Page 133 of Gorgeous Villain (Marchetti Mafia)

“Give me five minutes,” he tells the caller and hangs up. “I have to go, but first, I want you to promise me something.”

I blink away tears. “What?”

“If you have sleep paralysis, you wake me up, or if I’m not here, you call me.”

I dip my chin toward his phone. “Give me a phone to call you, then.”

“You ask Leo to call me.”

I sigh. “That doesn’t sound nearly as romantic.”

“I’m serious, Giana.”

“Oh, like you’d drop everything and come save me from my imagination?”

“I’d drop everything for you for any reason. I’d kill for you, steal for you. Anything you need, I’m there, princess.”

He stands, opens the closet, and pulls out items. I watch as he shrugs on a thick black coat and slips black leather gloves into his pockets.

“Be good,” he says before kissing my forehead.

My heart breaks as he leaves.

From my dream to the tone in my father’s voice, I know it’s too late.

Antonio won’t stay alive long, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to survive a life without him.

37

We enter the strip club from the back to avoid drawing attention. The loud music blasting through the place is grating. I can’t wait to kill these motherfuckers so I can return to my silence.

All the patrons’ attention is on the women dancing onstage. I scan the crowd and immediately spot Nuncio in the corner, mid-lap dance. The idiot believes he’s discreet and separated from the crowd.

A few more of Sonny’s men are spread throughout the room, either watching the dancers or getting their own form of lap dance. All of them are in their own little worlds.

Example nine hundred fucking thousand why my father was a superior don than Sonny would ever be.

Also why I’m a better fit.

During turf wars, you never allow your guys to act so stupid, especially in public with their guard down.

I slip my gloves on and grip my pocketknife while easing toward Nuncio. He’s so entranced by the dancer grinding on his dick that he doesn’t notice me. Her back is to him, and he’s gripping her pigtail. With every move she makes, he grunts so loud that neither of them senses my presence. In one swift motion, I cup the back of his neck, drag his head down, and slithis throat. I smirk when the first drop of crimson red drips onto his chest.

He gags, as if preparing to vomit, and more blood sputters from his fat throat. It grows heavier and starts splashing the dancer’s back.

She stops. “Swear to God, if you come on me again—” Her words stop when she turns around and realizes it’s not his jizz, but his blood. She slides off his lap and screams as more blood gushes out.

I yank his head to face me, and his eyes are panicked.

“Fucking traitor.”

Nuncio weakly reaches out, as if asking me for help.

“This is for my father.” I kick his chair, and he tumbles off it.

He holds his hands up in a begging gesture as I withdraw my pistol and point it at him.

A thrill sets in when I pull the trigger, shooting him in the head.

---