Page 471 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

SAVAGE HUNTER

CHAPTER1

ZENO

Istep off of the sleek, black Gulf Stream jet at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, slinging my leather duffel bag over my shoulder.

“Take only what you need,” my cousin Sergio had texted me only hours earlier. “Everything is ready for you out here.”

Everything.

It could just as easily be nothing back home in Sicily, not that I was given much of a choice about returning.

Papa gave me pretty clear instructions.

And they didn’t include a return flight to Palermo.

He’s still pissed off at me, but not angry enough to slap a target on my back.

He knows if I set foot onto Sicilian soil, my head will be blown off before the other one can join it.

It’s why I’m here in Vegas.

To start a new life under the strict eye of my cousin, a life where I can learn the family business and protect our interests in America.

My uncle agreed to take me into the casino circuit as a favor to Papa.

I hate it already.

My jaw twitches as I slowly walk toward a blacked-out Bugatti stretch limousine. The back doors open, and two massive, dark-haired guys step out of either side. They have the same hulking build, same ice blue eyes, and they’re wearing matching scowls.

My spine stiffens.

Where the hell is Sergio?

These guys don’t look very friendly. Actually, that’s an understatement. They look damn menacing. But hey, we’re all criminals, so I guess the inner demon always glows bright, especially since they have a lot to lose by meeting me here.

Hell, we all have a lot to lose.

That’s why our families have formed the syndicate in the first place.

Red Ladro.

A Russian-Italian family consortium designed to control all levels of organized crime in all of the major gambling hubs in the United States.

It’s a pretty tall order, considering the many competitors we have to battle to claim that throne. And those competitors are equally ruthless and deadly.

Should make for a damn good and bloody fight.

But bloodshed always sweetens the taste of victory.

And you’ve gotta earn everything you take.

Papa is angling for a seat at the table so the message to me was loud and clear when I left Sicily.

Don’t fuck this up for us.

I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. The shorter of the two men, and that’s not saying much since they each look to be about seven-feet tall, steps aside and waves me into the back of the car once I dump my duffel bag into the trunk. I slide in to the backward-facing seat, my back stiff as they face me. The partition separating us from the driver goes up, firmly locked into place before anyone speaks.

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