Page 31 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

He shrugs, his expression unreadable, a mask of indifference. “It’s been taken care of. Destroyed.”

I don’t know whether to marvel at his audacity or be disgusted by his blatant disregard for the law. I eye him again as if seeing him for the first time. His tall frame, broad shoulders, and arms thick with muscles honed from years of doing God knows what in the name of the Outfit.

His glossy hair is disheveled, long strands grazing his chiseled jaw and neck. I must have yanked off his hair tie in my frenzy, lost in passion. If I didn’t have the sticky evidence running down my legs, I wouldn’t believe that this cold, detached criminal was just inside me, taking me to heights of pleasure I forgot existed.

And now, he stands there, calmly telling me that the evidence, the very reason I came to Chicago, is gone. Destroyed. As if it meant nothing.

“I see,” I respond. As I study him, I am hit by just how different our worlds are.

He operates by a code of his own, one that’s written in blood and whispered in shadows. It’s a world where the rules that bind the rest of us are just suggestions, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

I wonder what it might be like to live like so, to be unburdened by the constraints that hold down the rest of society.

Without another word, I shake off the traitorous thoughts and take the steps up the obsidian jet. The footman who had been present earlier is now conspicuously absent.

As I ascend the steps and step into the cabin, the extravagance sparks a sense of deja vu—the buttery leather seats, gleaming wood panels, and sparkling chrome accents all exude an air of indulgent luxury that reminds me of that day Dante showed me his true self.

Only after I’ve settled into my seat do the crew emerge from behind the closed doors. Suddenly I understand the reason for their brief absence and a fresh wave of heat suffuses my cheeks.

Yet the crew maintain an air of utmost professionalism, greeting me warmly and offering refreshments and a steaming towel. I can’t help but wonder if this is a common scene for them—Dante bringing various women aboard and ravishing them in plain sight.

As the jet takes off, I pull out my phone and see that I have missed eight more calls from Dad. I ignore them all, not wanting to deal with his incessant questions and demands, especially considering what I’ve been doing. I switch off my phone.

All I can feel is the ache and slickness between my thighs, the smell of Dante’s skin, his taste, the blood from his temple smeared over the side of my face. I’d forgotten just how addictive he is.

From that first moment he approached me at the LBU gym, I’d been hooked on him. His confidence, his looks, and his raw sexual energy had drawn me in like a moth, and oh how sweet the burn was. Still is.

I shake off those thoughts and instead try to focus on how to break the bad news to Doug tomorrow. But it’s no use. My mind keeps drifting back to Dante, to the way he’d touched me, the way he’d made me feel. I clench my thighs together, trying to quell the desire that still courses through me.

Kira might be onto something with these damn Italian men from Chicago.

As the jet soars through the clouds, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling my still painfully thumping heart it’ll be okay.

That I just need to get back to Boston and forget about Dante.

That I’ll never ever see him again.

But as I drift off to sleep, I can’t drown out the voice that tells me I’ll be back.

And soon.

Chapter Nine

Dante

THREE WEEKS LATER

The desperate words of Jim Pearson, a wiry man with a receding hairline and a pinched expression, crackle through the surround sound system in my study.

The only light comes from the flickering screen of the large, wall-mounted TV, bathing the dark wood paneling in an eerie glow. I lean back in my leather armchair, a glass of Macallan 18 cradled in my hand, savoring the aftermath of today’s courtroom fiasco with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Pearson now stands outside the courthouse, surrounded by a swarm of reporters, his once iron-clad case unraveling. Two of his key witnesses changed their minds at the last minute and another two have disappeared.

He knows that his witnesses didn’t just change their minds on a whim—they were persuaded. Strongly.

Tommy Martelli’s lawyers also played their cards right—the cards I dealt them.

“Do you think the judge will dismiss the case?” a reporter asks Pearson.

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