37

Armani

I’ve worked my way from Bari, to Naples, to Rome, to fucking Florence. Finally, I find myself in Bologna, where Prodi lives.

I’m fucking exhausted, but I’ve managed to recover over ninety-eight million euros for Luca.

Now for the biggest problem.

Ignazio Prodi was a member of the mafia for over thirty years. When shit went down with the Aslanhovs, Alek killed Prodi’s eldest son.

Since then, Prodi refuses to work with the mafia because of the brotherly bond Luca has with Viktor. He despises the mafia and bratva working together.

Luca gave Prodi three years to mourn, and his time is officially up.

This is the impossible task I was given. Not the other eight men. They were all child’s play compared to Ignazio Prodi.

Honestly, I don’t see Prodi bending the knee. Today will end in bloodshed.

Sitting in the car, I brace myself for the battle.

You can’t think of the shit they did to Alek. This is not personal. Force Prodi to pay what he owes or kill him and make his youngest son, Lorenzo, pay what’s owed to the mafia.

That’s it. Get in, get the money, and get out.

If only it were that easy.

Tiana’s waiting for you. You’re getting married to a fucking angel. Do this for her.

I take a deep breath and look at the villa ahead that sits in a cul-de-sac.

Do this, and prove your worth to Luca.

Getting out of the car, I leave every weapon I own behind and walk toward the imposing gates. I lift my arms to show I’m unarmed, wearing only my clothes and the bulletproof vest that won’t do shit if they shoot me in the head.

The gates swing open, and I count three guards at the guardhouse. One walks toward me, and I stop so he can search me.

“Armani De Santis on behalf of Luca Cotroni for Signor Prodi,” I mutter as his hands pat over my body.

He announces my arrival via a two-way radio and, a moment later, nods. “You’ll be received at the front door.”

“Grazie.” I proceed to walk up the driveway, constantly glancing around and counting how many men there are on the property.

Eight in the front yard.

Probably eight at the back and two of his best men in the house. Twenty at most.

My mind stills, and an eerie calmness washes over me.

If you take out Prodi, you’ll have to deal with the men in the house and the eight at the front as you make your escape.

I’ll have to try and reason with the stubborn old fuck.

The front door stands open, a guard waiting to receive me. In a split second, I take in his machine gun, and the Heckler & Koch tucked into the waistband of his pants behind his back.

I step into the foyer, taking note of anything I can use as a weapon while I follow the guard through a sitting room and out onto a veranda.

Ignazio and Lorenzo are sitting at a round, wrought-iron table, enjoying a late lunch.

Ignazio cuts into his Fiorentina steak, but instead of taking the bite, his hardened eyes lock on me. “Ahh…The Reaper. You know that’s what they call you, Signor De Santis?”

Lorenzo glances at me, and I notice how the guard, who let me in, positions himself near Lorenzo.

Where’s the other guard? There can’t just be the one.

Just as I think the question, another guard steps out of the house. He has the same weapons as the one standing by Lorenzo.

“I wasn’t aware,” I answer Ignazio.

“Your reputation precedes you. The whole of Italy is wondering where you’ll pop up next.” Ignazio lets out a chuckle. “My phone’s been ringing non-stop the past two days. I hear men are paying the mafia in fear they might be next on your list.” He takes the bite of meat and slowly chews while gesturing at the open seat.

“Grazie,” I murmur as I make myself comfortable. When a server rushes closer, I wave a hand. “Nothing for me. I can’t stay long.”

“You’re getting right down to business,” Ignazio mutters. “I hear you’re marrying a bratva bitch.”

Anger ignites in my chest, but I keep it restrained. The atmosphere tenses, and the one guard shifts on his feet.

“Your intel is wrong.”

Ignazio’s eyebrow lifts. “You’re not getting married?”

“I am.” My eyes are locked with his in a wordless battle. “To a bratva princess.”

His top lip curls in disgust. “The mafia isn’t what it used to be when Lucian Cotroni was in charge.”

Loyal until death, I mutter, “Luca has made his father proud by expanding our territories.”

“Hmphf,” he snorts. “It’s unnatural. The mafia and bratva can’t co- exist.” His eyes narrow on me. “I also hear you’re friends with the fucker who killed my son.”

Here we go.

Not commenting about Alek, I say, “Luca’s given you three years to mourn. It’s time to come back into the fold.”

Ignazio slams his steak knife down on the table in a fit of anger. My eyes only touch on the weapon for a second before I hold his enraged gaze.

“Over my dead body will I pay a cent to the mafia as long as they’re tied to the fucking bratva rats! Are you all fucking blind or just stupid? You’re letting the enemy take over everything we bled for.”

As Ignazio rages, I see Tiana’s face in my mind’s eye.

Her expressiveness. The wonder in her eyes every time I kissed her. The flush of her cheeks. Her shyness. How fucking grateful she is for everything.

The way she looks at me as if I’m an answer to all her prayers. Tesoro mia.

In a heartbeat, I survey the backyard.

Five guards. The two standing by us and the eight at the front. Fifteen men besides Ignazio and Lorenzo.

My eyes flick to Lorenzo, who looks wary and subdued. He’s never been Ignazio’s favorite son because he’s gay, and Prodi considers him weak, which I think is fucking stupid.

Lorenzo is the calm one in the family and doesn’t make any rash decisions.

My eyes swing back to Ignazio as he rages, “You’re all fucking traitors! I’ll kill that fucking scum who took Riccardo’s life, and then I’ll make Lorenzo fuck your bratva whore until he learns the value of a pussy. I’ll make her brother watch–”

Rage explodes behind my eyes, all my control vanishes, and I grab the steak knife and plunge it rapidly into Ignazio’s neck. Five times the blade tears through his skin, and his blood spurts like a fountain over the floor and table.