Page 156 of Broken Mafia Prince
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grit out, annoyed.
“You know what?” He moves his tongue around his mouth, feeling for blood. “Playing double-agent is going to get you killed.”
“And mouthing off is going to get you killed.”
He shrugs. “To be fair, I’ll probably die first from being such a loyal fucker.”
His foot makes contact with the side of my leg, and I buckle, dropping to the ground and bouncing back up a minute later. “It’s complicated.”
Tommaso snorts. “What isn’t? But we both know you can’t keep doing this indefinitely. This is all going to blow up in your face sooner rather than later.”
I throw three punches in quick succession, and he flies back with a grunt. “I don’t remember asking for your advice. Or telling you that Idon’tknow this is one big clusterfuck.”
The glance he shoots me is droll. “I’m out there risking my life for you and looking out for fucking Enrico Montanari under your orders. The least you can do is tell me that you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“I don’t.” I pin him with an assessing look.
The crazy fucker laughs. “Yeah, I thought as much.”
“Now what?” We circle each other again, panting. Sweat pours down my body, and I wipe my brow with my arm, trying to regulate my breathing.
“You tell me. I’m just the guy that follows orders.”
We fly forward at the same time, fists ready. I block some of his hits and deliver some. One particular hit winds him enough for me to drag him to his knees and pull him into a headlock. He doesn’t give up, straining against my hold and smashing his elbow into my ribs over and over again. I hold on tight, gritting my teeth against the pain until he eventually taps out.
I release him and we both fall to the ground, me clutching my side in pain while he coughs and wheezes.
“You almost killed me,” he croaks.
“Should have tapped out then,” I retort, chuckling. The sparring match has helped to release some of the tension that I’ve been carrying around like an invisible weight on my shoulder. I haven’t slept a wink in days, too nervous about my father’s attack at the docks, and later, too nervous about what his next course of action will be.
Opposing allies have been spreading news of the famous family feud since yesterday, and the police have been coming and going, questioning the men. Knowing my father, he’s probably cooking up something else, even though we need to give it a few weeks for the story to die down.
When it comes to his revenge, all logical reasoning goespoof.
“Your father wants to see you,” Tommaso informs me.
All the tension comes rushing back, my muscles bunching together like a coiled spring. I’ve been waiting on tenterhooks for this meeting since I drove off with Giulia the previous day, and even hours later, I’m still not prepared. Somebody was bound to see us together and report to our fathers. I just hope she’s not getting too much heat for it.
I’ve not been able to stop thinking about her for a second since we parted ways. Thoughts of her are the only thing keeping me sane.
I’m eager to begin my new life with her, but at the same time, I also want to fix this one, make it better for her. Maybeit’s cowardice, or maybe it’s just stupid loyalty still tying me in place, but thinking of leaving forever makes me feel like there’s not enough air in my lungs. I don’t want to lose her, but I’m just afraid of losing this life I’ve curated for myself.
The worst part is that I can’t possibly tell her any of this. Will she see it as me being weak? Or think that I’m having double thoughts about starting afresh with her?
I rise to my feet slowly. “You know, you could have just started with that. You didn’t need to have your ass handed to you.”
He starts to chuckle, but it ends with a wince. “You looked like you needed it.”
Shaking my head, I grab a water bottle from the cooler and toss it over to him before heading out of the gym. I take my time showering off the sweat, letting the icy water beat against my back before changing into gray slacks and a black cashmere turtleneck.
As I head down to the study, I’m surprised to hear my father calling me from the dining room.
He’s at the head of the table, a newspaper spread out before him and his cigar sticking out of one corner of his mouth. His cold blue eyes take me in as I walk into the room and stop a few feet from him.
“You wanted to see me.”
“Took your bloody time about it too,” he grouses, then stands up, stepping forward until we are barely an inch apart. “You fucked up, Raffaele.”
