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CHAPTER ONE

Enzo

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, kid.”

I stare up at Rafael’s sweaty face, his mouth set in a grim line. I grimace, wondering for the millionth time why the hell I signed up for this. I’m more of a computers-and-fast-cars type of guy—not a crushing-random-strangers’-skulls-in-dank-basements guy.

“Try again,” Rafael mutters, toeing the line between encouraging and menacing.

Fuck. You got this. You need to do this.

I square my shoulders and puff out my chest, trying to fool myself into believing I have what it takes to rearrange this man’s face. The poor fool we picked up tonight sits in front of me, shaking and bleeding, tied to an old wooden chair.

I don’t even know his name, but Rafael assured me it’s better this way.

“Tell me who you work for,” I growl, imitating Rafael’s surly, gravelly voice. “ Now .”

The man slowly opens one eye and trains it on my face. His other eye is barely attached to the rest of him. It takes all my strength not to throw up when I see it.

He opens his mouth, blood gushing from his split lip, and for a second, I think he’s going to answer me.

“Pathetic,” he whispers, dropping his head down onto his chest. I glance back at Rafael helplessly and catch sight of an angry vein throbbing in his forehead.

Am I going to inherit that ugly, angry, throbbing vein when I become a mafia don? I fucking hope not.

“Enzo.” Rafael spits out my name like a curse. “Hallway.”

I sigh and trot after him like a puppy that got caught chewing on the sofa leg again. Please don’t give me a lecture, please, please.

“So,” I start as soon as the door slams closed, “time for burgers, or what?”

Rafael paces up and down the hallway, shooting daggers at me. That squirmy, uncomfortable feeling rises up again—the same feeling I always got when my father’s cold words shot through me like hot bullets. The same feeling that made me nauseous when my mother shut me out and popped another Vicodin.

I fucking hate that feeling.

“Don’t you have even an ounce of rage inside of you?” Rafael finally asks, stopping right in front of me. “I understand you’re basically a golden retriever personified, but don’t you hate anyone ? At all?”

I trust Raf with my life. He’s my best friend, even if he acts like I’m the most annoying person in the world. But right now, I kind of hate him .

“Sure.” I shrug, gesturing to the door. “But I don’t know that guy. How am I supposed to be… raging at him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rafael growls, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Violence, bloodshed, intimidation—it’s part of the job, Enzo. You need to figure out a way to channel whatever rage you have into your job.”

“Can’t we use alternative methods?” I beg, knowing I sound whiny and not giving a shit. “Like psychological manipulation or something? Isn't that why you picked me for this?"

“Kid,” Rafael says, placing his hands on my shoulders. The touch is weirdly comforting, and I relax a little.

“You know we’re literally the same age, right?”

“Not mentally, trust me.” He brushes me off. “Look, you’re the smartest guy I know. Smarter than me, and that’s hard to admit.”

“Sure,” I snicker, but Rafael shoots me another hard look.

“I know you’re going to figure this out and do it your way,” he continues. “That’s why I chose you over my own blood to replace me. You’re going to change the game, do it differently… better. But right now, I’m trying to give you all the tools I have so that you’re not floundering in the deep end when I leave you to it.”

I lean against the wall and think about why I’m doing this. I never wanted to be a mafia don; in fact, it never even crossed my mind.

Computers, hacking, tech stuff—that’s me. When Rafael offered me the position of leading the Romano family, I was both terrified and honored—I couldn’t say no.

I had to prove myself—for myself, but also for all the people who doubted I could become something.

I used to be can’t-take-life-seriously Enzo to my parents, my ex-girlfriends, and my old friends. Perfect in every way, until I wasn’t. The life of the party, until I wasn’t.

Being the golden boy sucks when you’re never good enough, even when you’re the best. It sucks even more when the pressure makes you crack and withdraw from everything and everyone. Then people just pity you and wonder what happened to the smiley, all-American kid you used to be.

“Think about it,” Rafael pushes, his voice softer this time. “Think about all the people who have pissed you off. The people who thought you weren’t good enough. Build that rage inside you, then unleash it on your target.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, focusing on the memory of my father’s enraged face as he smashed the first computer I ever built myself. His voice echoes in my mind.

“You dropped the swim team for this shit? Sitting around in the basement like a lowlife loser? Building useless junk? You’ll never get that athletic scholarship now. You’re going to waste your life away in a cubicle, barely making minimum wage.”

A coil of rage swirls, tightening my insides and sending flames up my chest. I focus on a memory of my mother’s face, zonked out on pain pills, a bottle of vodka dangling from her fingers.

“Oh, Enzo, the imagination you have. Your father would never hit you. Why don’t you go do something useful instead of stirring up drama?”

The rage gets deeper and darker, sending sparks of electricity through my veins. My arms tense, fingers clenching themselves into fists.

“You’re getting it,” Rafael says, studying my face. “Now, get the hell back in there and prove yourself.”

I take a deep breath and nearly rip the door off its hinges as I stomp back inside the torture chamber. The man in the chair barely looks up when he realizes it’s me.

He’s not the least bit scared of me. All that blood—that was Rafael.

I focus on the rage like Raf told me. It sizzles below my skin, frying my usual neural pathways and sending my brain into a blackout.

Everything around me slips away, and I focus on the man’s face, sneering at me.

It only takes two seconds for my hand to wrap around his throat. He coughs, sputtering blood all over my white shirt. His eyes bug out, and I squeeze harder. I lower my face as close to his as I dare, with all the bloodshed, and stare into his eyes.

It’s not him I see anymore. It’s my father. I grab onto that rage, protect it, keep it close to my chest.

“I’m going to ask one more time,” I growl, my other hand expertly pulling a gun from my holster and sliding the cool metal against his temple. “Who do you work for?”

Something shifts in his eyes, and his skin pales beneath the dried blood. His lip trembles as my fingers relax a little, letting him take a shallow breath. When he doesn’t speak, I cock the gun.

“The Aventuras,” he chokes out, shrinking back from the barrel. “Please, I have a wife… and a son… please.”

All of my built-up rage evaporates in an instant, and my shoulders lose their tension. He has a family. What the hell am I doing?

“Enzo,” Rafael’s voice warns behind me.

“Please don’t shoot me,” the man begs, sensing that my conscience just joined the chat.

I recall Rafael’s first lesson in intimidation tactics. “ Never, ever believe anything that comes out of their mouth right before you pull the trigger. They’ll tell you anything to get you to crack. Never crack.”

I gnash my teeth together so hard that a shot of pain slices through my jaw. My finger rests lightly on the trigger. I take a breath and count: one, two, three .

The shot goes off, and the man slumps in his bound position on the chair. I drop the gun, sinking to my knees as his blood seeps onto the cement floor around me.

Rafael’s warm hand lands gently on my shoulder as I struggle to take a full breath. “The first one is always the hardest.”

I nod and pull myself up off the floor, reeling the emotions back in. We’ve been in training mode for six months now, working hard to get me ready for the transition.

I’ve perfected my shooting and knife skills. I can also fight without a weapon fairly well now.

But killing someone? That wasn’t a test I’d been looking forward to passing.

“Burgers?” Rafael whispers lightly, and I choke out a laugh. He knows how difficult this is for me, how out of my nature killing is, but his unwavering belief in me brings tears to my eyes.

“You’re paying,” I remind him, following him out of the bloody room. Some of the younger Romano family members are already waiting in the hallway, ready to clean up our mess.

Later that night, after too many burgers and even more bourbon, I stumble into my penthouse, exhausted. I drag myself into the shower, desperate to wash the day off my skin, but the knowledge of what I did has seeped into my bones.

After far too much time scrubbing under the scalding water, my skin feels raw and tender. I towel dry in front of the mirror as my reflection stares back at me. It’s the same me as this morning—before I killed a man.

Same unruly wavy brown hair, the same stupid diving board scar in my eyebrow. I flex my muscles, watching the watercolor-style tattoos across my chest and abdomen ripple. Tattoos that Rafael’s wife, Lux, says make me look like I belong in the Louvre, not the gritty mafia underworld.

After briefly contemplating another drink, I make the wise decision to head to bed instead. I would never want my mother’s downfall to become mine, so I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Memories of that man’s face right before I pulled the trigger claw their way into my brain. I groan with frustration, desperate to shut them out.

Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

Instantly, I remember the feeling of her slim, pale legs wrapped around my torso. If I try hard enough, I can smell her silky ebony hair as it tickles my nose and caresses my neck. The memory of her deep blue eyes locked on mine and half-lidded in pleasure sends a hot flush across my body.

Valentina. My forever favorite happy thought—and late-night fantasy.

Her sweet, tinkling laugh replays on a loop in my mind. The memory of my hands gripping her delicate hips makes me groan, and all thoughts of cold-blooded killing are replaced with images of Valentina’s lips spreading soft kisses across my chest.

She’s the reason I’m doing this. I’ll kill a thousand more faceless, nameless men if it’ll make me good enough for her.