Page 97 of Broken Mafia Prince
Realization hits me, and my jaw grinds together. Fucking Matteo, still trying to matchmake everybody while still staying as far from relationships as possible. Even though they comefrom the right place, his matchmaking efforts are starting to get on my last damn nerve. If I had killed this woman, I would have been the first to point the finger at him.
“Get out,” I tell the woman.
I expect her to flee for her life after I just almost murdered her, but a coy smile curves her mouth instead. “Now, why would I do that?”
She steps closer, pressing her naked body against mine suggestively. Not even a flicker of desire steers through me, but then again, I don’t expect it to. Taking women to my bed is now more of a bodily function than a pleasure, and it’s been that way sinceher.
I can easily push this one face-first into the shower walls, spread her legs, and drive into her just to take the edge off. Dreaming about that day agitates me, and it’s not a bad idea to release some tension before I have to be out in a social setting. But my entire body recoils against being with this woman, and I step back reflexively, face hardening.
“Get the fuck out.” There’s an edge in my voice this time around. The woman stills.
“Call me sometime. I left my number on the kitchen island.” She blows a kiss and hurries away.
As soon as she’s gone, I turn the shower to hot and try to soothe my stiff muscles under the punishing burn. After my shower, I shoot a text to my doctor, informing him of the success of his most recent drug prescription. I get dressed and leave the penthouse, the private elevator carrying me down to the underground parking garage where my Porsche 911 waits.
My Dodge Charger is in a locked, private garage. The day I found out that Giulia was gone, I drove the car into the garage, covered it up, and walked away. It’s one of my favorite cars, but it’s now forever associated with one of the happiest and worst days of my life.
The drive to Sato and Vita, the high-end bar where we planned to meet, is filled with too loud music. It’s the only thing that helps me drown out my thoughts. Alcohol isn’t even an option, even though it’ll be way more effective.
The thing is, even though I’ve been slowly bleeding out from the wound in my heart that’s refused to scar over, I still have a responsibility to everyone in this family. I can’t afford to drink myself to unconsciousness and leave everybody to their own devices, no matter how much I want to. Dealing with the mafia is both invigorating and draining, and with the business expanding, the Syndicate getting bolder, and the men on my case about securing a wife, I haven’t had a moment of peace since I took over from Father.
I pull up in front of the bar and take a deep breath before turning off the music and stepping out of the vehicle. I toss my car keys at the fresh-faced valet and shoot him a nod, silently telling him to better take care of my baby.
The bar is only half full, and I cross through it, heading for a heavy, metal door toward the back. I push the door open, nodding at a suited, muscular man seated at the end of the short hallway with a gun in his lap.
The man nods with respect and motions to the right. I turn and step into a tastefully decorated room. There’s a single, long table in the room, with eleven chairs around it.
Matteo sits to the left of the head chair, while the chair to the right is unoccupied. My crew members occupy the remaining chairs, except for the one at the head. I take my place there, nodding at Matteo.
“You don’t look like someone who’s just had mind-blowing sex. Was she horrible?” He winces.
Matteo’s family moved back to Italy when we were sixteen, and since then, we’ve only seen each other a few times, but we’ve remained as thick as thieves. On our very first meeting, Ipunched him in the face when he’d called Laika ugly. Matteo is the only person I can comfortably call a friend.
He didn’t hesitate to fly back from Italy when I mentioned the problems I’m facing with the Syndicate. Since then, he’s helped me connect many dots and hunt them down. Unlike me, Matteo is carefree and the life of the party, always laughing and joking around. Beneath all that, I know how dangerous he can be. Only a moron would mess with him.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late,” an airy female voice says.
I glance up to see Isabella Sanna walking in carrying a bottle of wine. I frown at her, then turn the look to my friend. “You invited her?”
It’s not a question, even though it’s phrased like one, and we both know it. Since Giulia left, Isabella and I have become close. If someone had told me a few years ago that Giulia’s cousin would become one of my closest friends, I’d have laughed. I used to think that she was an airhead who only knew what shoes went with what purse, but I’ve long since revised my opinion about her.
“Of course he did,” she says. “I’m mad that you didn’t.”
“This is mafia business,” I point out.
She struggles to take her coat off while still clutching her overflowing Birkin bag and taking care not to drop the bottle she’s holding. I glare at the man next to her, and he jumps into action, retrieving the wine and her bag.
“I was bored,” she confesses.
Isabella doesn’t have many friends. It turns out that Giulia was her only close friend. I know she’s hurt by her cousin’s sudden disappearance and worried about her, too. Neither of us has heard from Giulia since she disappeared two years ago. Not even Matteo, with his advanced tech skills, has been able to find her.
I know Matteo wants me to quit my search for her. He’s made it clear that he’s rooting for Isabella and me, and I’ve also made it clear that I feel nothing for her. My mind shifts away from the conversation at the table, and I find myself thinking something that I try not to think about.
What if I’d offered to leave with her?
Would I have been happy being away from this life with her, knowing that I’d abandoned my responsibilities and birthright? The question has haunted me for years, and it fills my mind now. My life feels like an endless highway now, with duty being the engine that drives me forward. Without that, I don’t know what I am.
“No way in hell,” I tune back in when I hear Isabella snap. “I don’t trust people who drink vodka. What sane person drinks that piss?”
