Page 3 of I Would Die For You

I can’t help it, I bite my lower lip as my gaze alights on and stays glued to Stefano Beccario when he fist-bumps the bouncer then throws a carefree arm around the shoulders of his tall handsome cousin as the two men enter the lounge area and he waves at the barman for their regular drinks. Everyone in Don Rossi’s world knows who Stefano is, not to mention any woman would notice him in a crowded room and do her best to find out who he is.

My assignment for tonight is this man, to be and do whatever he wants of me. He’s gorgeous, there’s no denying it, but he’s also the Don’s godson and the son of his enforcer, the man who gets his hands dirty with any and all jobs so Don Rossi can keep his hands clean, at least in appearance.

Stefano Beccario is meant to take his father’s place as Don Rossi’s enforcer when the older man retires. He’s bound to be ruthless, and violent, too—no meek lamb rises to the post of Mafia enforcer.

My heart beats faster. Of all the things I’ve had to do, this last one might be the most dangerous. In what form or shape will I come out of it?

Worse even—will I come out of it intact…and alive?

Chapter 2 Stefano

“Breathe.”

It’s hard to do, but I force in an inhale as I let myself fall into a booth in the lounge section of Demos.

“You can’t think without oxygen in your brain,” my cousin, Valentino Andretti, chides with a frown.

I huff. Tell me about it. My lungs have seized up for a good hour now, only the bare minimum of air filtering through with my shallow breaths in and out.

A longer exhale barely calms me. “The stunt he pulled…”

“He’s your father. He means well.”

Yeah, right. He means to steer my life so it resembles his own in every way. When my father says, ‘My son will follow in my footsteps,’ he isn’t kidding.

“Why can’t he let me decide?”

Valentino shrugs, his face grave as he thanks the waitress who came to deliver our negronis. I don’t have it in me to be nice right now, so I let him take the lead. And thank goodness he’s here, and I don’t mean just now. Had my American cousin not been at the family gathering tonight, hell would’ve broken loose. Parents are sacrosanct in Italy, but damn it, my father makes it hard to respect those vows as a son.

Val’s silent pleas via narrowed eyes throughout dinner helped keep me in check as he steered the conversation around small talk and away from the elephant in the room my father wanted us to discuss with his guests. Diplomacy is his forte—it will serve him well when he goes back to New Jersey in another year or so to take over his father’sBorgata. His mom—my father’s late sister Alessia—always wanted him to learn the ways of the Old World, and he’s been here now for a while, learning, growing, and being my rock. It’s not easy being the eldest son of a formidable, headstrong man, let alone his only child. Valentino has three younger brothers and a sister, and he’s taken me under his wing as a surrogate sibling, too. He’s teaching me how to cope with a determined patriarch.

He hasn’t swornOmertàto my Don, but he took the right decision in apprising Don Rossi of the happenings tonight. We got summoned to the club, the call coming straight to my father’s phone. No way the old man could keep us at the table once that happened.

Now here we are, waiting to see what Don Rossi has to say about this matter. We may have been summoned, but everyone knows you wait to be called in.

“Drink,” Valentino urges.

Usually, I prefer to meet the Don with an unclouded mind, but my head’s already fucked up today, so a negroni can’t make much of a difference. The contents of the glass go down in a single swallow.

“Easy, man.”

I shake my head, a few beads of water still flowing from my hair. My head had been overheating so much, I dunked it under a tap somewhere along the way to try and cool my temper. Can’t say it did much to help.

Dino, one of Don Rossi’s bodyguards, comes up to our booth, stares at me and says, “Boss is asking for you.”

Valentino and I share a long look, then I haul myself out of the leather banquette and make the trek up the stairs to the mezzanine office. A knock later, I’m inside the Don’s sanctum.

“Don Giacomo,” I say with a respectful bow.

“Figlioccio,” he says as he approaches to push a tumbler of whiskey in my hand and kiss me on both cheeks. “Sit.”

So he’s called me in tonight as his godson and not his soldier sworn in to do his bidding. That’s good to know. Maybe I can relax a bit now, knowing I have him in my corner.

I let myself fall in a heap on his leather sofa, not caring if it makes me look a bit churlish and temperamental.

“Gennaro means well,” he says as he sits down beside me.

Does he? Maybe Don Giacomo can help me understand.

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