Page 48 of Mafia Princess

“Won’t he ask questions? I can get my brother to deal with it.”

“Let’s just keep me being involved out of the equation when it comes to your family.” He winks at me.

“As you wish.” I settle against the leather seat, its curves hugging me as we glide through the early morning light, and my thoughts shift to Bianchi and how satisfying it was killing him.

Four down.

One to go.

SEVENTEEN

Milan

Dawn is a bloody sight as the sun rises over the horizon, bathing the sky in crimson. I yawn and sip my third espresso in the last hour alone, the day is just beginning, but I’m ready for it to end. Working late into the night in Montana, cutting deals and ensuring business is running smoothly, I boarded my private jet and headed home as soon as I was done. I never sleep on a plane, the constant hum of the engine keeping me awake. I need silence and zero light to get good sleep.

My phone lights up and I glance at it. Who in the fuck is calling me this hour of the morning? I groan as I eye the screen and hit answer.

“This better be fucking good,” I snap into the phone.

“My papa is dead,” her broken voice cuts me like shards of glass.

“Where are you?”

“At his club,” she sobs and the line goes dead.

A surge of panic seizes me and the need to get to the club ASAP has me running to my garage. I climb into my McLaren and floor it out of the driveway. My main focus is getting to the video footage before anyone else. I have a sinking feeling I know exactly who is behind this.

I pull up out the back of the club and spot Amara’s pink Porsche sitting in the parking lot. This is good news, it means she hasn’t called anyone else to come to assist. I scramble out of my car and head inside, the club is still dark, the lights dimmed. I follow the soft sobs from down the hallway and stop dead in my tracks as I enter through the open door to Bianchi’s office.

“Fuck me.” I scratch the stubble on my jaw and close my eyes for a moment.

Jesus fucking Christ. Principessa has some fucked up skills, I’ll admit that. I’m quite intrigued to know what that pretty little head of hers harbors. The thought excites me and visions of knives and blood tease my mind, but I push them away and focus on the matter at hand. There’s always a time and place to introduce my little princess to the darker side of life, and fantasizing about it now is not going to help me.

“Fix it,” Amara sobs and runs into my arms.

I reluctantly wrap my arms around her and hold her against me as she cries into my expensive shirt.

“Shh, I need you to go home and pretend like you never saw this.” I pull her away from me and grip her shoulders.

Her eyes widen in shock at first but reality comes crashing into her when she realizes what I‘m saying.

“Do you think you can do that? We don’t need the world knowing what your Papa had to endure. We’ll keep this between us. Give him his dignity in death.” I squeeze her shoulders a little, hoping she agrees.

It’s a total fucking lie, I don’t give two shits how he died, I only care that no one finds out who did this.

She nods and sucks up her snot. She tries to turn around to look at his decapitated head, but I don’t allow her to and push her out the door.

“Milan.” She turns as she makes her way down the hall. “Make them pay.” Another howl of cries flood out of her and the noise makes me want to bash her head in.

I close the door and eye Bianchi’s head sitting on its side on the desk, congealed blood soaking the papers under it. His eyes are open and staring right at me. It’s distracting. He was one ugly motherfucker when he was alive, and he’s taken that to a whole other level in death. Half his forehead is missing and the area at his neck looks as though it was hacked at with a blunt chainsaw. The death smell hasn’t quite kicked in and I’m fucking thankful for that.

I circle around and assess the body, only one gash to his arm and a whole lot of fucking blood to be cleaned up. I spot his whiskey bottle and pour myself a drink before I exit the room in search of his surveillance monitors. I head down to the bar and find a bottle of Mortlach.

“You owe me, Bianchi, and yes I’m going to enjoy every last drop of your three thousand dollar bottle.” I salute the camera pointing at me.

I leave the tumbler on the bar and open the bottle, taking a long drink as I make my way to the storage rooms. I slide one door open and bingo, the security screen is recording. I rewind the recording to the night before and skip forward until I see the whole place is empty, except for my little Principessa.

“Motherfuck.”

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