Page 47 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

MADDELENA

From the poolside of the Nevada canyon mansion we’d rented for the race weekend, I tracked Cesare as he readied to leave for the racetrack.

I’d been nervous-cooking all morning, much to the quiet horror of the chef who came with the house. Eventually, I’d taken pity on the poor man and returned his domain to him, choosing to sit out in the sunshine, tearing my freshly made croissants to little pieces.

‘Hey, baby, what’s wrong?’

I startled and looked up.

He was dressed and the fleet of SUVs were waiting to drive him to the track. ‘I have a bad feeling I can’t shake.’

He was already peeved at having to leave me behind, and his mood turned darker. ‘I know. So do I.’

‘You do?’ My fear surged, but I liked that he didn’t try to dismiss or minimise my concerns.

He wrapped his arms around me and brushed a kiss on my forehead. ‘Yeah, I’ve had it for a while.’ He tilted my head up and looked deep into my eyes. ‘But I’m doubling down on every precaution, you hear me? I’m not taking chances. With you or with myself. Okay?’

The ball of terror shrunk a little as I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He kissed me. Long and deep and slow. Then reluctantly stepped back. ‘Gotta go, bedda . Miss me, please.’

‘I already do.’

And as he walked out, I wondered why I didn’t say the other most important thing of all.

That I loved him.

Cesare

The glitziest race of them all. Las Vegas.

I still preferred the classic elegance of Monaco, but the sponsors creamed themselves over coming out on top in Sin City.

My gut churned as the clock counted down. Ten minutes to lights out.

‘You know what to do?’

Renzo nodded, face pinched with pre-race nerves and the reality I’d thrust on him of having to deal with a riled Narciso Mancinelli.

‘Guard your six at the start, do everything I can to stop him sliding into your slipstream.’

I gripped his shoulder to focus his attention. ‘Everything but putting yourself in a shitty position. Capisci? ’

‘ Capisci .’

‘We have a faster car and DRS at our disposal. If things don’t go according to plan at the start, we still have options.’

His pinched scowl deepened. ‘You think I’ll fail you?’

I switched my grip to his nape. ‘No, I don’t. But I think he’s going to be rash and ruthless because he’s fucking pissed. So we need to keep our heads. Yes?’

‘Okay. He lifts a little too soon at Turn 12. If I’m in the drag reduction system zone, I can catch him after the pig’s snout,’ he said, referring to the layout of the circuit which resembled an upside-down pig.

Relief barely glanced off the surface of my anxiety. From pole position, I had the greatest chance of a clean start, whereas Renzo, in third place, was caught between Narciso and Stan Paul in second and fourth.

If they chose to go after him…

I shook my head of the crippling thought, scanned the crowd even though she wasn’t here. The itchy resonance in my chest was constant now, aching when she wasn’t with me, exhilarating when she was.

In my cheesy moments, I was accepting that Maddelena had stolen a piece of my soul that day in the warehouse. And slowly, relentlessly, she’d been claiming the rest, piece by piece. And fuck if I had any objection to it any more.

I shoved my helmet on and stepped into my cockpit. I barely registered the team’s last-minute prep, my eyes pinned on the start lights.

Narciso positioning himself far too close during the warm-up lap was the first sign of trouble.

Beneath the glaring lights, he fixed me with a gimlet stare for three long seconds until the rules forced him to ease back.

When he pointed his front wheel towards me on the start grid, I flexed my fingers on the wheel.

Future brother-in-law or not, the little shit was about to get a spanking.

I blocked out the roar of the crowd and engines when the lights winked out, flooring the most powerful race engine on earth.

I shot towards the first turn. Only to feel my belly drop to my toes when I saw Renzo was nowhere near where I needed him to be. He’d dropped back to fourth, leaving me to punch a hole in the air for my two nemeses. Who used it to dart into place alongside me as we steered Turn 1.

I clocked Narciso’s maniacal grin just before I flipped my attention to Paul. His gaze was equally determined. More malicious.

Teeth gritted, I accepted their game plan. Neither of them planned to back out. They meant to pincer me into bailing, allowing one of them to take the lead.

Fuck that.

At the last possible moment, I tapped on my brakes.

They were so focused on me doing the opposite, speeding up and losing control into the turn, that they didn’t realise I’d fallen back by half a car length until it was too late.

For all three of us .

Their side pods slammed into each other in a jarring mangle of carbon fibre, which flung debris into my path. I heard my tyre blow a millisecond before my race car launched into the air. Flipped over in a kaleidoscope of whirling lights.

Maddelena.

Fuck.

The shoe had dropped.

Bonafacio had delivered on his threat.

If I survived this, I guess we were going to war after all.

Maddelena

There was a special kind of horror in watching your brother attempt to kill the man you loved on a racetrack. A terrifying moment when you were frozen on a cliff edge, torn straight down the middle as to who you loved more.

I was ferociously aware of alien sounds rippling from my throat.

Of Fist rushing into the room. Of him staring at the TV without reacting.

Then of him catching me around the waist as we watched Cesare’s race car flip over, once, twice, three times, as my legs gave way.

I didn’t need to whisper or bellow commands.

Didn’t need to race to my phone or yell for help.

The second Narciso stumbled away from the wreckage on his own two legs and, please God, please God, please God, Cesare was cut free from his upside down position by the marshals and rushed into the ambulance, Fist was manhandling me out the door.

Into the fleet of SUVs.

The only sounds in the dark interior as we sped towards Vegas were the keening from my throat and the unruffled conversation Fist was having on his phone.

We arrived in a screech of tyres and swarm of black-suited mafiosi storming the hospital.

Rafa was prowling the fifth-floor corridor when I stumbled in, every frantic atom praying to every saint I could conjure up.

‘Ishh… I… peeease…’ Every word tasted wrong.

‘He’s fine,’ he rasped. ‘They’re checking him out but he’s awake and talking.’

I sagged against the wall, the tremor coursing through me showing no signs of abating. ‘Arhhh… gggghhh…’

Rafa blinked and shot a glance at Fist.

‘Yeah, she’s been pretty much incoherent.’

I licked desert-dry lips, my heart still skewered on spikes. ‘C-cnnn s-he…’

‘I think she wants to see him,’ Fist monotoned.

‘Yeah, I got that, Fist,’ Rafa returned dryly.

He nodded, retreated a few steps, and planted himself in the middle of the hallway, a human roadblock.

‘Come on,’ Rafa murmured.

I slanted a grateful glance at him, but when I tried to walk, I stumbled. He caught my elbow, his eyes watchful as he led me towards the double doors.

‘You’re really gone for him, aren’t you?’

I should’ve loathed his amazed tone but seeing as he didn’t exactly sneer the revelation, I contented myself with a nod. ‘Y-yes. I… mm.’

His gaze speculated for several more seconds.

Then he pushed open the door.

And I lurched towards the man laid out on the bed.

Cesare

‘I’m okay, bedda . I promise. Fuck, don’t cry. I’m fine. Promise.’

‘Y-you’re not. You… you… God, it was horrible, Cesare,’ she rasped.

Maddelena was hoarse from crying, and it was killing me. More than the injuries I’d suffered.

A dislocated shoulder and two sprained ribs. Possible concussion. And the unrivalled memory of barrel-rolling before hanging upside down from a Formula One race car caught in a chainlink wall.

It hurt like a motherfucker, but I was thankful for small mercies.

A rib fracture or break would’ve ended my season.

Pain from a sprain was fakeable. Another small mercy was that the two assholes had taken each other out and Renzo had ended up winning the race, a big score for the constructors’ championship.

I only needed one more race win to secure the drivers’ championship.

We looked up as Rafa re-entered. His eyes darted to Maddelena, who was stretched out beside me on the hospital bed. She tensed but there was no malice in his eyes.

‘Update?’

He’d left an hour ago after confirmation I was fine, heading back to the paddock after the race ended, on a lethal warpath.

His lips curled. ‘The stewards are still deliberating. As if there’s any other way to see this. Those two fuckers deliberately put you in that wall.’ His gaze darted back to Maddelena. ‘Your baby brother is a little shit.’

To my surprise, she nodded, fury brimming her eyes. ‘Agreed.’

Something glimmered in Rafa’s eyes. Respect maybe? ‘But from my initial… probing, he wasn’t primed for it. Just took advantage of it. Not so much our other friend.’

Maddelena twisted in my arms. ‘Are you saying Stan deliberately targeted Cesare?’ she demanded.

‘Yes.’ He met my gaze. ‘I had a quiet word with him. The stronzu caved even faster this time. He was under orders from his cousin to do whatever it takes to make sure you didn’t finish the race.’

I cursed. ‘Just his cousin?’

Rafa’s gaze rested for a beat on Maddelena. I pulled her close, felt her screaming tension. Her worry. Her resignation.

‘It’s okay. You can say it.’ Her voice broke a little.

Rafa softened. Barely. ‘No, he wasn’t acting on Ivanovski’s sole command. Your grandfather endorsed it too.’

A choked sob escaped, and she tucked her face into my shoulder.

Dropping a hard kiss on her temple, I pinned my livid gaze on my brother. ‘Go get the doctor to hurry the fuck up with my release papers. We’re going to pay Stan a little visit.’

Ivanovski and, unfortunately, El Topo were next on my shit list, but that would need careful planning.

A growl started in my throat when Rafa shook his head. ‘No need, frate . He broke his leg in two places stepping out of the shower after he returned to his dressing room. Initial assessment is it’ll take three months to heal. He’s out for the season.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe out of racing altogether.’

Against my throat, Maddelena muttered, ‘It’s the fucking least he deserves.’

It reminded me that beneath all that gorgeous sexiness lurked the heart of a mobster’s granddaughter.

A mobster who’d tried to have me killed.

‘The fucking bastard had the balls to try it a second time. We can’t let this slide. I hope you know that, nupito .’

Vegas was nine days ago. I won the Qatar Grand Prix two days ago.

In that time, Bonafacio, on learning his grandson had received a one-race ban for causing an accident and that Stan Paul was out of commission for the rest of the season, had lost his mind.

His soldiers had attempted to burn down one of our casinos, targeted three of our trucks and two strip clubs.

We’d lost two runners and a lieutenant, and a few hostesses had been roughed up.

He’d stopped for all of two days when we snuffed out two of his lieutenants and sent one minus his left hand with a clear warning.

Stop. Or else.

El Topo’s response? He would quit his shenanigans if I called off the wedding and Maddelena returned home.

As fucking if.

The proverbial straw was Sofiya’s call to Maddelena last night. Their sister Jacinta had been yanked back home. And El Topo was laying vicious hands on the women in his household. My woman was going out of her mind, starting to toy with falling in line, attempting to placate El Topo.

He’d zeroed in on her one weakness – her siblings.

Sheets of ice fought with white-hot rage. The next words out of my mouth would either doom me in my family’s hearts or end the life of my future wife’s grandfather. There was no hiding from either.

‘Cesare.’ Orazio rarely used my name. When he did, he meant business.

I looked up. Three sets of eyes watched me. My father, brother and grandfather.

Orazio wanted my compliance but didn’t need my permission. This was happening with or without my consent.

A part of me was relieved. The other part braced for Maddelena’s heartache. No matter the fallout, I knew she’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But here we were.

I sucked in a breath. Released it. ‘ Sì .’

Orazio slammed his palm on the table to seal the mandate. ‘It is done.’

The date chosen was the day after our wedding day.

Bonafacio Mancinelli wouldn’t die at my hand because it turned out there were some lines my grandfather wouldn’t cross, one of them being having El Topo’s blood on my hands.

The burden of confessing the impending deed to Maddelena, however, he had no problem tossing on my shoulders.