Page 36 of Broken Mafia Prince
RAFFAELE
Raffaele—24 years old
“I’m afraid that I’m no longer in the mood to negotiate,” I drawl, the words rolling off my tongue with ease. “My offer expired about the same time I heard about your plans to ambush me.”
The man on the other end of the phone line lets out a laugh that’s decidedly nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gagliardi.”
I click my tongue. “Finn, if you’re going to do something as reckless as trying to double-cross me, the least you could do is own it. Don’t you agree?”
“Okay, look, what happened wasn’t my decision,” Finn says quickly, his voice edging on desperation. “The council decided it. You know how those old bastards are—always trying to play king.”
His excuses make me smile, though there’s no humor in it. Predictable men like Finn are my favorite to deal with—they never fail to trip over their own arrogance. Always diverts all the blame from his doorstep. Among all of the stupid, predictablebackstabbers and cowards I’ve encountered, Finn McGregor consistently ranks in the top five.
“Well,” I reply, keeping my voice deceptively soft, “I hope you resolve whatever issues you have with your council soon.”
“And why’s that?”
“So you can start looking for more men,” I inform him coolly. “The ones you had? I’m afraid they’ve met an unfortunate end.”
The line goes silent, stretching long enough for me to wonder if he’s hung up. Then, as expected, a string of curses erupts on the other end. If I have to guess, he must have received confirmation of my handiwork.
“You prick!” Finn snarls, his voice trembling with fury. “You think you’re untouchable because?—”
“Because I know better than to pull idiotic stunts like double-crossing people,” I cut in, my patience wearing thin. “And Finn, you’d do well to watch your tone when you speak to me.”
“You’re all talk over the phone,” he spits. “If you’ve got any guts, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and come back to Vegas and say it to my face?”
I chuckle. “I don’t gamble, Finn. Goodbye.”
Before he can respond, a wet, gurgling noise comes through the line. I let the call linger, listening as Finn chokes on his own blood and meets the same fate as the rest of his men. It doesn’t take long before silence reigns on the other end.
With a sharp nod to Tommaso, my right-hand man, I signal that the job in Vegas is complete. With the Irish presence here done, there’ll be a vacancy in the control of the city, leaving a power vacuum over the gaming tables and cash flow. I plan to fill it.
“Boss, we’ve got a problem,” Tommaso says, stepping forward. His face is tense, and his voice carries unease.
“What is it?”
“Your plane isn’t cleared for takeoff,” he informs me, sounding nervous.
“Well then, clear it,” I reply. “I pay you a boatload so I don’t have to worry about shit like this. And yet, here we are.”
Tommaso’s jaw tightens. “The engineers?—”
“Are not my problem,” I cut him off, my eyes narrowing. “I need a plane ready within the hour. If not, someone—or several someone’s necks—aren’t going to be attached to their spine. Starting with you.”
I’m itching to return to Chicago, and I know that every second longer I spend in Vegas makes me a sitting duck. There’s a difference between being brave and being stupid, and hanging around in the aftermath of the blood bath that went down earlier today is most definitely the latter. Someone with too much balls and not enough brain cells to rub together may just try to avenge the fallen men.
Tommaso swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “I’ll see about securing another plane.”
Ignoring him, I brush past and sink into a leather chair in the private waiting room, my men instinctively fanning out to cover all angles. They’re trained to stay alert, especially in moments like these.
Half an hour later, Tommaso returns, looking more composed. “I’ve got another plane secured. It’s ready as soon as you give the word.”
I rise to my feet and button up the jacket of my Armani suit, the fine fabric molding perfectly to my frame. “Good. Let’s go.”
Together, we make our way out of the building and into the hangar. The plane he leads me to is smaller than my usual jet, but its interior is no less luxurious. It’s a minor inconvenience, one I’m willing to overlook in the name of expediency.
“Tell the pilot to take off immediately,” I instruct Tommaso as we step aboard. “Make it clear that we’re not in the mood for delays.”
