Page 1 of Twins for the Mafia Heir

Chapter 1

Achilles

Ican’t see it, but I know there’s a scope trained on me from the guard tower looming over the gates of the Warwick estate. As the heir of the Ashwood mafia family, I know better than most that one doesn’t casually walk up to a mafia boss’s house and buzz to be let in. But that’s exactly what I’ve just done.

Three figures approach me along the gravel drive, their steps steady and deliberate. Behind them, the stark, angular lines of an enormous modern house rise beyond the gates, cold and imposing. My hands clench around the handle of my briefcase as Fantasia’s words turn over in my head once again.

Make them pay, Achilles. In blood, if you have to.

My dear little sister always did have a way with dramatics, even before she became poisoned by our mum’s vitriol. Now that Fantasia is in charge of the Warwick-Ashwood empire, she’s sent me here alone to get people to sign on the dotted line, to make this estranged branch of the family start paying their proper tithe again. With any luck at all, nothing more exciting than that needs to happen.

My welcoming party stops just on the other side of the gate. They’re armed and armored. The woman standing in themiddle is tall and imposing, her polished brown skin contrasting sharply with her stark white hair. Her intense black eyes scan me methodically, assessing every movement for potential danger. The sleek body armor she wears under her fitted jacket isn’t meant to be hidden, and neither is the gun strapped fashionably across her chest, like a statement piece.

The man at her side has his thumbs looped through the straps of his chest holster like they’re suspenders, displaying his handguns with casual menace. His craggy face is worn down by sorrow, but his blue eyes are bright and wary. I could make a microscopic move toward my own concealed weapon, and he’d probably catch it.

The second woman is the outlier. She’s on the tall woman’s other side, and much younger than her companions. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. Where the other woman is an amazon, this one is pretty in an elfin way, with platinum blonde hair cut in a bob around a square jaw, pale eyes, and willowy limbs. Her plain black sweater and grey jeans seem to be trying to distract from her natural beauty, but they only highlight it. She looks delicate as a glass flower, but her stance betrays her. She’s not just here to look pretty; she’s ready for a fight.

I dismiss all three of them instantly. None of them are Thomas Warwick, the head of the family and the man I’m actually here to see. I’m not leaving without his signature.

“Good morning,” I announce, trying not to give away too much of my irritation. “I am Achilles Warwick. You know who I am, yes?”

After several threat letters and even more blocked calls, they had fucking better.

The statuesque woman crosses her arms over her chest. “Indeed I do,” she says, yet her expression betrays nothing. “Mr. Warwick, I’m Iris Agostinelli, Thomas’s aide. I’m sorry you cameso far to hear this, but Thomas is currently away from the estate on business.”

I stifle an outraged sigh. Curse Fantasia to the moon and back. What a waste of a transatlantic flight. Leaving my daughter for multiple days is bad enough, even when my trip isn’t this pointless.

More patient men than I might extend their stay and wait for Thomas to return. I’ve got a better idea.

There’s that old saying. Don’t shoot the messenger. But what if the messenger is the one firing shots?

“Then I suggest you summon him back,” I say. “Otherwise, I’ll be killing one member of this estate for every day I’m forced to wait.”

Iris’s eyes narrow. She’s looking at me through an iron gate, with me placed firmly on the outside of it. I can see the gears clicking in her head. I’m making a very big, very bold threat on territory that isn’t mine. And if I’ve come all this way to negotiate with Thomas directly after months of attempting contact, there’s potential that I have the means to back up that threat.

And because, like me, she’s the second in command, she errs on the side of caution.

“Let’s talk inside,” Iris says.

“To be perfectly frank, Mr. Warwick, I’m surprised you actually exist.”

Iris settles herself into the chair behind a desk I have to assume is Thomas’s. Filing cabinets line the wall behind her where other mafia kings might place trophies or weapons. The only piece of true decoration in the room is a small shelving unit holding what look like chess pieces of various makes.

I haven’t been offered the seat in front of the desk, but that’s fine. I prefer to remain on my feet during interrogations. Iris’s two companions, the weathered man and the pretty young woman, neither of whom have been introduced to me, stand behind Iris’s chair.

Now that we’re inside and the business talk has begun, I feel the young woman’s gaze on me more acutely. I shift my weight, and she shifts microscopically in response.

Interesting. I won’t dismiss her from my attention again.

I’ve already been searched for weapons and found wanting. My briefcase sits on the desk before Iris, open to reveal nothing but a neat stack of crisp white papers. To the people in this room, I am at their mercy.

“We were beginning to believe those letters were some elaborate hoax by the last of Morgan Speare’s people,” Iris continues. “And the calls… well, we don’t appreciate phone scams here.”

“Your misunderstanding of the situation is not my problem,” I say brusquely. “You’ve wasted months of my boss’s time already. I’m here to bring this waffling to an end.”

“We have no affiliation with anyone in London,” Iris says curtly. “And we never have. The Warwicks might have emigrated from that city, but whoever they left behind has nothing to do with us now. Sharing a last name doesn't mean my boss owes you a tithe.”

Funny. I said those exact same words to Fantasia months ago when she first came up with this little farce. She’s half a Warwick, and I’m an Ashwood, related only by the marriage of my mother to her father. If that truth were ever discovered by these people, we would lose what little bargaining power we have. But she was determined to bring anyone with the Warwick name to heel, so here I fucking am, wearing a name that isn’t mine for clout that is impressing no one.

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