Page 20 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

RAFFAELE

I hesitate briefly before I push open the door to my father’s study and step inside. Even after all these years, entering this room still makes my shoulders tense, my breath shallow. I don’t think I’ll ever truly feel at ease here.

My father’s cold blue eyes meet mine. “I see you’ve outgrown knocking.”

Undeterred by his sharp gaze, I walk further into the room and settle into one of the chairs near his desk. “We need to talk.”

“I didn’t say you could sit,” he responds, his voice icy.

“I need to be seated for this,” I shoot back, meeting his glare.

His eyes narrow with displeasure, and I stand my ground, refusing to look away.

The version of me from a few years ago would have lowered my head, too intimidated by his glare to speak, but I’m not that person anymore.

I’ve learned that his power lies in controlling others through fear, but I’m no longer afraid of him.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he leans back in his chair. “Fine. Say what you have to say. I’m busy.”

“You hired a hitman to shoot at the Montanari girl.” The words spill out before I can stop them, and as I say them, a surge of anger nearly takes over. I want to lunge across the desk, wrap my hands around his throat, and not stop until he’s gasping, remorseful for the first time in his life.

“And?” he replies with an almost casual indifference.

“In broad daylight,” I add, trying not to hide how much I’d been affected by the shooting. “What were you thinking?”

“Only cowards do things under the cover of night,” he says, almost smugly. “Didn’t I teach you that?”

I scoff, my patience thinning. As if Edoardo ever taught me anything useful, aside from how to be the biggest asshole in the room. But it’s not even worth holding a grudge. After all, that’s all he knows how to teach—how to manipulate, how to control. How to make you feel small.

“You didn’t tell me anything about it, and you knew I would be at that damn airport,” I say, frustration building in my chest. “You could’ve had me tangled up with the cops.”

What I really want to say is that she could’ve died. She could’ve died without ever knowing who I am, and that thought fills me with so much rage, I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten, my head throb with a headache.

“It’s nothing you couldn’t handle,” he says, reaching for his gold-inlaid cigar box. His eyes never leave me, studying me like a bug under a microscope. “Looks like a little gunshot really rattled you. Is the girl dead?”

“No,” I tell him without further explanation. “The girl isn’t the problem. The problem is you’re putting this family at risk. Everything we’ve worked for—everything we’ve built?—”

“I—” he cuts in sharply.

“Excuse me?” I raise an eyebrow, caught off guard.

He takes a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke that smells like arrogance. “Everything I worked for,” he corrects me. “Everything we have now is because I’ve gotten my hands dirty, made the hard choices, and taken risks. Shooting the enemy in broad daylight is one of those risks.”

“That wasn’t a necessary risk,” I argue, trying to keep my voice calm. “There were other ways to handle it without drawing attention to us.”

Even though most of my business partners are either mafia or connected to it, a few aren’t, and none of them want the cops sniffing anywhere near them. The moment they sense I’m reckless, they’ll walk away, and with them, so will everything we’ve built.

“Are you the head of this family, or am I?” Father sneers.

My jaw clenches even tighter, and I stare at him with barely concealed hatred.

It doesn’t faze him, though. I know loves this—loves rubbing my subordination in my face, reminding me that, no matter how much I’ve built, I’m still just another one of his men in his eyes.

Even though my net worth is now more than triple his, he doesn’t see me as anything more than a pawn.

“The Montanaris attacked first,” he continues. “This was just me offering the same courtesy. If they want to play stupid games, they better be ready for the stupid consequences.”

“You could’ve blown up one of their loaded trucks, a warehouse, or ten,” I say, trying to keep my voice measured. I know getting into a shouting match with him is pointless, and he’ll only enjoy the spectacle of it. But I won’t give him that satisfaction.

“That’s the problem with you, Raffaele.” He shakes his head. “It’s why I dread the thought of you taking over. You don’t play the game the right way. When they shoot at you with a catapult, you need to retaliate in a way that ends the war .”

“Then put a gun to Enrico Montanari’s head and blow his brains out,” I say, standing up, unable to keep my frustration in check anymore. “He’s the one you want anyway.”

A humorless laugh escapes him. “I’ll take everything from him first before sending him to his maker—or wherever the fuck he crawled out from.”

A shiver runs down my spine at the contempt underlying his words, but then again, it’s something I should be familiar with by now.

His hatred for the Montanaris runs deep, and it’s a sickness that’s been eating away at him for years.

The Cosa Nostra doesn’t forgive, but I know this grudge could destroy us all.

“Your hate for the Montanaris will raze this entire family and business to the ground. How long are you going to keep taking cheap shots at them? Did you ever think about the fact that the next victim in this war could be you? Or do you think you can hide behind your desk forever and let your men suffer for it?”

His mouth tightens into a thin line, and I can see the fury rising in his eyes. “If you weren’t my spitting image, I’d think your bitch of a mother pulled one over on me.”

It’s not the first time he’s said this. He’s used my mother against me before, trying to provoke me, but I’m beyond it now.

She’s dead. She’s gone, and I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that her choosing to end it all might have been the best thing for her.

But him? He’s still trapped in bitterness, dragging everything down with him.

And if he thinks telling me I’m nothing like him will make me cry, he’s sorely mistaken. Nothing makes me loathe myself more than looking in the mirror and seeing his cold blue eyes staring back at me. It’s like seeing his disdain etched into my very face.

“The Montanaris are the enemy.” His voice slices through the air, freezing me in my tracks as I reach for the door handle.

“I don’t think you’ll ever let me forget.”

“One more thing, Raffaele.” My father’s tone drops an octave, and the temperature in the room plummets.

“Don’t ever think you can barge into my office and speak to me however you please.

Never forget that I pull the strings that keep your life in motion.

I can cut them whenever I feel like it. With just one word, I could destroy everything you’ve worked for. ”

Part of me wants to snap back, to tell him to go right ahead and be my fucking guest. But the voice of self-preservation slams into me before I can speak. Instead, I nod cryptically, masking the fury bubbling beneath the surface, and walk out of the room.

Emilio, my father’s right-hand man, is waiting outside.

I can tell he’s been listening, the way he stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable.

Nearly nothing escapes his notice around here, and despite his intelligence, his business acumen, and his general lack of assholery, he remains blindly loyal to my father. I can’t help but wonder why.

“You knew about the hitman.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact, and we both know it.

“I didn’t know you’d be at the airport,” he replies.

“Did Father know?” I ask carefully. If he knew I was there and still went ahead with the hit, it either meant he didn’t care about how I’d be affected, or he wanted me to be. Neither option sits well with me.

Emilio hesitates, and it’s enough of an answer for me.

I clap him on the shoulder, signaling that I don’t expect an explanation. The day my father starts giving a damn about anything other than power plays or this damn blood feud is the day pigs will fly. I’m not holding my breath.

I leave him standing in the hallway, making my way through the house to my quarters.

I should’ve moved out by now; in fact, I’ve even looked at a few places, almost paid for one.

But the thought of leaving this house, of leaving behind the last few good memories of my mother, keeps me rooted here.

Even now, I can still feel her presence in the halls—the sound of her quiet laughter, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

It’s a strange comfort, one I can’t quite leave behind.

I swipe my thumb across the scanner next to the door. There’s a soft click, and the door swings open. My quarters are a modest sanctuary of sorts, with three rooms and a bath. I had the space customized to fit me, a personal retreat that feels like home.

I remove my tie and cross to the sideboard, pouring myself a drink. Today has been a rollercoaster—starting with the high of wiping out the Irish in Las Vegas, then coming face to face with Giulia after so many years, and almost losing her.

Her wide, terrified eyes flash in my mind again. I curse under my breath.

“Fuck!” I bite out, grabbing the bottle and bypassing the glass. Tonight, I need something stronger than a glass or two.

I take a swig from the bottle while unbuttoning my shirt with the other hand and making my way to my walk-in, sunken-tub bathroom.

Dropping the bottle on the sink countertop, I step out of my pants and boxer briefs and turn the water on.

I stand there and allow the incredible pressure to beat against my back and relieve some of the tension.

I’m not surprised when my mind slips back to her. I’m not ashamed to admit that I did some loose digging into her. Since that day at the retreat, she’s become a permanent fixture in my mind, albeit a background one. I have a feeling that’s all about to change.

The surprising thing now is feeling blood rush down south. I glance down at my straining erection.

“No fucking way.” I don’t know if I’m telling my little head or my big one, but there’s no way I’m giving in. I’m just going to shower, ignore it, and go straight to bed. That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.

Bright eyes flecked with the most stunning shades of gold, green, and brown flash through my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but there’s no escape.

Behind my eyes, I can see her pouty lips and the way they had pursed in annoyance; I can see the way her dress strained over her curves, the way it rode up while she was seated across from me.

I imagine her slipping into the shower now with me, wearing a little smile and nothing else.

A sound of defeat tears out of my throat and I wrap a fist around my cock, my other hand slapping against the wall for support. Giulia Montanari has a body that can make even a saint sin, and I’m far from being a saint. I imagine her pressing up to me, nipples hard and eyes glassy with lust.

My hand moves faster and faster, hips pumping as I imagine her going down just like she had done at the airport.

I’m not proud to announce that when she had glanced up at me from where she’d been counting the cash in the case, I’d imagined her staring up at me in a whole different, less-clothed setting.

My palm against the wall twitches, remembering how soft the skin of her thighs felt beneath my touch when I had her over my shoulder. She’d felt like silk against my fingers, and I imagine tracing every inch of her, molding, kneading, and committing every curve and contour to memory.

I throw my head back as my orgasm builds.

“Giulia,” I grunt, hips pumping into my fists, racing for the edge. I imagine biting into the pronounced bow on her upper lip, hearing her moan.

I kept my name from her back then to hide my identity, but now that she knows it, I want to hear her say it over and over again. I want her to cry my name while I bury myself inside her, I want her to chant it like a desperate prayer.

The tingling begins in my spine, rising to an all-consuming roar, and then I’m coming, painting the tiled shower walls with evidence of my pleasure, her name falling from my mouth as soft as a sigh.

I’m so fucked.