Page 8 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

MADDELENA

Present Day

The knock when it came on my hotel room door almost two weeks later wasn’t surprising. I’d been expecting some form of contact from Cesare since he dropped his ultimatum in Monza.

I was worn out from waving away questions about what I was doing talking to the Salvatore heir in the nightclub that night. Only years of practice had saved me from crumbling beneath my grandfather’s third degree once Stefano had snitched on me at the first opportunity.

I didn’t divulge that Cesare had accused us of sabotaging or that I was expected to hand over the culprit in a matter of days.

Years of watching my family’s hair-trigger response to even the most benign threats had taught me the men in my family were very much cut from the all-haste-no-brains cloth.

Telling my father and grandfather would be the same as brandishing a red rag in front of a bull. Bonafacio lived, breathed and salivated at the smallest chance of bringing down a Salvatore in whatever way, shape or form he could turn fantasy into reality.

Ordering a handful of our soldiers to take down one or two of theirs for the insult of accusing Mancinelli Racing of underhanded tactics – although he would proudly crow about it himself with zero shame were that the case – would be as easy as tossing back a shellful of his favourite Sicilian oysters.

Things had been relatively calm since we started winning races. The ticks were in our favour, and for now Bonafacio was happy just to rub his success in his enemies’ faces, something he’d been doing in our private clubs back in New York City.

While I knew it wouldn’t last for much longer, I was reluctant to upset the status quo. I’d needed to be meticulous in my investigating. Which regretfully meant that it’d been treacle-slow going.

Even as Nonno’s consigliere, a role he’d handed reluctantly to me as a show of power and in direct response to Orazio Salvatore naming his only granddaughter a chief strategist and accountant for the Salvatore empire, I was mostly a figurehead, given information on a need-to-know basis.

If Bonafacio had deemed it prudent to win Formula One races through subterfuge, bribery and sabotage, I would be the last one to know.

On account of my flaws.

Digging would land me in serious waters if discovered, an act my grandfather would see as a betrayal, even if I didn’t intend to be stupid enough to reveal I was doing it on Cesare’s ultimatum.

To be fair, I wasn’t. Not entirely. Because contrary to my expectation, since the absurd decision was floated of starting Mancinelli Racing team to ‘show those pazzo upstarts how it’s really done’, I’d grown to love the thrill of motor racing.

And no, I would never admit, even under torture, that it had anything to do with Cesare Salvatore’s open adoration of the sport.

Since that night at the silent disco – when I’d had to watch him batter not one but two boys – including Ciara’s poor brother for bringing me to the disco, and managed to somehow not die myself at the hands of the Salvatore heir – and in the almost decade and a half since, I’d learned to suppress any desire to willingly look at, think of, or speak about anything to do with Cesare.

Sure, with Bonafacio’s rabid obsession for his enemy’s family, avoiding Cesare completely was near impossible. And once I’d started attending the races, seeing him in his race suit, his mile-wide shoulders, tapered torso and tight ass cutting across the paddock and pit-lane had been unavoidable.

But I’d kept any direct confrontation to near zero.

For his part, he’d looked right through me like I was thin air each time our paths crossed. And absolutely no one was informed about the shocking electric tug in my middle on the rare occasion his cold, charcoal-grey eyes slashed across my body.

I sucked in a breath now as I approached the door, furiously working out how to play this.

For a second I was irritated that Sofiya, after almost threatening me with her arrival, had texted yesterday to say she wasn’t coming after all.

No explanation as to why. Sure, a part of me was relieved because, seriously, the less eyes on me right now, the better.

That the thought immediately conjured up charcoal-grey eyes set within a fallen angel face that felt almost X-rated was a secret I had no intention of revealing. Ditto for the slow sizzling rushing through my veins as I opened the door.

The person who stood there sent fresh trepidation up my spine.

Fist.

Cesare’s personal killing machine with his soft voice and dead eyes.

‘What do you want? And how did you gain access to my floor?’ As with every hotel we stayed in during racing season, we’d booked out the whole floor of the luxurious Claremont Hotel in Baku and paid extra to have exclusive lift access to this floor made on a strict limited-to-family-and-trusted-personnel basis.

‘The Boss wants to talk to you.’

I glanced past him, my heart jumping into my throat.

But Cesare wasn’t behind him. Instead I was greeted with the sight of my men sprawled on the floor in the hallway. My eyes darted back to my visitor before debating how quickly I could sprint across the room to the gun I kept in my nightstand.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They’re just taking a short nap,’ Fist said, his low voice completely belying the streak of violence I knew lurked just beneath his gentle giant demeanour.

He’d been Cesare’s shadow long before the Salvatore heir had stepped into his rightful mantle.

Being the head soldier for the Salvatores wasn’t just a job for Fist. It was a lifelong calling he’d embraced dark heart and shrivelled soul.

Just as his father had for Orazio. ‘It’s up to you whether you want to make their condition permanent,’ he finished, eyes resting steadily on me.

‘And me? Have you been ordered to make my condition permanent too if I resist?’

His headshake was neither belligerent nor offended. It was a calm response to my un-calm question. ‘Not at all. Like I said, the Boss wants to talk.’

‘Then why isn’t he here himself?’

‘He would prefer you come to him. I’m here to facilitate that.’

‘I was about to have dinner.’ I was stalling, delaying the inevitable as much as I could.

Eyes as dark as a wormhole flicked to the sterling silver room-service trolley, and he nodded. ‘I can see that. And I apologise.’ But he intended to do fuck all about it, his small shrug said.

‘Can I at least get dressed?’ I gestured at the belted bathrobe I’d changed into on arrival from the racetrack.

Although I knew this meeting was hanging over me like a dark cloud, I’d half-hoped, foolishly, that it would dissipate over time under its own steam.

That Cesare would conclude it wasn’t worth threatening annihilation over some assumed conspiracy.

Apparently not.

Fist hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘Sure.’

Deciding I wasn’t a great threat, or he could easily handle whatever threat I posed, he stepped into the hallway without shutting the door, his back turned respectfully.

I didn’t bother contemplating escape. For one thing, I was on the thirty-seventh floor. For another, Cesare would find me.

If not today, then tomorrow during first or second practice. Also, I was a consigliere, damn it. He might scare the shit out of me, but I wasn’t about to visibly cower before him.

I’d buckled beneath his fury once upon a time.

Never again.

Sliding on my favourite dove-grey jumpsuit – because it boosted my confidence, and my sister Jacinta called it my Boss Lady Suit – I re-tied my hair in a tight bun and slid my feet into three-inch heels.

I hadn’t taken off my make-up when I returned from the team meeting, so I snatched up my purse.

Then stopped. My gaze went to the nightstand once more.

Bringing my gun was prudent. But… was it even worth it?

I’d be amazed if Cesare’s people didn’t pat me down and relieve me of it. And even if they didn’t… was there a scenario where I saw myself shooting the Salvatore heir?

I bit my inner cheek, now wishing Sofiya was here.

Among her many talents was sharp, accurate shooting.

The memory of her coldly aiming her rifle and downing a buck in the woods near our Connecticut family home whistled across my brain before I shook my head free of it and turned my back on the bed.

The Mancinellis and Salvatores had clashed many times over the years over many issues, but I didn’t really see Cesare killing me over a suspected mole within my racing team.

And if that thought was more in hope than expectation, I guessed I’d find out soon enough.

Stepping out and seeing how effectively Fist had immobilised my soldiers, I grimaced. Heads were going to roll for this. But that was tomorrow’s problem.

I was relieved when the elevator reached the ground floor and I saw Fist had left these soldiers alone, even though their eyes widened when they saw the giant striding one step behind me.

‘Good evening, Dona, we going somewhere?’ one soldier asked.

I curbed a grimace at the hollow honorary title. ‘I am. You’re not. I have some business to take care of. I’ll be back in an hour,’ I said briskly, not slowing my stride.

Roberto, the oldest and most senior of the secondary team, stepped closer with a frown. ‘We really should come with?—’

‘I’ve given you an order, soldier.’ I hardened my voice. ‘Do I need to repeat myself?’

He slowed his roll, although mutiny lurked on his face. ‘Uh, well, no, if you insist, Dona,’ he said.

The knot in my middle eased a fraction but didn’t dissipate altogether.

There would be a reckoning, or at the very least a few questions needing answering. Unless I managed to turn the debacle upstairs to my advantage.