Page 52 of Broken Mafia Prince
Today, I have a plan, and for it to work, I can’t let him see the menu or get even a hint of the trap he’s about to walk right into.
I reach inside my purse, my fingers curling around the EpiPen I’ve been carrying since we first met. I can still hear his voice, arrogantly demanding that I stock up on it from our very first meeting because of his shellfish allergy. I’ve never had to use it before, but I’m counting on today being the day.
He continues to check his watch like the douchebag he is.
“Is that bitch going to take all day to serve us? When she gets back, I’m going to have a word with the manager of this place. Nothing ruins a business more than keeping incompetent people in your employ.”
I hold my smile in place, feigning interest while he drones on about hard work, dedication, and competence—as if those words have any right to come out of his mouth. His hypocrisy is enough to make me sick.
I can’t wait to be rid of this insufferable fucking asshole.
16
RAFFAELE
It’s not even one o’clock yet, and I already have the burning urge to shoot something or somebody. A lot of somebodies, if I’m being honest.
Opening this club has been the biggest trial of my patience, and I’ve had to leave my gun in my car some days just so I won’t end up blowing a hole through someone’s head. One of the biggest problems I’m facing is that I want the club to be fully legal, and it’s incredibly challenging to find investors for a legitimate business owned by a mafioso.
I’ve met people who’ve only been interested in getting a slice of the pie from whatever money washing the club is a front for. All my attempts to convince investors that the business isn’t meant as a front have failed so far. The other group of investors only wants to know if my father will be spearheading the project, and as soon as they find out that he won’t be involved at all, they disappear.
Why anyone would want to work with my father over me remains a mystery to me. But then again, it might be my fault for practically taking over the mafia side of business from him and making him look good.
I step out of the club and run a critical eye over the building. A year ago, the building had been an abandoned theatre with a rotting drainage system, cracking walls, and more problems than any single space had the right to have. As soon as I’d set my eyes on it, though, I knew it was the one.
The feeling hadn’t just come from a place of intuition, though; while I am a firm believer in following your gut, I’m also strict about being logical. So even though the building just felt right, I had to consider the location and if working on it could actually save it, or if it was just a money pit.
What stands before me now is a result of millions of dollars, dedication, and tenacity, and best of all, it’s all mine.
For the first time in my life, I have something that’s completely mine, with no part of my father staining it. I plan on keeping it that way. I don’t know if my father knows about the club, but there’s no way he wouldn’t have heard about it. So far, though, he hasn’t brought it up, and neither have I.
If he keeps on pretending it doesn’t exist, we’ll be fine. The moment he tries to mess with it, well, suffice it to say, that’s the day he’ll realize I’m no longer the kid he could hit around.
A glance at my watch reveals that it’s still too early to go pick up Marty from doggy daycare. I hate it when I have to be out of the city and leave him in the hands of others. Even though I give Alessia a generous check to treat my dog like he shits gold, I still worry when he’s away from me.
I decide to get some food to keep me distracted. I’ve been up since the crack of dawn, making sure that we’re more than ready for opening night, a few days away, and I only just remember that I haven’t eaten all day. Sliding into my hunter-green Camaro, I step on the gas and gun it to one of my favorite restaurants.
The doorman recognizes me immediately, a smile spreading across his face. “Good day, sir.”
I nod at him in recognition, and his smile grows wider. He knows by now that I’m not one for idle chitchat, so he accepts my nonverbal greeting happily. The restaurant is only half-filled, and to my relief, my favorite table at the very back is free.
From there, I have a clear view of the rest of the room and the door; my back is against the wall, and I’m shrouded in just enough shadow to stay anonymous.
Moments after I’m seated, the redhead who always serves my table appears. She’s told me her name a dozen times, and I’ve instantly forgotten it each time.
“Welcome to Troy’s, would you like the Monday special, or do you want to go through the menu?” she asks cheerfully.
I’m about to reply when my eye catches on a couple across from me.
Then I seeher. Giulia.
For a second, the world goes out of focus as those bright eyes stop on mine. I wait for recognition to set, but she barely spares me a glance before shifting her gaze away. It takes me a confused moment to realize that she probably can’t see me from there.
“I’ll have the Monday special,” I tell the server distractedly.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No, just water.” The entire time, I’m stuck staring at the brown-haired woman in the pale pink dress. I find myself taking in every inch of her, from the way she’s seated ramrod straight in her chair, to the way she keeps on fussing with her legs.
