Page 6 of The Mafia's Surprise Gift

“Just remember to walk slowly,” Mom said, bustling around the kitchen and placing a handful of cookies into a Tupperware box.

“I will,” I replied, biting back a remark about how I was more than capable of walking a dog.

“And keep an eye on Zack.”

“Oh, here I was thinking of letting him off the leash to run amok through the town.” Okay, I couldn’t hold in all my irritation.

“Be serious,” Mom snapped. “You have to keep an eye on him.”

Heat prickled up the back of my neck, and I pressed my lips together in a firm smile. “I will.”

“Well, if you insist on walking, could you take this to Ada? She works at the bookstore, and I’ve been meaning to send her something sweet after her husband passed.”

“Clive passed away?” My heart lurched faintly. Ada and Clive had been staples in my life as a child, always taking care of me when my parents were too busy with work.

“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”

“No.” I accepted the container from her. “I’ll give these to her, don’t worry.” Turning to Zack, I held out my other hand. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go for a walk with Dozer.”

“Yay!”

3

ROCCO

Grief was a terrible thing.

One week ago, my father, Aldo Adami, was murdered in cold blood, placing the fragile peace between the Irish, Italian, and Russian Families on the brink of collapse.

Today, I sat on the armrest of a chair, holding my sobbing mother as she broke down in floods of tears after finding one of my father’s silken handkerchiefs at the bottom of her purse. Unable to form words, she clutched at the tail of my shirt and wept desperately as I offered her another tissue to add to the growing collection on her lap.

To my left, my best friend Dino stood with a grim look on his face and his hands clasped together at his waist. Each sob from my mother tore at my heart, but I fought to keep a lid on the turmoil bubbling beneath my skin. It may have been a week, but my distress hadn’t dampened. I was angry, furious. And hurt. My father was a decent man. We didn’t always see eye to eye and we’d had our fair share of explosive arguments over the years, but he always strove to do his best when it came to his family and those under his protection.

The fragile peace we had nurtured these past seven years had been his creation, and now, with his death, we were on the brink of war once again.

“Signora Adami?” A servant, clad in black trousers and a red shirt, poked her head through the door. I was about to tell her to fuck off when she stepped further in, holding a glass of whiskey.

That was the only thing that brought my mother any peace, and I wasn’t going to deny her that so soon after my father’s death.

Mother didn’t lift her head, so I motioned the servant in with my free hand and slid the one on my mother down her back in a comforting stroke. The servant dipped her head and scurried closer, then handed the glass to my mother, who accepted it with trembling hands. Sobbing, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip.

Three sips later, her sobs had calmed. Five more, and her crying had dried to silent tears streaking her powdered cheeks. Silence fell, and I forced my eyes away from her and toward the window, staring out at the vast forest lining the edge of the Adami Estate.

We hadn’t been back here in years, so the house was rather empty and cold compared to the houses we owned in the city. But my father had always desired to be buried back in Baxton, in the family plot, so here we were, preparing to place him in the ground.

His funeral would mark two things—the end of his successful line as the Don of the Italian Mafia and the end of the peace that clung by a thread until he was in the ground. Old law stated that any retaliation or war as the result of a death from a Family Head would grant a ceasefire over all arguments until after the funeral.

I’d already received word that the Irish and Russians were honoring this law as a show of respect to my father. But I knew someone, somewhere, had spat on that respect and was spitting on us. After all, my father wouldn’t be dead otherwise.

“Sir?”

I hadn’t noticed that the servant hadn’t left after giving my mother her whiskey. “What is it?” I barked.

“Signore Vito is here to see you.”

My grandfather. I knew why he was here. My father’s death thrust me to the head spot of the Adami family, but I knew my grandfather eyed the spot. He saw this as a second chance to reclaim his old glory, and it was likely fueled by a bloodthirsty desire to get revenge for the death of his son.

My rage burned hotter.

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