Page 1 of His Mafia Lover

CHAPTER 1

SANTINO

The shrill ring of my cellphone shatters the pre-dawn stillness, jolting me from a restless sleep. I fumble for the device on my nightstand, squinting at the too-bright screen. Marco. My consigliere wouldn't call at this hour unless it was an emergency.

"What is it?" I rasp into the phone, my voice rough with sleep and the lingering bite of last night's scotch.

"Santino, I have some bad news," Marco says, his normally unflappable tone wavering. "It's about your brother Luca and his wife."

I sit up, instantly alert, a cold sense of dread settling in my gut. "What happened?"

"There's been an accident. A bad one. They didn't make it, Santino. I'm so sorry."

The words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing my breath. Luca, my baby brother, the golden boy who escaped this life for love and the promise of something better. Gone, just like that. And Aria, his sweet, beautiful wife who made him happier than I'd ever seen him.

I swallow hard against the surge of grief, my fingers tightening around the phone. "Matteo?" I manage to ask, dreading the answer. My adorable nephew, just barely six years old.

"He's okay, just a few scrapes and bruises. But Santino..." Marco hesitates. "Luca and Aria named you as Matteo's guardian in their will."

The shock of that revelation rips through me, followed swiftly by a rising sense of panic. Me, a guardian? A parent? The idea is ludicrous. My life is too dangerous, too unpredictable for a child. The violence, the darkness that clings to me like a second skin - that's no world for an innocent kid like Matteo.

"No," I bite out. "No fucking way. I can't do it, Marco. You know I can't."

"I understand, boss. But we don't have a choice. Family services is sending a social worker to assess the situation later this morning."

I rake a hand through my hair, my mind reeling. A social worker, poking around my house, my life, passing judgment on my fitness to raise a child. The very thought makes my hackles rise.

"Stall them," I growl. "I need time to think."

"I'll do my best, Santino. But you should prepare yourself. This social worker, Aaron Shepherd, has a reputation for being a real hard-ass. He won't go down easy."

I almost laugh at that. If this Aaron Shepherd knew who he was dealing with, he'd run screaming in the other direction. I've faced down rival mobs, dirty cops, and stone-cold killers without blinking. One stubborn social worker is nothing.

"I'll handle him," I say, injecting my voice with a confidence I don't feel. "Just get me a little more time."

I end the call and slump back against the headboard, my brother's face swimming before my eyes. Luca, with his easy smile and ridiculous dimples, ruffling my hair when we were kids. The golden boy, the prodigal son, the one who got out of the life and made something of himself. The brother I failed to protect in the end.

And now his son, little Matteo, is mine to raise. Mine to keep safe in a world that chews up innocence and spits it out broken. The weight of that responsibility settles on my chest like an anvil, crushing the breath from my lungs.

I'm still sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, when Gia bursts into the room in a whirlwind of black silk and designer perfume. My sister, always perfectly coiffed even in the face of tragedy. I envy her composure.

"Santino," she says, perching on the edge of the bed to clasp my hands in hers. Her fingers are ice-cold, betraying her calm facade. "I came as soon as I heard. I'm so sorry, fratellino."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak past the lump in my throat. Gia squeezes my hands, her dark eyes searching mine.

"We'll get through this," she says fiercely. "You're not alone, Santino. We'll face it together, as a family. Matteo needs us now more than ever."

I look away, shame and doubt coursing through me. What do I know about being there for a grieving child? My world is blood and bullets, not bedtime stories and skinned knees. I'm not fit to raise a houseplant, let alone a little boy who just lost his parents.

Gia cups my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. "I know what you're thinking, fratellino. But you're wrong. You have so much love to give, even if you don't see it. Matteo is lucky to have you."

I want to believe her, but the fear is a living thing, coiled in my gut. I've spent so long armoring myself against any vulnerability, any weakness. The thought of opening my heart to a child, of risking that kind of love, is terrifying.

Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes, echoing through the house like a death knell. The social worker. I tense, instinctively reaching for the weapon I keep stashed in my nightstand. Gia stops me with a hand on my arm.

"No guns," she says sternly. "Let me handle this, Santino. I'll buy you some time to get your head on straight."

I reluctantly nod, watching her slip out of the room on silent feet. Then I lever myself out of bed and head for the shower, hoping the scalding spray will scour away some of the dread and helplessness clinging to my skin.

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