Page 67 of My Dark Ever After

“The break-in,” he murmured. “The police said it was a disgruntled employee from the Enrich Company, but I should have recognized the shoddy cover-up. It must have been Romano’s business catching up to you.”

“Maybe, but how can you be sure it wasn’tyours?” I countered.

“They haven’t found me in two decades,” he said shortly. “There is no way.”

“Well, apparently the Pietra family has reignited the feud with the Romanos, so who knows. Maybe they’ve been searching for the long-lost heir to the throne for a long time now, and they’ve finally found you to bring you home.”

“I will never set foot on Italian soil again,” Dad spat like a curse.

“Good, then I won’t have to see you for a while,” I said calmly before slowly ending the call and blocking his number.

When Mom called minutes later, I muted hers too.

I sat in the enormous, mostly empty archive room for a long time after that, just staring into space as my brain worked.

Chapter Fifteen

Raffa

The Albanian Mafia Shqiptarë were unlike any other criminal organization in many ways, but the most obvious was that they were dominating the global cocaine trade without cropping up on any of the international policing organizations’ radars. It was the reason I had been eager to work with them when Leo and Carmine had brought me their contact information. I was not interested in the days of old when Italian mafiosi whipped their dicks out for measuring contests in public forums. And in the nearly five years of my reign ascapo dei capi, not only had arrests within the outfit decreased by over 40 percent, but I also had managed to mostly keep my name out of the mouths of rivals and policemen alike.

Raffa Romano, respected Florentine businessman, was almost an entirely separate entity from Il Gentiluomo.

Which might have explained why it was so easy for me to hide that part of myself from Guinevere.

It certainly made the decision to leave her out of the discussions an easy one.

Drita Hoxha was an ally and had been since we were first introduced five years ago, even through the ups and downs of her tumultuous relationship with Carmine, but she wasnota friend.

There was no room for true friendships between other crime syndicates. You never knew when your interests might diverge or an insult might be handed down, and suddenly you were at war.

So I liked Drita, and I put up with her and Carm, but I would never trust someone like her with Guinevere’s well-being.

Especially when my woman had declined to take her throne beside me. If she had ... well, I would have decked her out in jewels and finery, told her about Albanian culture so she would not make the mistake of flinching away from Drita’s kiss of welcome, and then watched as she made the Shqiptarë eat out of the palm of her hand.

It was easier this way, I told myself, but there was something beneath my breastbone that ached like a bruise.

“This is not good news,” Dren, Drita’s younger brother, muttered after I explained some of what was going down with the Venetian.

“You have to understand, when you took over again from the Grecos, we were thrilled,” Drita explained. She had short, dark hair slicked back from her forehead so that her large, ice-water-blue eyes dominated her face, and a large, mobile mouth that was always painted a dark red reminiscent of blood. “The Romano clan is known for its discretion and efficiency now that you are capo. In the years we’ve worked with you, we’ve had no issues. With the Grecos, this was not the case. We are not happy to hear that now you might not be without issues too.”

“If you think I am happy about it, then perhaps our language barrier is deeper than I realized,” I said dryly in Italian.

Drita and Dren both spoke Italian well, having been raised on it for the express purpose of being the Albanian liaisons on the ground in Italy.

They did not like my insinuation that they were not fluent.

“You motherfuck—” Dren started to curse, leaning over the table to growl at me.

Drita held up one hand. “Do not be a cliché, Dren. How many times do I have to tell you? If you can’t keep your temper, take a walk.”

For a vibrating moment, Dren bared his teeth at me before he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

His sister nodded curtly and folded her hands. “As I was saying, we are not happy to hear about your ... woes. So we will do what we can to help.”

“For a price?” Renzo inserted, because he knew her well.

Drita’s smile was almost blinding in that bloody red frame. “If we can be of aid, I think a grateful ten percent off your cut of the deal would be fitting.”