Page 88 of Broken Mafia Prince
“Get down!” Emilio barks.
I crouch just in time for a bullet to fly past my head. Another of the men is holding up a gun with shaky hands. Before I can shoot the fucker, Emilio does the honors, shooting his signature bullet through the throat.
The study doors fly open, my father’s men rushing in and rounding up the rest of the men.
“Take them all to the dungeon,” I hiss. “I don’t know which of them is in on this and who isn’t.”
“Raffaele, I’d never—” one of the men starts, but he’s cut off when the butt of my gun cracks down on the side of his head.
Shut the hell up.
It’s not uncommon for things like this to happen in our world. Everyone’s always trying to one-up each other, clawing their way to the top. From what I can see, this isn’t somecarefully planned move. It’s more like a suicide mission from an outside rival who thought they could brainwash the idiot into doing their dirty work, attacking when our defenses were low.
The smart thing would have been to keep Paulo alive and find out who he was working with, but I’m not in the mood for patience. Sending a message to his conspirators is more important than asking a bunch of questions that’ll only end up in dead ends.
I wave my hand dismissively, silently ordering the men to take them away from my sight. The paramedics rush in seconds later with a stretcher. Father has donated a wing to the hospital in the past, so I’m assured that his admission will be as confidential as possible, but still, there’s no doubt that what happened today will spread like wildfire through our world.
“I want someone at his door twenty-four-seven.” I pause. “Two people at his door at all times. Our most trusted men.”
Emilio nods. “I’m assuming you want me to look into what happened here too?” He raises a questioning brow.
“I want everyone here thoroughly tortured until we find out who’s behind this,” I say coldly. “I don’t care if you have to shoot their loved ones one by one in front of them to get a confession or make them talk. I need a lead—whether this is the Syndicate’s doing or if I’m facing a new enemy.”
He nods once, clasping his hands behind his back, his expression grim. “What story are we putting out? If they find out the boss was so easily attacked in his own home, it’ll be catastrophic to our image.”
He’s right. In our world, image is everything. It’s the currency that buys power—favors, trust, loyalty, business deals. Once that image cracks, it all comes crashing down. If the other families smell weakness, they won’t hesitate to move in for the kill. The last thing I need is another war.
“Spin it however you see fit,” I say, dismissing him with a wave. “I don’t have time for damage control.”
The only thing I can focus on is the cold, hard truth: I’m in charge of this family now. And everything rests on me.
In as much as I’ve been the one making most of the underground business decisions, I know that there’s more to being in charge of a family than just making money. I’m now responsible for more than just my men and their incomes. The room suddenly feels constricting, and I tug at my collar, sucking in air.
My father is seriously injured. I’ve always known I would take over one day, but if he dies, that day won’t be some distant future anymore—it will be now.
“I’m going for a drive.” I make to walk past the other man, but he grabs my arm before I can walk past him, a serious look on his face.
“You should know, boss,” he begins. “Associating with the Montanari girl is now more taboo than ever. I mean, we already have a lot to face with this assassination attempt. If you were?—”
“Just like my father, Emilio.” I tug my hand away, staring down at him coldly. “I don’t keep you around for you to advise me. Have those names ready for me by evening.”
He nods respectfully. “Of course.”
I march out of the office and out of the house, more agitated than I’ve ever felt in my lifetime. My father’s right-hand man is right, of course; meeting up with Giulia is a risk now. A risk to this entire family, but the pull to see her one last time roars through me.
It’s not a want.
It’s a need.
I need to see her. I need to look at her one last time and engrave every arch and curve of her face into my psyche. I march to my car and drop into the driver’s seat, reaching for my phone.I tell myself I shouldn’t. I tell myself I should stay away. One more time won’t change anything; it’ll just make me want it yet another time.
It’s better just to cut her off cold turkey. My hands, however, disagree. Of their own volition, my fingers navigate the phone screen and pause at her number. My thumb hovers over the call button for what seems like forever.
Finally, I press down on it. And wait.
Her voice filters from the phone after two rings. “What do you want?”
I squeeze my eyes shut in pleasure and agony, realizing that I’ve made a grave mistake, because one last time won’t be enough for me. When it comes to her, only everything will ever be enough.
