Page 40 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

Patrick’s going on about having to get rid of his beloved vehicle, but that’s the least of my concerns. If it comes down to it, we pay off the cops who might be dumb enough to sniff around. I don’t want to deal with them if I don’t have to, but I’ve a horrible feeling I’ve been left out of a lot.

A lot that Matteo Villani knows about.

Dominguez. A nasty piece of work, vile. Underage girls, slavery, you name it. He has his sticky fingers in things no one else touches. He’s also very dangerous, and his cartel runs Harlem.

“He mentioned Dominguez,” I say.

“I was there,” Patrick says, his bruised and swollen hands gripping the wheel tight.

“Don’t tell me that’s what the meeting is about tonight.”

“You mean what the fuck did Conor do.” My brother doesn’t make it a question.

“Yeah. He’s an ass, but he’s family. And if he messed with Dominguez…”

I don’t finish. I don’t have to.

Because if he did, how the hell am I going to saveanyone?

And why the fuck would Villani want to fix whatever Conor has done?

CHAPTER7

MATTEO

Molly’s bar, deep in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, is a nondescript Irish bar on Ninth Avenue and 48thStreet. Not many outsiders could guess it’s also the beating heart of the Irish mafia.

I don’t come to this part of Manhattan much, and as I step out of my blacked-out Escalade, I can see why.

Bars and restaurants of the trendy kind jostle with old-school hole in the walls beneath the red-bricked buildings and the quintessential New York fire escape. I straighten my coat and wait for Roman, who should be here.

I don’t give a shit about stepping foot inside the stronghold by myself. I can more than take the room if I need to. My gun’s at the ready, and I’ve got more than enough firepower in my driver and others scattered around if I give the word.

That won’t be needed, but I like to take care of possibilities. I’m not a hot-headed prick of a teenager anymore.

I cast a glance down the street, past the people walking by. No sign of Roman. Dusk has fallen, hints of the orange sun barely visible through the cracks between tall buildings lining the street. I pull my coat tighter to fight against the wind, a chill sweeping over me, courtesy of the Hudson River.

The message would have been given after my chat with Roman, and I left it in his hands. I had things to do today. Making calls, ordering a hit from across the pond because someone on my supply chain of illegal goods decided to get sticky fingers.

I almost smile. That person will be begging for a bullet to the brain about ten minutes into his sentencing. An example needs to be set. Just like today.

“Sorry I’m late,” Roman says, coming up behind me. I turn as he’s casting a look around. “It gets going at night, this area.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” I tap on the window of my car, and Gio, my driver, rolls down the window.

“Everything’s good to go, boss. Luigi did a sweep.”

I keep my opinion of Luigi and his sweep to myself. There are things I trust others to do and things I don’t, and the sweep is more a formality than anything. It’s something Luigi can do, not that I think there’s going to be trouble.

“Just make sure he’s at the ready if I give my signal.” I don’t need to tell Gio to be at the ready. I handpicked him. He’s always prepped for anything. “This could take a while.”

He nods. “Sure thing, Mr. Villani.”

I walk toward the pub, Roman at my side. “I take it today went well.”

His silence stops me before I reach for the door. I slant him a look. “Romo?”

“A little more complicated than anticipated, but it’s done.”

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