trying to get my thudding heart under control. I check what’s left of my bullets, reload quickly, and tear off in the direction of the men. To my surprise, I hear Tommaso curse under his breath and take off after me.

The ever-loyal bastard.

“You needto get that looked at,” my right-hand man says as soon as I pull up into the compound. It’s the millionth time he’s said it, and just like the other times, I slant him a look.

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

“A wound is a wound.”

Snorting, I step out of the car and jog up the short set of stairs leading into the house. As soon as I step foot in the house, I can tell that my father is in one of his shitty moods. His furious roar echoes through the house, and I wonder which unlucky bastard is getting screamed at.

I see two maids at the end of the hallway looking wary. One of them turns, notices me, makes a terrified squeak, and dashes off, the other taking her lead. I glare in the direction they just went in, wondering what the hell that was.

“Raffaele Gagliardi!” my father bellows from inside the house. “My study now.”

I stop in my tracks, jaw clenching in annoyance at being summoned like a common foot soldier. Cracking my neck, Ispin on my heels and walk down the hallway in the direction of Father’s study.

The door is open, and even before I enter, I know that something is wrong. The men lining the walls refused to meet my eyes, their shoulders tense, like they were bracing for the explosion they knew was coming. My father is vibrating with rage, a second away from vibrating off his chair.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he snaps, icy blue eyes taking in my state of dishevelment with a sneer.

“Getting rid of pests.”

“By pests, you mean the Vicenzo cartel?”

I blink, surprised that he’s managed to find out in such a short amount of time. I know he’s been keeping tabs on me, but it usually takes him a day or two to find out.

“Yes.”

“You stupid boy!” He bangs his fist against the smooth surface of his desk, leaning forward threateningly. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done, you good-for-nothing waste of space?!”

My spine stiffens, fingers curling into fists at my sides. It’s nothing I haven’t heard, and worse, in the month since everything went down. Just like other times, I choose to take it without deigning him with a reaction.

“Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?” I drawl, already done with this conversation.

It’s almost time for my match in the underground fighting ring, and my blood is thrumming at the thought of feeling bones splinter under my fists, a spray of red across the walls. I’m bursting at the seams in anticipation, and the last thing I need is another of my father’s endless tirades.

“You moron!” he screams. “Did you take one too many hits to the head in your fighting cage?”

I sigh. Of course, he knows about that too. Why am I not surprised? My father’s obsession with being in control means that he has to have his eyes and ears on everything. Nothing about it is normal, but after years of it, I guess I’ve gotten desensitized to it.

“After you fucked everything up and crippled my line of attack, allowing those bastards to strike us, I’ve been trying to find partners to keep this family afloat and alive,” he bites out, eyes getting even colder, if that’s possible.

“Where is this headed?” I ask impatiently.