Mafia Mistress by Mila Finelli

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MAFIA DARLING

by Mila Finelli

* * *

Fausto

I often dreamed of blood.

Rivers of it, filling my mouth and choking me. Drowning me and everyone I cared about, with no hope of survival.

The dreams started back when I was a soldier, still being groomed under my father’s watchful eye. In those days, the boss’s son did not receive a pass on the more gruesome of tasks. No, they used those tasks to harden me, to turn me from a boy into a man.

A man capable of leading the world’s most dangerous mafia. The ’Ndrangheta.

There had been no choice for me, no other life to consider. As the years went on, I followed instructions and never dared show a hint of weakness. Torture and killing became second nature to me, work I learned to love. It earned me respect from my ’ndrina brothers and fear from my enemies. Whispers followed me wherever I went, the tales of my cruelty spread far and wide.

This made my father proud.

He told me this often, especially after watching me at my worst. They called him in when I was too eager with my knife, the blood of our enemies staining every part of me red like the Devil. It was from this that the legend of il Diavolo was born. Gutting, dismembering, disemboweling...the pain I doled out was returned ten-fold in my father’s love.

It became a vicious cycle for me, more killing to earn more praise, until I hardly slept due to the nightmares. Even now, three or four hours a night was all I could expect before I woke up in a cold sweat, a scream clawing at my throat. Then I would get up and exercise, running until I nearly dropped.

The dreams stopped when I was with her. For a few blissful weeks, I had a respite from the ghosts of my past, the first decent sleep I’ve had in decades.

Then I sent her away.

The dreams now returned, but worse because they included her. My dolcezza, alone and scared, her body bleeding out in front of my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. My nightmares didn’t care that she betrayed me, that she was not the person I believed her to be. No, my nightmares lived to torture me and drive me insane night after night, pushing me to the limits of my endurance.

My son also featured in my dreams, and each time I found him dead. They always killed him before I could save him, leaving his lifeless body for me to find. My good boy, slaughtered like a pig.

So much blood. So much death.

Chi male comincia, peggio finisce.

A bad beginning makes a bad ending.

This was the life I had chosen. No matter what happened, there was no going back.

* * *

Giulio

Waiting at a stoplight, I tapped a small bump of coke onto my hand and quickly snorted it. The rush punched through my bloodstream like I had downed four energy drinks. Cazzo, that was nice. I leaned against the headrest, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the boost. I’d partied occasionally over the last few years, nothing much, but doing coke alone during the day was new.

I didn’t care. It helped me forget.

Frankie wouldn’t like it, so I needed to hold off on doing more. If I showed up to my father’s beach house drenched in sweat, with blown pupils, she would kill me. I could party later, after I left her this afternoon.

A car honked behind me. I opened my eyes and gave the driver the finger. Stronzo. I should pull my gun and make him shit himself with fear.

I put my Ferrari in drive and sped off, darting around the midday beach traffic. The music pumped from my stereo, a hip hop song I hadn’t heard in ages. I tapped my hands against the steering wheel, changing gears swiftly, as I sang along. Dio, I felt fucking good. Horny, but good.

I wish I could fuck Paulo right now.

The thought nearly ruined my buzz, so I shoved it aside. If I wanted to keep Paulo alive then I couldn’t see him again. Except I didn’t want to fuck anyone else. I still loved him.

My chest tightened and my heart thumped so hard, I swear it was louder than the bass in the song. I hadn’t slept with anyone in three weeks, and it was torture. Even still, my dick remained limp at the strip club last night, much to the disappointment of the girl grinding on my lap. Life would be so much easier if I liked pussy.

Or if I could have Paulo.

My father believed it was so simple. The great Fausto Ravazzani had given his orders and expected us all to fall in line.

I told you, you can do what you like after you are settled and have children.

Except Paulo would never wait for fifteen or so years, while I knocked my wife up enough times to fill out the family tree. And I would not expect him to.

Cristo, was Paulo fucking someone else already?

The thought turned my blood to ice, even with the drugs raging in my system. Had he forgotten me and moved on in the last three weeks? I bet he had. He seemed sad enough when I broke things off, but maybe those tears had been fake. Has he started posting on the hookup apps and letting other men take his ass?

I had to find out.

Being il Diavolo’s son had a few perks, all financial. Our family had unlimited resources when it came to anything illicit—drugs, guns, stolen cars—including tiny cameras even the Guardia couldn’t afford. Once I had some installed I could keep track of who was in Paulo’s bed.

I pulled into the drive of the beach house. The tiny bottle of coke burned a hole in my pocket as I got out of my car. Too much thinking about Paulo, clearly. Maybe if I let some random man suck my dick I could forget him.

The idea nearly sent my balls retreating up into my body. I didn’t want anyone else—and also it was dangerous. I couldn’t risk my fucking father finding out. There was no telling what Fausto would do to me then. I really hated him for ruining my life.

I carried a box full of Zia’s cornetti and sfogliatelle with me to the front door. Frankie still wasn’t eating enough, but maybe I could coax her into a few bites. At least we were miserable together. Though I hated to see her so sad, being with her every day has kept me sane after my breakup.

I texted Sal, her guard, to let him know I was here then used my key in case she was asleep. I headed for the kitchen first. The rooms were empty and quiet, sounds from the beach faint in the background. An old cup of coffee sat on the kitchen island, Frankie’s tablet resting there. Had she gone back to bed?

“Sal,” I called quietly. Normally the big man sat at the back door, not quite inside but nearby in case of trouble. Except his chair stood empty. I checked my watch. Two o’clock. Sal should be here.

Were they on the beach? I scanned the sand stretching out along the edge of the water. Frankie hasn’t felt well enough for long walks or swims in a while. There were lots of people on the beach but none of them were Frankie or Sal.

This was strange.

I dialed Sal’s cell phone and retrieved my gun from the inside of my jacket. Keeping absolutely quiet, I went upstairs to see if she was in bed.

The master bed was rumpled but empty. She wasn’t in the bathroom, either. Ma che cazzo?

Sweat broke out on the back of my neck, a reaction that had nothing to do with the coke. In fact, I suddenly felt completely sober, every part of me on high alert. I quickly checked the rest of the upstairs then returned downstairs. I called Sal’s replacement, Luca. He picked up on the second ring. “Where are you?” I barked.

“Just about to leave the house, why?”

“Did you hear from Sal today?”

“Yes, this morning. He wanted to know if we could swap shifts tomorrow.”

“He’s not here.” I began opening closet doors and checking behind furniture. “Both Sal and Frankie are missing.”

“That is impossible,” he said, and I could hear him moving in the background. “I’m coming right now, but you should call Marco. They can review the security footage at the castello.”

As I hung up on Luca, I returned to the kitchen to look in the pantry. As soon as I pulled open the door, my heart sank. Sal was there, unmoving. Minchia! Was he dead?

Worse, where the fuck was Frankie?

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

I had to call my father.

* * *

Fausto

I rubbed my eyes behind my glasses. The words on my screen were fuzzy, my body too tired to focus.

Sighing, I picked up my Campari and tonic. I’d taken to drinking early in the afternoons, a habit Marco disliked immensely but one I found necessary to dull the ache inside my chest. The past two nights I had fallen into bed in a drunken stupor and passed out for a few hours.

It was an improvement over weeks of sleepless nights.

Marco sat in the corner on his phone, pretending to ignore me while really watching me closely. He wasn’t fooling me.

I read the numbers on my screen again, wanting to prove I was still on top of my empire. “Toni just made us over two million Euros by shorting a tech stock.”

Marco grunted.

“Maybe we don’t need D’Agostino for this computer idea.”

He didn’t respond.

I drummed my fingers on the desk and drank more of my cocktail. Has Francesca tried Campari? I didn’t think I’d ever seen her drink it before.

Then I remembered I didn’t care. She’d made a fool of me. I’d mooned over her like a lovesick teenager after his first taste of pussy. All the while she had been keeping a secret from me, one that could destroy everything I’d built. I would never forgive her.

I narrowed my gaze on my cousin. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“I’m fine where I am.”

He was babysitting me, like I was a toddler. I didn’t like it. “Marco—” My phone lit up and Giulio’s name appeared on the screen. I hadn’t seen him since our argument last night.

Swiping to answer, I held the phone up to my ear. “Pronto.”

“She’s not here.”

I heard the panic before I understood the words. Straightening in my chair, I immediately switched to speaker so Marco could hear. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

“The house, it’s empty. No Frankie, no guards.”

Marco and I exchanged a look. What the fuck? Had she run?

Or had something terrible happened instead?

My chest seized, my heart suddenly forgetting how to function, and I got to my feet. Marco began dialing on his phone, probably trying to reach the men I had stationed at the beach house, but I remained focused on my son. “Show me,” I barked.

Giulio turned on the video and I saw he was in the kitchen, a gun in his other hand. “When I got here,” he explained, “the back door was open. I found Sal out cold in the pantry.”

He showed me Sal, pale and lifeless on the ground. “Is he hurt?” I snapped.

The camera swirled. I stared at boxes of rice while Giulio checked on Sal. “He’s alive,” my son said. “There’s a syringe next to him on the floor.”

“Where is she?” I shouted, yanking at the knot of my tie with one hand to loosen it. Had Francesca somehow drugged Sal and then escaped?

No matter what happens, I will leave here. Somehow, some way, I will get away from you.

“Search every inch of that house. I am on my way.” I hung up and started across the room.

Marco held up a hand, talking rapidly on his phone. He grabbed my arm to stop me as I passed. “She left for a walk on the beach. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sal stayed behind at first, then went after her. Vic is watching the camera footage now.”

I sprinted out the door and down the corridor. The security room was in the east section of the castello, and I ran there like a madman.

Vic was at the desk, a wall of screens in front of him. His gaze was locked on the one with Sal in the chair at the beach house, his eyes tracking something on the beach. Francesca.

“She’s been gone for about ten minutes,” Vic said, moving the video forward. “Sal watches her and then gets up to follow.”

“Why weren’t you on the cameras today?” I snarled. “How the fuck did this happen?”

“I’m sorry, Don Fausto. I was working on a security update. I wasn’t paying close attention to the cameras.” On the screen a dark shape crept into the kitchen—a man carrying Sal over his shoulder.

“Who is that?” I leaned in and watched as a man in a black mask tossed Sal into the pantry. A few minutes later another camera caught him leaving. Was this someone she’d hired to help her? Or was it one of my enemies? “Is she still on the beach? Can we get the CCTV footage?”

Vic shifted to a laptop and began typing. “It might take some time.”

I pounded my fist on the desk. “There is no time. Find those fucking cameras. I need to know what happened to her—”

“Rav.” Marco held out his phone in front of my face. “You should take this.”

“Not now.”

“Rav,” he implored, his expression as serious as I’d ever seen. “It’s D’Agostino. He says he has something that belongs to you.”

* * *

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