Page 38 of Broken Mafia Prince
Her fingers toy with the buttons of her shirt as she starts to undo the last few, revealing a black lace bra beneath, through which I can see her pierced nipples. My body doesn’t react to the sight at all, and instead, my gaze shifts over her shoulder to the glass window.
A young woman stands a few feet from the plane, arms crossed and chin thrust high in defiance. She’s small—a little over five feet at best—and looks like she weighs as much as one of my suits, but her presence is anything but insignificant. Even from here, I can see her barking something at one of my men, who towers over her by more than a foot and outweighs her by at least twice as much.
Intrigued, I push past the flight attendant without a second glance, ignoring her offended glare as I descend the stairs and step onto the hangar floor.
The woman’s voice grows sharper as I approach. Her eyes are furious, and she’s pacing now, gesturing wildly to the man standing before her.
“Well, I don’t see your asshole boss anywhere around here,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at my man’s chest. “Is he planning to join us anytime soon, or should we start sacrificing a virgin or two to summon him?”
Her tone is biting, and the challenge in her voice catches me off guard.
For a moment, I simply watch her, amused despite myself. The corners of my mouth twitch as I respond, “I think just one will suffice.”
11
GIULIA
Giulia—18 years old
I freeze at the sound of the man’s voice, my breath catching in my throat. My gaze shifts over the hulking guard’s shoulder, and in an instant, my world tilts on its axis.
Oh god. It’s him.
I try not to gape as I take him in—the man in the tailored suit standing like he owns the world. Shock, surprise, and an unwelcome warmth swirl in the pit of my stomach. It’s been eleven years—eleven years that feel like an eternity—but I’d know that face anywhere, even without the noticeable scar.
The boy from the retreat.
He’s haunted my thoughts for years, a bittersweet memory I tried to bury. A part of me had given up hope of ever seeing him again, but another part, one I didn’t even want to admit existed, held on, wishing. And now, here he is.
I wait for the recognition to hit him, but instead, his blue eyes flick over me, cold and disinterested, like I’m nothing. A sharp pain passes through my chest at that, and I hide my flinch. Steeling my spine, I allow anger to take the place of hurt, as I’ve done so many times in the past.
“You must be the boss then,” I tell him coldly. “You’re in my plane.”
“I don’t see your name written on it.”
“Neither is yours.” I shrug. “So I’m going to have to ask you to get off as some of us have more important places to be than a strip club or a cigar smoke–polluted basement.”
He raises a brow at me, and I lock my knees to stop the shiver that courses through me. As a kid, there was something dark and alluring about him. It has only magnified in proportion, and even without the armed men standing around him, he still looks lethal.
He radiates a quiet confidence, from the way his dark hair is styled perfectly to the way his dark designer suit molds against his tall, impressively commanding frame. Even without the armed entourage surrounding him, he radiates power.
The boy I once knew didn’t just get tangled in the web of the mafia—he’s become part of its fabric, amade man. It seems I was right to think that he was involved in the mafia.
Over the years, I’ve developed a deep hatred for anything that has to do with the mafia. That life took my family from me, even Papa.
I should hate everything he represents. That life—the mafia life—stole everything from me.
I should hate the man before me, too, solely based on him being one of them, but instead, all I feel is a burning curiosity toward him. What’s his name? What has he been doing all these years? Where’s his dog? Does he remember a retreat from years ago where he met a girl? Where he met me?
“How much?” His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I blink at him, wondering what he’s talking about.
“Excuse me?”
“How much to use your plane?” His voice is tinged with impatience. “I’ll even add a little extra on top to sweeten the pot.I can, of course, choose to use it anyway, but I’m choosing to be a gentleman.”
I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. Gentleman? Him? If he has a gentlemanly bone in his body, I’ll eat my hat.
“Huh, let me think,” I say, dragging out the words and tapping a finger on my chin for effect.
