Page 33 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Rocco

“ W e need to deal with this quickly,” I announce to no one in particular.

The unanswered texts from Daniela burn a hole in my pocket, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m likely going to miss her performance again.

“The job always comes first,” Martino mutters next to me. There’s no judgment in his tone; he’s merely stating the truth—a fact we all know to be relentlessly and unforgivingly true.

I made no secret of my priorities when I first engaged her, but now Daniela’s resentment rages through those messages. Unfortunately for her, I can’t bring myself to care.

I massage my forehead as the Mercedes comes to a sudden stop. Glancing over at Martino in the driver's seat, I note how his eyes dart across the scene before us, intent on finding what we came for.

Putting the messages out of my mind, I follow suit. This line of work has no room for distractions.

One moment, there’s nothing there at all, just the eerie quiet of the abandoned dockyard and Martino’s shallow breaths next to me. The next, a shadow emerges from behind a shipping container.

Alessandro’s eyes pierce through the darkness, the only part of his body not entirely cloaked in stealth gear. He gestures quickly and precisely.

“Shit.”

Martino revs the car to life, not needing me to translate. Our target has company. Two more bikes are heading in from the north.

We take off at breakneck speed. I don’t need to look back to know Alessandro has disappeared into the gloom. I can only hope he makes it to his next location in time.

“Clear at the rendezvous point.” Teo’s voice crackles into my earpiece. His eagle eyes are undoubtedly monitoring every available camera feed across the dock. “No SIL at the west exit.”

I reach behind me, grabbing hold of the silencer for my AR-15. “I need eyes to the north. We have company.”

Martino takes a corner so sharply I can feel the car begin to lift beneath me, but I have total faith in the man driving. His skills behind the wheel have made the difference between life and death on more than one occasion.

Teo curses in my ear. “Coming in hot. You’ll intercept in T-minus twenty.”

“Make that ten,” I instruct Martino, his matching earpiece relaying everything Teo says.

I have to fight against the g-force as Martino hits the gas.

“We only have a small window of opportunity to intercept our target,” I reiterate needlessly. “These bikes are likely some kind of distraction. Let’s deal with them fast.”

Tires screech as we make it around the final corner. Warehouses tower over each side of the road—there’s only one exit, and two motorcycles currently guard it, revving their engines. Their headlights are bright enough to blind us as we race toward them.

“They’re armed, boss,” Teo warns as I open the window.

“So am I.”

I click the magazine of my assault rifle into place and maneuver out the window. I aim directly at the rider on the right—it would be a shame to shoot out the wheels on such nice Super Dukes. I make a mental note to ask Alessandro if he can salvage them later.

Bullets begin to bounce off the Mercedes’ plated armor as we approach, but my aim is steady, honed over years of drilling and far too much field experience.

Zip.

The bullet shoots clean through the target’s brachial artery in his shoulder. The bike beneath him wobbles, then flips, throwing the rider to the ground with a sickening crunch.

“Should have worn a helmet,” Martino mutters. “Brace!”

It’s all I can do to cling to the top of the car as Martino pulls off a handbrake turn behind the other bike.

The second rider takes off with a lurch when he realizes we are directly on his tail. He shoots at us blindly, focusing on jerking his bike across the road in random zig-zags to throw us off, making my job that much harder.

“I’ll cut him off at the next intersection,” Martino barks.

I jam the stock into my shoulder to keep it steady as Martino maneuvers us into position. For a single beat, I allow myself to breathe out.

“INCOMING ON YOUR LEFT!”

Teo’s warning couldn’t have come a moment too soon. I turn in time to see the headlights tearing toward the intersection and jump on instinct. I hit the unforgiving tarmac in a roll just as a spray of bullets pounds into the car door.

A third bike swerves to avoid T-boning the Mercedes, clearing it by less than an inch.

I gasp into the throbbing pain in my side as I force myself to stand.

“Teo. Tell Martino to take out the second bike,” I order as I pat myself down, cursing at the tear in the side of my new suit. “I’ll deal with this.”

The Mercedes takes off to give chase to the second rider as I haul up the assault rifle I had cradled against the impact with the floor. This time, I’m squaring off against my opponent on foot.

Finally recovered from the near collision, the third bike turns back to me just as I begin my approach. A spray of bullets blows up dirt from the tarmac a few yards in front of me. I check my gun as I continue to walk forward.

The bike accelerates. The bullets are hitting the ground only a few feet away. Now only inches.

I dive at the last possible second, and I can almost feel the instrument of my death slicing across my skin.

The bike flies past, unable to react in time.

Zip.

My shot goes straight through the rider’s skull. He slumps off his bike as it comes to a stuttering stop a few yards away.

“Nicely done,” Teo says in my ear.

I grimace slightly, finally taking note of the seared flesh beneath my ripped suit. Thankfully, nothing seems to be broken, but the friction burn will take an annoying amount of time to heal.

Wincing, I remind myself that it would have been far worse had Teo not warned me. Not for the first time, I thank whatever gods are still out there on my side for bringing Teo Vitale into my life.

“It’s not like Alessandro to mess up,” I say as I approach the downed Super Duke KTM 1290. I let out an impressed whistle that my enemies would invest so much in taking out little old me.

“Permission to give him an intolerable amount of shit for this, boss?”

“Granted.” It would be more effective than whatever punishment I could devise anyway. “I didn’t realize Alessandro couldn’t count to fucking three.”

But despite his failings today, the self-proclaimed “stealth master” had found other ways to ensure he made himself invaluable to the Guild. I’m unsure if I want to know how he secured the intel for this job.

I kick the body of the dead goon away from the bike—Cartel, if the markings on his neck are any indicator. Clearly, the Tunnel Eaters didn’t want us getting our hands on their lead informant.

“I’m heading to intercept the target alone,” I announce as I mount the bike, not waiting for Teo to try to talk me out of it. It roars to life beneath me within seconds, and I take off toward the rendezvous point.

It’s only a few minutes away, but every second that passes only makes the window of opportunity that much smaller. Even as I pull up to the pier, I can see the telltale outline of a speedboat on the horizon, careening toward my target.

The man on the pier watches his incoming escape vessel fervently. He either doesn’t hear my approach, or chooses not to turn around as I close in.

“Apologies. Traffic in Brooklyn is awful this time of the night.”

My target whirls around in alarm, and my heart sinks.

Carmine Bellini.

We knew it had to be someone from my father’s inner circle, but Bellini had never seemed like the feeding-intel-to-the-enemy type. He was a wallflower at best, and a cowering idiot at worst. But I suppose that’s accountants for you.

Perhaps since my father’s “retirement”, he thought leadership had gone soft enough for him to get away with playing his own games.

“Mister Moretti…Rocco,” he stammers.

But I cut him off before he can start feverishly begging for his life. “I’m looking for the man responsible for leaking the Guild’s movements to the Cartel. You haven’t seen him anywhere, have you?”

“Please,” he begs. “It wasn’t me.”

I step closer, brushing off the debris from my suit as I stalk my prey.

“How was it my father used to deal with traitors like you?” I ponder, noting the ashen look of fear on Bellini’s face at the mention of the previous don. “A slit throat in a sleazy motel bathroom three states away?”

“Wrists,” Bellini whispers his correction, paling even further.

I don’t hide my smirk as I wave at the approaching speedboat. Whoever was driving the thing had at least enough common sense to stop the boat when he noticed the red laser of Alessandro’s sniper rifle hovering over their chest.

There’s a second of silence before the motor kicks in again, and he begins to turn tail completely.

Bellini watches the boat leave in utter despair, his body shaking with the effort of staying on his feet. “Please, I didn’t do this!”

“Ever since assuming my father’s title, I’ve wanted to make a statement,” I gesture at him casually. “About how things will be run from now on.”

“I…I had nothing to do with this!”

I ignore him. “For that reason, I’m not going to kill you. My father always was a trigger-happy psychopath.”

None of what I say seems to ease Bellini’s despair.

“The information you sold the Cartel about our last hit was completely off the record. You could not have gotten your hands on it unless you were working with someone else.”

Bellini swallows.

“You’re going to tell me who your little rat friend is, then I’ll let you call back your speedboat, and you can sail off to Timbuk-fucking-tu.”

An almighty sob vibrates through Bellini’s chest as he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

I sigh more dramatically than I need to. I’d really hoped I wouldn’t need to ship him off to the interrogation room, but it seems nothing is working in my favor today.

“You can,” I counter. “My offer leaves the table the second I have to drag you back to the compound. You’ll find Alessandro’s knife offers you far less vacation time.”

“No.”