Page 1 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

CESARE

The first and golden rule of the Salvatore family was simple.

Famigghia above all.

But the second rule was equally as sacred and the most practised on a day-to-day basis.

Don’t. Get. Caught.

Didn’t matter if it was lifting a Benjamin from your Nonno ’s wallet while he dozed in his favourite wingback chair after one too many Scotches or you were smashing kneecaps underneath the Long Island Expressway.

For the most part, I, as the oldest male of my generation of Salvatores, lived by that rule and made sure I enforced it on my younger siblings.

Hell, if we could have emblazoned it in place of the Salvatore name on the family crest that hung on the wall behind my grandfather’s desk without it being fucking obvious, we would have.

I didn’t plan on getting caught today.

So I carefully cycled through my options as I flexed my fingers on the wheels of my Formula One race car on the start- finish straight of the Monza race circuit, for once in my life wilfully shutting out the roar of the adoring tifosi.

‘I asked you a question,’ I snarled into the radio connecting me to the pit wall, blinking away the red haze I could feel descending.

Yes, I had a white-hot temper. And sure, everyone on my crew and in the pit lane knew about it.

But I also had legendary control, a trait significant enough that my grandfather, Orazio Salvatore, head of the Cosa Nostra and much-revered Salvatore crime family, had bypassed his own son, my father, to hand me the coveted position of Underboss.

Except it wasn’t a role I coveted.

Except it wasn’t a role I could refuse without dire consequences.

My engineer remained silent. Fury built as I crested the apex of Curva Grande, my eyes narrowing on my target – the car in P1.

Telltale static chirped right before another voice came on. ‘You’ve been given a ten-second penalty,’ Rafaelle, my brother, said.

If he thought he could mitigate my anger by being the bearer of bad news, he was dead wrong. My nostrils filled with rage and internal combustion engine fumes from the cars in front of me. ‘Repeat that.’

A resigned sigh. ‘You heard me, Cesare. The official stewards’ conclusion is that your overtake move endangered another driver.’ There was an edge in his voice that said he too believed the penalty was bullshit.

Added to the great pile of bullshit that’d been shovelled our way with increasing frequency lately, we’d passed the point of it being sheer bad luck.

And that was a situation I intended to do something about.

‘Where’s my engineer?’ I asked my brother, even though we both knew why he’d delivered the news instead of Brazzo, my race engineer.

I wasn’t above shooting or maiming the messenger. And this infraction was right up there with the worst of crimes. A ten-second penalty with eleven laps to go and being in second place would mean my chances of winning had gone from high possibility to zero.

‘I’m here, Cesare.’ To his credit, the man’s voice only shook a little. ‘If you brake later at Lesmo, we can gain a tenth to?—’

‘Don’t tell me how to drive, shithead,’ I seethed as G-forces flattened my helmeted head against the headrest in the steep Parabolica curve. ‘Just give me the tyre life deltas.’

The moment he finished rattling off the data, I stomped on the throttle and breathed out, re-engaging control and letting my wrath recede to the to-be-opened-later box at the back of my mind.

The tifosi – Italian Formula One fans so zealous they’d earned their own moniker – sensing blood, roared when I took half a second off the leader in the next lap.

The thrill of the hunt raised my temperature from simmering to a steady boil.

Another crackle of the radio set my jaw into granite. ‘Do not fucking speak to me unless?—’

‘Cesare,’ a softer voice interrupted. Bibiana, my sister and chief strategist. ‘At your current lap times, you’ll finish 10.5 seconds ahead of fourth place. A podium finish in third place is better than nothing. If you keep your head.’

She had a mind-boggling head for numbers and a calculating mind that secretly terrified me at the best of times.

That she also used that mind as an investment analyst to turn millions into billions for the Salvatore family was the only reason Orazio had allowed her to join Furia Racing, the Formula One team I’d risked life and limb to turn from dream to reality.

The dream now hung in serious balance because finishing anywhere but first, especially if the top step was taken by the scarlet-red car in the lead, would drive Orazio into another days’-long ranting I could do without.

‘Is second a possibility?’ I asked Bibi, even though I guessed what her answer would be.

‘I’m sorry, but no. It’ll be close but we’ll run out of laps before that can happen.’

‘Fuck!’

Despite her sound analysis, I couldn’t stop myself from flooring the pedal. The one thousand horsepower beast responded like a dream, harvesting every last kilojoule from the power unit, edging me closer and closer to my nemesis as the laps dwindled.

From the corner of my eye I saw the tifosi rise to their feet as the grandstands whizzed by.

Sparks flew behind my race car in a shower of light.

We’d gone too aggressive with the ride height and my tailbone was definitely feeling the effect of the carbon-fibre floor scraping the ground, but I didn’t care.

Good thing I was fit and used to sustained pain.

An ice bath after the race and a few cognacs and I’d be right as rain.

As to whether I would escape unscathed from Orazio’s disappointment without him implementing the ultimatum hanging over my head was another matter.

Jaw clenched tight, I winced through correcting an understeer at the Ascari chicane and rounded Parabolica just in time to see the scarlet monstrosity of Mancinelli Racing streak past the checkered flag to win the race.

I stabbed my radio. ‘Tell me we made it?’ I snapped.

‘Yeah, we’re 11.2 seconds ahead of fourth,’ Brazzo confirmed. ‘Take away the ten seconds and we’re cool,’ he added, as if I couldn’t do the math.

Third place. A spot I actively detested. It was two steps down from my rightful position. And it was a place that was also becoming far too familiar. Suspiciously so.

‘Rafa?’

‘ Sì , debrief in an hour.’

I exhaled and manoeuvred the racing green and black car into its resting position, confident my silent command was understood. On days like today I was glad my brother and right-hand man was equally as ruthless, if not more so.

With my dreams of wresting the Salvatore name from a bloody and gruesome history into a semblance of respectability, I would need every ally I could cajole, threaten and blackmail into subservience.

The continued roaring of the tifosi drowned out the blows of my fists pummelling the shit stain whining incoherently for his life on the floor.

The wild Italian fans were rabid on any given day.

But when one of their own won and another occupied the podium in Monza, the spiritual home of motor racing? The atmosphere was off the charts.

There would be partying into the night in Monza and around the country.

Unfortunately, unlike the past three years straight, it wasn’t a Salvatore mounting the top step and basking in the adoration of the thousands who flooded the racetrack after the chequered flag fell.

My fury after being forced to stand next to Narciso Mancinelli, watch the cocky, snot-nosed kid smirk and fidget his way through the national anthem and all but shove the first-place trophy under my nose was at boiling point.

No doubt there would be images splashed all over the newspapers by nightfall stoking the juicy private and public race and family rivalry.

Wondering how I was taking the threat of being deposed by a driver ten years my junior.

Yeah, that shit ended tonight.

The smell of motor oil, hot tyre blankets and naked terror filled the air as I leaned over the man attempting to curl into a foetal position. His thin jumpsuit didn’t protect him from the stomp of my boot on his ribs.

There was a vein of recklessness in my actions tonight.

For one thing, I was meting out punishment not in a secluded spot far from prying eyes, but in the back of the Furia Racing Team garage in the pit lane, where a dozen team motor homes and hospitality suites filled with people risked someone stumbling onto my little impromptu tête à tête with the snivelling weasel.

The extra muscle that permanently shadowed every Salvatore from my grandfather down were dutifully guarding the various entrances, but still, with phone cameras everywhere these days, few things remained truly secret for long.

I didn’t care.

Not when everything I’d worked so hard for was on the line.

When my fickle grandfather was growing restless, making noises about it being time to ‘abandon that shitty little pipe dream’.

As if that same dream hadn’t cleared the Salvatore Organisation a cool half a billion last year in legitimate sponsorship and another billion through a few shrewd laundering schemes.

Frustration drove my fist into flesh already pulpy from my beating, and I barely felt the wince as my knuckles jarred against bone.

Another gasping appeal for mercy only made me madder. ‘You know what you need to do. The pain stops if you give me the names.’

‘Easy, brother,’ an amused voice said from beside me.

I turned to meet dark cognac-brown eyes. Rafaelle took a step back at my fierce look, his hands rising in mock surrender while his lips twitched.

‘You think this is funny?’ I seethed.

‘I’m just saying you’ll ruin your hands and unless you plan to keep your gloves on all weekend at the next race, someone will notice your handiwork. Do we even know for a fact that something’s going on?’

‘I’ve been telling you for weeks that we have a mole,’ I snapped. ‘Possibly several of them. Cos these fucking rats always travel in packs, don’t they?’