Page 27 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

MADDELENA

…I like feeding you…

…makes me want to punish you more.

Yep, I was an absolute buffoon for repeatedly reading his texts and a greater one for allowing my heart to skip several beats every time I did.

Sure, after last night I’d be as dumb as a box of rocks not to see that the chemistry between us was irrefutable. Furnace hot with the likelihood of turning volcanic if he stuck to his guns about the no-condom thing.

But it was also glaringly obvious that Cesare was, at the very least, playing the keep-your-enemies-closer game while admitting he didn’t intend anyone to find out. It was a ridiculously hazardous game of chess, but one I couldn’t even contemplate rejecting without my senses screaming no .

Especially since that game came with a hefty side of sublime fucking.

Barring potentially lethal repercussions, it should be as clearcut as that.

And yet…

…I like feeding you…

Four little words that made my heart prance around in my chest like a ditzy Disney princess.

‘What’s so damn fantastic you look like you’re coasting on a thrice of molly?’

I startled, my fingers instinctively clutching my phone harder. ‘What?’

Ciso glowered at the phone I was slyly sliding into my pocket. ‘You’ve been staring at your damn phone for the last twenty minutes. While these idiots have been boring me to death. I’m this close to fucking someone up for thinking they can tell me how to drive my fucking car.’

His growl was more than a little slurred and the shot he tossed back almost missed his mouth. He’d been drinking steadily since the podium ceremony, even before we left the racetrack.

The Gambler, the exclusive bar Stefano booked, cocky that another win was guaranteed, teemed with corporate guests I was stuck with entertaining. He’d brushed aside my objections and invited all our sponsors across Asia with the promise of a wild victory celebration.

I scanned the room for my errant uncle and wasn’t surprised when I didn’t see him. ‘Where’s Stefano?’

‘Where do you think? Hiding like the weasel he is. He thinks it’s your fault, you know?’ Ciso muttered.

My head snapped to him, unease crawling up my spine. ‘How the hell is this my fault? Correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t every projection at the start of the year point to this circuit being the worst for our car?’

Ciso shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure, but…’ He raised his hand to scratch his neck, then gave up at the last second so it thudded back onto the cushion of the sofa we sat on. ‘He was hoping you’d keep… destabilising Salvatore for a bit longer.’

I felt the blood drain from my head. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Too soon. Too soon. Too soon. I’m not ready to give him up. ‘Excuse me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Clearly his losing streak pissed him off and there seemed to be some… friction between you two in Monza. Stefano said it was a good thing. That if you kept doing it we would have an advantage. Even here.’

I tried to swallow around my dry mouth as burning rage warred with relief. ‘Did… did he tell Papa and Bona any of this?’ And did they approve that insane call? Was it so insane if it gave me a legitimate in?

Ciso tried to avoid my gaze but I chased it until he had no choice. ‘Maybe. I dunno.’

He knew. So did Sofiya probably.

Hell, it was possible everyone knew what my father and grandfather were plotting but me. I wondered if it was why Roberto hadn’t insisted beyond a token objection last night when I dismissed him and the rest of the security team.

I shook my head, wondering why the knowledge seared when I should have been used to this. When being the last to know was par for the course for me despite my supposed status as consigliere.

‘Sis, I?—’

‘So he’s off somewhere, throwing me under the bus?’

A wave of pity crossed his face and my anger built. ‘He’s probably catching heat of his own.’

‘What about you? What responsibility do you take for coming third seeing as, oh, I don’t know, you were the one driving the damn car?’

He flinched, then his face crumbled into a puppy-dog pout. As the baby of the family and sole male grandchild, it was a well- practised expression that melted hearts and got him out of more shit than I cared to count.

‘Fuck, don’t get mad at me, sis. I’m only telling you what I heard.’

I sucked in a long sustaining breath, my heart thumping as a different thought blossomed. ‘What else have you heard?’

Confusion cut through the pouting. ‘What do you mean?’

I wasn’t proud of it but I hoped he would be too drunk to remember my questions or level of interest in the morning. ‘I know Bona is trying to marry me off. Do you know who to?’ I asked, although what the hell I planned on doing with that information was a mystery. Still, forearmed and all that.

His face scrunched, and he reached for his next shot.

‘Some dude from the Old Country. For your sake I hope he’s not old as fuck.

’ He tossed the drink back, slammed the glass down hard enough for it to crack, then patted me on the shoulder.

‘You deserve someone born in the last half millennia at the very least,’ he said, then chuckled.

I glared. ‘I’d like a name, Ciso.’

‘You think they’d tell me?’ he scoffed. ‘Ask Mama. Or maybe Sof?’

Of course Sofiya knew. Of course.

‘I’m going for a leak.’ He staggered upright, stepped away from the table, then careened back, swaying on his feet as he stabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

‘Stay away from that fucker with the combover. He gives me the creeps. Oh, and from Salvatore too. It’s not really worth it, and I’d hate to give Nonno an excuse to lose his shit on all of us. You know that never ends well.’

As much as I wanted to discard it as drunken rambling, his advice was searingly inescapable.

Bonafacio losing his shit and taking things too far was the reason I hadn’t seen Giada in five years.

The threat of it was the reason Jacinta had enrolled for post-grad programme after post-grad programme before going back to college one final time to study for the bar exam, then found every reason under the sun to remain in her tiny Manhattan apartment instead of living at home like Sofiya and I were forced to.

Only her breathtaking brilliance with the law had stopped Bonafacio from hauling her home and marrying her off at the first opportunity.

And at the tender age of twenty-six and a second-year associate in a prestigious law firm, my sister had already earned what little freedom she’d carved out by defending Mancinelli runners, soldiers and capos from all kinds of charges on a crushing pro-bono schedule.

My insides tightened into impossible knots as I pulled out my phone and brought up the texts.

It’s off. I’m not coming tonight.

It felt like an eternity, and no time at all, before Cesare responded.

Like hell you’re not. You come to me, bedda. Or I’m coming for you. Your choice.

Cesare

Her text arriving as we entered the Golden Empress Club put me in a shitty mood.

I’d expected her to baulk at some point because, let’s face it, what she was doing was downright hazardous to her wellbeing. Still, when it came, the hollow it left in my belly was deeply unsettling, fouling my mood even further.

Which was good news for the management, and very bad news for Stan Paul.

I waved my Black Card at the sharply dressed man with slicked-back hair who glided towards me like he was one of those Disney villains, on an invisible hoverboard. I half expected his toothy smile to keep going until it spliced his face in two.

‘Five figures of your choice, charged to whatever item you’re selling in here, for twenty uninterrupted minutes with your guest in…’ I glanced at Rafa, brow raised.

‘The Sapphire Room,’ he supplied. ‘Oh, and that figure also covers any unforeseen damage and your utmost discretion or my friend Fist here will forget himself and accidentally let slip to the police commissioner that you serve underage customers.’

The man didn’t even blink.

He simply cupped one hand in the other and held both out for the card like he was taking holy communion. ‘We’re very pleased to have you join us, sir. The room you seek is upstairs, last double doors on the right. Enjoy your visit.’

I dropped the card in his palm and he glided away with the easiest money he’d make this week.

I took the stairs two at a time, Rafa, Fist and a trio of soldiers hot on my heels.

The doors in question opened just before we reached it, denying me the satisfaction of kicking it in. For a moment I was furious the fucker downstairs had ratted us out. But it was a scantily clad woman with skyscraper heels and fake tits the size of bowling balls who stepped out.

The keycard discreetly tucked between her fingers suggested she’d been signalled to open the door.

Excellent .

We entered and were halfway into the room before Stan lifted his head from between another pair of outrageously large knockers. His two minders, also busy indulging in the available entertainment, didn’t realise what was happening until too late.

The closest one, a steroid-pumped meathead, jumped up and rushed me.

I met his forward moment with a throat punch. He coughed once. And kept coming.

Fuck . Either he was coked out of his mind or his pain tolerance was sky high.

I aimed two rapid-fire lead hooks at his temple, then another jab at his throat. This time something crunched.

He flailed back and dropped to his knees, clutching his broken Adam’s apple as he gurgled in pain. I shook out my smarting knuckles. That would bruise and be a little tender for a few days. Good thing I wouldn’t be driving for another two weeks.

Fist took care of the other minder even before the two strippers contorting around their respective poles had made it to the floor.

As the downed guards were completely immobilised, Rafa whistled and spun a slow three-sixty. ‘You don’t hold back when you need a pick me up, do you, son?’