Page 9 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

Ignoring Fist’s hulking presence behind me, I paused and faced Roberto.

‘You might want to check on your buddies upstairs. And I suggest you keep whatever you find there under wraps. You don’t want to find yourselves suddenly unemployed, I don’t think?

Or for word to get back to my grandfather about your levels of incompetence? ’

Now he froze, his mutiny morphing into mild anxiety as my words sank in. If any of them planned to tattle to my father or Bonafacio about my little late evening excursion, they would be equally in the shit for their abysmal performance tonight.

His gaze remained on me for a beat or two before he turned and barked orders at his men. They were rushing towards the elevators when I walked out the front entrance with Fist.

The drive ended three short streets away, at the equally stunning Soraya Baku Hotel. Not nearly enough time for me to reach deep inside for the yoga technique I used to steady my breathing.

Instead, I had to rely on years of hiding distress from the men in my family who loved to pick on the weak.

I was almost thankful Fist wasn’t the conversational type, having seemingly lost interest in me as I hurried to keep up with his giant strides across the foyer to the private elevator that whisked us up to the Presidential Suite.

The actual suite was at the end of a long corridor with small anterooms dotted with a dozen soldiers.

A female soldier, built like a Mack truck, stepped forward as we approached, then conducted a very thorough search, including an X-ray of my heels. It would’ve been amusing if not for the imposing, gold-handled double doors standing ominously before me, behind which I knew Cesare waited.

The second I stepped back into my heels, Fist swept the doors open and stood to one side, giving me a clear view of Cesare Salvatore.

He prowled towards me, a breathtaking vision in navy.

He was wearing a dark navy shirt open at the throat, exposing a hint of his intricate tattoos, with his sleeves folded back to display deliciously brawny tattooed forearms, darker bespoke tailored pants that hinted at lean hips and powerful thighs. Polished Italian shoes.

His impact was immediate and catastrophic, and it took serious composure not to stumble back from the force of it.

‘Any problems?’ he asked Fist while he conducted a head-to-toe scrutiny of his own, his eyes lingering for a fraction longer on my breasts and hips.

The head soldier stared unblinking at his boss. ‘Nah. Her security could use some serious upgrade, though. It’s almost as if someone doesn’t care that any schmuck can walk in and have access to her with minimum fuss.’

Fist ignored my glare as Cesare’s eyes narrowed. After a moment, he nodded. ‘Noted. Thanks.’

‘Sure thing, Boss.’ He left as silently and stealthily as he did everything.

Cesare’s focus hardened on me. The power of his stare blazed like a dozen suns. ‘Is that true?’

‘What are we talking about, exactly?’ I hedged.

The ink on his arms rippled beneath his expensive cotton shirt, impatience dripping off his body.

‘Don’t play dumb. Is someone slacking on your protection?

Before you rush to answer that, remember I was able to cross the room to where you stood in the nightclub with very little opposition while your soldiers stood around with their thumbs up their asses. ’

‘That was to prevent senseless violence because even you aren’t dense enough to start shooting in a nightclub full of civilians.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Be very careful who you call dense, duci ,’ he warned softly.

Duci . Sweetheart.

The endearment ping-ponged through me, seeking a soft place to land. A soft place I was absolutely not going to allow.

‘Why have you summoned me here? I have nothing to say to you.’

He didn’t respond right away. He strolled to the large drinks’ cabinet set on the far side of the massive living room, poured himself a shot of MacCallan 21, then flicked me a glance. ‘Drink?’

‘No. Thanks.’ My gaze flicked to the door once more, before giving up, not relishing a dozen guards dragging me back here to continue this meeting.

Instead I moved into the room, my gaze lingering on the large French doors that led to a terrace with stunning night-time views of Baku City. Then back inside, over the banquet-like dining table. And the silver trolley standing beside it with multiple covered dishes.

Cesare stoppered the bottle, then, crystal glass dangling from his fingertips, he strolled over to the wide sectional and sank into it. ‘Take a seat.’

I shook my head. ‘I’d rather stand. I’m not going to be here that long.’

He sipped his drink, and I tried to keep my eyes off the roll of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Tried. And failed.

‘You seem to be under some misapprehension about what’s happening here. Either you think I was kidding or you know I wasn’t but are still not taking me seriously. Which is it?’ he asked, his voice all silk and muzzled terror.

‘If I said neither, what then?’ I dared. Far too foolishly.

Despite his careless sprawl, he was barely bridled. A restlessness skulked just beneath the surface, ready to unleash vicious claws and shred me to pieces.

If I’d had to guess, I’d have said the last two weeks hadn’t been easy for him. Perhaps he’d even suffered some consequences of losing to a Mancinelli. Like mine, Orazio Salvatore wasn’t known for being the warm and fuzzy kind of grandpa.

It staggered me how two men who’d been best friends as teenagers loathed themselves so viciously now.

How they’d infused that hatred so effectively in the blood of their offspring.

All because of a dead woman no one had ever even met.

I’d often wondered how she would’ve felt about this vendetta in her name had she lived.

Whether she would be flattered, romanticise it even, like some movie star gangster’s moll would, or be horrified by all the death in her name.

I knew firsthand how the whole family cowered beneath Bonafacio’s legendary rages when things weren’t going his way.

How my two youngest sisters had often cried themselves to sleep from sheer terror when they were younger.

The two fake molar implants I’d needed after taking a beating meant for my sister Jacinta were testament to his ferocious temper.

Cesare’s nostrils flared now. ‘You’re not foolish enough to have not bothered looking into the situation.’

I wished I could look away from him. But then I would never turn my back on a leopard, so I was fully justified keeping my eyes where they were. Right? ‘Fine. I investigated it. There’s no mole.’

‘Bullshit,’ he replied smoothly, his low, deep voice reaching across the room to wrap around me. Hold me in its thrall.

‘What makes you so sure, anyway?’

‘Some chump whose name I never bothered to learn,’ he said, then he allowed himself that half-twitch of a smile that had so fascinated me.

Once upon a time. ‘And the fact that you Mancinellis haven’t had an original thought about anything.

Ever. So excuse me if I find it hard to believe you’ll have the balls to be innovative enough to improve your piece of shit engine.

Especially when I know every single engineer in your team isn’t capable of the leaps you seem to be having. ’

His use of the past tense for the snitch was deliberate. My stomach dutifully hollowed at the raw violence in his voice even as my hindbrain rejected what could possibly have happened to the guy.

‘Even if what you say is true, what makes you think the sabotage is coming from us? It won’t come as news to you that you’re not the most beloved person or team in the paddock. Not everyone is a giggling fan of the great Cesare Salvatore.’

Every last trace of amusement vanished. He jerked forward so suddenly, I stumbled back a step, then cursed under my breath for the vulnerability when faint dizziness washed over me. I saw him clock the misstep. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over me.

‘You’re not foolish enough to have forgotten the warning I gave you all those years ago, are you?’ he asked, again with that low, deadly voice.

I swallowed, clenching my fists when the wave of dizziness returned. Shit, shit, shit . I should’ve taken the time to eat a chocolate bar or a piece of fruit.

My gaze flicked to the door.

He saw, and his face clenched tighter. ‘Give it up. You’re not getting out of here without giving me answers, Maddelena.’

Very few people called me that. My mother, when her fear spilled over and she clutched her rosary tighter, her eyes imploring or seeking salvation that never came.

I will pray for you tonight, Maddelena.

You should come to church with me, Maddelena.

I warned you what happens when you challenge your grandfather like that, Maddelena. Look at you now.

Her voice didn’t send my insides into freefall as Cesare Salvatore’s did, though.

‘You’re not a very good liar, Maddelena,’ he continued. ‘And it looks like you’ve only gotten worse over the years.’

Shit. I bit the inside of my cheek. My only option was to remain silent.

‘Tell me who you think it might be.’

I snorted. ‘And watch you tear through my team like a shredder through paper? Fuck no.’

His head tilted a fraction, and the light above him bathed his glossy hair and five o’clock shadow in soft light, highlighting his raw, panty-melting hotness. ‘What makes you think I won’t do that anyway?’

I struggled to regain my focus. ‘Because you want to keep racing. And like it or not, you’re in a legitimate organisation with rules even you can’t evade.’

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘You think I won’t find a way to get what I want?’

The sense that the question entailed more than finding a mole was strong and visceral enough to douse me in shivers.

‘I’ve already uncovered one more culprit,’ he added.

Shock jolted me, propelling my feet closer to him before I even clocked I’d moved. ‘You have?’

‘Hmm.’ He took another lazy sip of his drink.

‘I had an interesting conversation with the official who gave me that ten-second penalty at the last race. Specifically about the quarter of a million euros that magically appeared in his wife’s Swiss bank account the morning of the race.

And the fact that he resigned the very next day citing non-existent health issues. ’

It took every ounce of composure to keep my jaw from sagging. Was he lying? Because if he wasn’t… if his allegations were true…

I started to shake my head, then stopped when a wave of dizziness surged through me. Frantic, I reached for the back of the sofa closest to me.

Cesare charged across the room, his hands grasping my arms, preventing me from dropping in a shameful heap at his feet. Much like he had that first time. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he barked.

I barely managed to suppress a gasp as his touch seared me. As memory crashed like two meteors colliding.

Cesare Salvatore was touching me for the first time since that night in a field in Connecticut. Since he’d whispered filthy things in my ear, believing he was saying them to a stranger.

Since he’d recoiled in furious horror when he’d realised he’d just made out with his enemy’s granddaughter.