Page 98 of Masked Seduction
I tighten my grip on the armrest. I’m bringing her that dessert.
We exit the freeway, slipping into a pocket of old-money suburbia—broad oaks, edged lawns, manicured shrubs, and perfectly hedged flower beds. Not the ostentatious palazzo most expect from a Mafia patriarch. Don Agosti prefers camouflage. He resides in a long, two-story Spanish colonial set back behind an iron gate. White stucco, red-tile roof, shrubs trimmed with military precision. Cozy enough to lull fools, defensible enough to deny SWAT a clean shot. Clever old bastard.
Mikail slows at the gate. Cameras blink behind rain-spattered glass blocks. A second later, the iron lattice rattles aside. We roll onto a circular driveway paved with dark cobblestone. The house itself is quiet, windows dark, only a single porch sconce burning like a watching eye.
We step out into the drizzle. Rain needles my scalp, sliding beneath the collar of my jacket, the cool bite steadying me. Denis checks the rear while Mikail scans the roofline. No obvious overwatch. For now.
The front door opens, and two guards stride onto the covered portico. One carries an umbrella large enough to shade a small car; the other flashes a thin smile that never reaches his eyes.
Showtime.
The guard with the umbrella shepherds us across a terra-cotta foyer that smells of lemon polish and old incense. Mosaic tiles gleam under the recessed lights, Denis’s muttered warning from earlier still echoing in my skull.
“RememberGoodfellas,” he’d said. “Any plastic tarps on the floor, we bolt.”
We keep our eyes forward, breath steady. The second guard gestures to an antique console table. We surrender all pistols, backup blades, spare mags. Everything disappears into a mahogany drawer that locks with a softclick. They pat us down—professional, quick—then one man stays to bolt the front door while the other beckons us deeper into the mansion.
The hallway is colored in dark walnut, a color so dark it swallows the light. Somewhere a scratchy gramophone croons“O Sole Mio,”violin warbling under the thunder rolling outside. Crystal sconces tremble with each boom, as if the house itself is nervous.
We pause outside tall, double doors carved from oak. The guard raps twice, listens, then pushes them open.
Inside, firelight casts a golden glow over a well-kept study. Bookcases line the walls, a large desk with a high-backed leather chair sits near the window, and a large portrait of a long-ago don watches over everything from above the mantel.
And there—centered before the hearth—sits Don Mariano Agosti.
He looks ancient—almost spectral—skin parchment-thin, robe loosely fitting over a body that’s run out of muscle but not elegance. A clear nasal cannula loops over his ears to an oxygen cylinder parked at his side, its regulator hissing a faint heartbeat.Yet his eyes—black olives under hooded lids—remain sharp as a stiletto. The flames from the fire cast an eerie backdrop.
We halt three paces from his wingback chair. The guard retreats to a corner after closing the doors. Mikail’s shoulders tense. Denis scans the room top to bottom.
The don lifts two translucent fingers in greeting. His voice is a husky rasp. “Signor Vasiliev, forgive me for remaining seated. Even small gestures cost me more air than I can spare.”
I incline my head. “Your home, your rules, Don Agosti. I appreciate the time.”
He nods slowly, eyes settling on the empty space beneath my jacket where a shoulder holster should be. “You killed my son.”
The words hang in the air. How can I respond to that?
“Nico abducted my woman,” I reply. “Put a gun to her head. Assaulted her. She’s the mother of my child. I did what any man would do.”
The old man exhales, a shaky, ominous sound, and for a brief second grief washes over his face. The kind of grief only a father knows. Nico was a piece of shit, but he was still his son.
The flicker of grief fades as quickly as it came, buried beneath decades of practiced composure. He straightens in his chair as best he can, chin lifting.
“So be it,” he says. “Let us not waste time pretending our blood cannot be spilled.” A brittle smile tugs at his lips. “My son dies, your child lives. Such is the way of things, I suppose. A new life is always a blessing.” He taps the oxygen line and the canister hisses louder, matching the storm raging outside.
Thunder rattles the windowpanes. Mikail relaxes his stance slightly but Denis’s hand still hovers over the phantom of a weapon locked away. Muscle memory and instinct.
The don’s gaze returns to me. “I blame myself. Illness chains me to hospitals, and while I rot, Nico chased shadows of power he never earned. I was not aware.”
A ragged cough tears through him, and he muffles it with a monogrammed handkerchief, spots of red blooming like poppies on the expensive white material. When the spasm eases, he sinks back in his chair. “You must believe, Signore Vasiliev, had I known what Nico was up to, this insult to your family would never have happened.”
His sincerity feels real, but sincerity can be weaponized. My expression remains neutral, voice level. “Your ignorance is no excuse for what happened. There’s a score to settle here, Don.”
He studies the reflection of the flames against the window for a moment, as if searching for an answer in the dance of the sparks. Another wheeze then, “Which is why we must cut away the rot before the city burns. Why we must, together, choose to end the violence before it can continue, regardless of who wronged whom.” The old man lifts a trembling hand toward the doors. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Thunder cracks again as the study doors open. Every muscle in my body tenses, expecting the flash of a muzzle.
Instead, a woman enters. Early forties I’d guess, though the poise makes age irrelevant. Long black hair swept into a low twist, strong cheekbones, mouth set in a line that suggests she’s issued orders men had no choice but to obey. Tailored navy suit, pearls around her neck and in her ears, a silk shawl the color ofold wine draped over one shoulder. Southern-Italian royalty on a funeral errand.
