Page 2 of Deadly Alliance
And that meteor is the Russian Bratva and the Irish Mob.
While I’m forced to waste men and money playing defense against Orlando’s archaic bullshit, the Russians are quietly buying up the politicians on the East Side. The Irish are smuggling guns through the cracks in our borders, testing the fences, waiting to see how weak we truly are. The Port of SanMarco used to be a dead zone, a stretch of polluted water and rusted cranes. Now, with the new international shipping lanes opening, it’s an economic goldmine. It’s the key to the entire city.
If the Russians get their hands on the port, the Italians are finished. We’ll be wiped off the map within five years.
I finish the whiskey, slamming the crystal glass down a little too hard. The heavy thud makes me feel sane.
Tomorrow morning, Don Salvatore is calling a mandatory summit. All four families will be there. The Rossi, the Vellutini, the Genovese, and the Lombardi. I know exactly what the old Capo dei Capi is going to say. He’s going to demand unity. He’s going to demand we stop the infighting.
I’ll play his game. I’ll sit at the table, and I’ll nod. But if Orlando Genovese thinks he can dictate the terms of my existence, I will gut him in front of the entire Commission and take the fallout. I am done playing nice with ghosts.
The Maybach pulls to a smooth stop in the private underground garage ofL’Eclissi, my club. It’s the crown jewel of my legitimate fronts, a sprawling, multi-level playground for the city’s most corrupt elite.
I bypass the public elevators and take my private lift straight to the penthouse suite above the club. The doors slide open to the pulsing vibration of the bass from the dance floor three stories below. The suite is a massive expanse of dark marble,floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, and minimalist black leather furniture.
It smells like expensive vanilla perfume.
Elena.
She’s draped across the massive velvet sofa in the center of the room, wearing a slip of red silk that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, her lip painted a glossy crimson. She looks like a centerfold, a beautiful, expensive toy waiting to be played with.
She sits up as I walk in, a predatory, eager smile spreading across her face. "You're late, Cassio. I was starting to think you forgot about me."
"I was working," I say, my voice devoid of warmth. I shrug off my damp, blood-splattered suit jacket and toss it onto a leather chair. Loosen my silk tie and unbutton the top of my shirt, walking toward the wet bar to pour another drink.
Elena pouts, standing up and closing the distance between us. She trails her manicured fingernails lightly down my spine, pressing her warm front against my back. "You work too much," she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder blade through the fabric of my shirt. "Let me help you relax."
I turn around with a glass of bourbon in my hand. I look down at her. She is stunning. Flawless, really. And looking at her makes me feel absolutely nothing.
There is a hollow, dead space in the center of my chest where most men keep their hearts. I learned a long time ago that in this life, attachments are just liabilities waiting to be exploited. Love is a luxury for men who don't have targets painted on their backs. Women like Elena understand the arrangement. I provide the diamond tennis bracelets and the penthouse views; she provides the distraction. It’s a transaction, clean and free from messy complications.
"You're tense," she whispers, her hands moving to my chest, expertly undoing the buttons of my shirt. She pushes the fabric off my shoulders, her eyes dropping to the dark ink swirling across my ribs and the jagged silver scars that map my skin, they are souvenirs from a life she pretends to ignore.
"It’s been a long night," I say flatly. I set the drink down on the marble counter.
She looks up at me through thick, dark lashes, her hands dropping to the silver buckle of my belt. "Then let’s make it a good morning."
I grip her hips, hoisting her up onto the cold marble of the wet bar. She gasps softly at the sudden, rough movement, her legs instantly wrapping around my waist. She leans in, her mouth seeking mine.
I kiss her, but it’s punishing. It’s not about pleasure, and it’s certainly not about intimacy. It’s about exorcising the violent energy humming under my skin. It’s about erasing the image ofthe Irish rat’s blood pooling on the concrete and the impending headache of Don Orlando’s smug, wrinkled face.
She moans against my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. She’s pliable, eager, trying so desperately to crawl into a space inside me that simply doesn't exist. She whispers my name, a breathy, fragile sound, and I shut my eyes, completely detaching my mind from the physical act.
I take what I need from her with ruthless efficiency. I don't bother with sweet words or gentle caresses. I treat her body the same way I treat my empire, with absolute control and dominant force. And she takes it, arching into me, completely oblivious to the fact that I am a million miles away.
When it’s over, the silence returns to the room.
Elena is lying back on the marble, breathing heavily, a satisfied, flushed smile on her face. She reaches out for me, but I step back, already pulling my shirt closed. The physical release did nothing to quiet the storm in my head. If anything, it only sharpened my focus.
"Stay the night," she murmurs, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Come to bed with me."
"I have a meeting," I reply with those cold clipped words. I don't look at her as I walk past the bar and head straight for the master bathroom to shower off the smell of sex, sweat, and gunpowder.
"It’s 3 A.M., Cassio," she calls out, a hint of genuine frustration breaking through her perfectly curated persona. "Can't you just pretend to care for five fucking minutes?"
I pause in the doorway, the harsh bathroom light illuminating the darkness of the suite. I glance back over my shoulder, looking at the beautiful, empty woman who means less to me than the bullets in my gun.
"I don't pretend, Elena," I tell her smoothly. "You know where the door is when you're done."
