Page 15 of Maddest Temptation

Except from what I’ve heard, respect was the last thing she was given. The rumors I’d heard were that Francesca was nothing more than his trophy wife, placed high up on the shelf to collect dust while he fucked his mistresses. When he needed Francesca, he’d take her out and polish her until she looked like he desired.

No wonder I didn’t recognize her that night. Something about her had been off, I simply couldn’t decide whether Paolo Biancini managed to truly change her or if she was wearing a mask. An armor to protect herself. Neither of those options sat well with me.

Why would you care? Francesca was none of my business, not anymore. Perhaps, if I was being honest, she never had been. She had always belonged to someone else, even in the past when we dated in secret. She had been promised to another—I was the one who wanted a taste of the forbidden fruit. But I wanted what I wanted, and a Moretti always got what he desired one way or the other.

I’ve heard that repeating the same thing over and over again helped with making it sound truer. So that’s what I did. I told myself that I didn’t care about Francesca. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My eyes closed, and I pinched my nose. When the traitorous thought was gone, I stood and headed toward my liquor cabinet, it was early and I didn’t drink, not anymore, not since after Arabella’s death. I filled a tumbler with water and used it to wash away the guilt that had lodged in my throat like a boulder.

You broke things off and let her go. You made your bed so now sleep in it.

I spied the bottles still full of liquor and imagined how easy it would be to wash it all away. A few sips, and I could bleach out the sour taste in my mouth. Except I had made a promise. To Bella. To me. To the Outfit.

After my father’s death, someone needed to take over, and a grieving, drunkard had no place at the head of the Mafia. I stopped drinking and cleared my head, promising to never drink again. And for four years I didn’t.

The ringing of my phone interrupted my thoughts, offering me a much-needed reprieve. “My office now,” I hissed, ended the call, and threw my phone on the desk.

Today looked like one of those days that seemed too long and too damned annoying to survive with a clear head. But alas, here I was. The crown may sit heavily upon my head, but I had been groomed for this my entire life. If it were easy, any man would be doing it.

I sat in my chair again and waited, knife in hand. When the door creaked open and my brother’s head peeked through, the blade went flying. “I called you three times,” I snapped, running my thumb under my lips. The blade wobbled when my brother took it from where it had been embedded in the doorframe and held it closed. “If I wanted you dead, you would be—now sit down.”

“You’re in a peachy mood today. Is it Claire again? I told you to find someone else to put your little friend in,” Vitelli grinned. “One of these days she’s going to beg for you to put a ring on that finger.”

“As if,” I scoffed. Claire was nothing but a booty call, someone I fucked when the need arose. She knew that I knew that. Case solved. No ring on that finger—ever. “First, there is nothing little about me, and second, I called you thrice, Vitelli. Thrice.” Vitelli was still grinning like a cat who had his fill of cream. “Why the fuck are you smiling, your mood is making me nauseous.”

Vitelli set the knife on my desk and ran his fingers through his bedhead hair. Indicating he had just woken up, and by the wrinkles on his shirt and the marks on his neck, he hadn’t been alone. I sighed inwardly; when was he going to grow up?

“My apologies for insulting your manhood, brother?—”

“Where were you? When your boss calls, I expect you to answer it, immediately.”

“Even if I am inside someone?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and seriously thought about using that blade on him. “Vitelli, how much do you enjoy keeping your neck attached to your head?”

“Okay… noted, next time I’ll answer. What’s so urgent you had me come in here so early on a Friday morning?”

“Romeo Ferraro has contacted me,” I said simply, but the reaction on my brother’s face had mirrored my own when I received the call last night.

“Romeo fucking Ferraro? Il Diavolo?”

I scoffed at the name. Devil my ass, the man was flesh and blood like all of us. The only difference was that there were insane men, and then there were men like Romeo Ferraro. He had made a name for himself by killing for the first time at the age of nine, and also his father and most of his underbosses. He’d taken control of New York in less than a few months and was now the undisputed Capo of the Cosa Nostra.

“When?” There was excitement in my brother’s eyes but also apprehension.

“Yesterday,” I answered, leaning back into my seat pretending to possess a calm I did not have. “He wants to set up a meeting. To discuss matters.”

“Matters? What could we have to discuss with him?” Vitelli sneered. “The man is deranged. Killed all his men.”

“His father’s men,” I reminded him. “Ferraro has been having problems with the Russians as well, perhaps he finally sees reason and decided to ask for my help.”

Vitelli scoffed. “A man like him does not ask for help, Cassio.”

“Neither do I.” But alas, here I was, agreeing to a meeting with a man I never thought I would talk to—ever.

The Outfit and the Famiglia had never seen eye to eye. A few years back, a war between both Mafias had started thanks to a bloody wedding. No one knew who shot first, but in the end, five people had died. Romeo having killed two of them himself.

Peace between New York and Chicago hadn’t been something I would have imagined, but despite his shortcomings and infamy, Romeo seemed like a man whom I could deal with. I would rather sit with real monsters than men who hid behind masks.

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