Page 44 of Sin & Sapphire

Matteo Zanetti

Ana showed up on the cameras of a casino in Monaco two days ago.

Me

And then?

Matteo Zanetti

Valentin Rochefort came to fetch her.

Angelo Costa’s on a murder spree.

Fuck.I opened a new chat.

Me

Where the fuck is she?

Angelo Costa

Safe.

Me

Not good enough.

Angelo left my message on read, and again I cursed my cowardice. I should have told her how I felt. Should have begged her to stay. Should have gotten her pregnant so no one else could.

Who the fuck was I kidding? Ana didn’t have a future with me. My father would never allow me to marry a Costa, not after the sins Gio committed against my sisters, not even if it meant gaining access to their entire empire.

“Do we know who’s moving in on their territory?” I asked as I looked up from my phone. “With Ana and Angelo occupied in Europe, there’s no one to hold the Costa empire together, especially considering Gio’s debts.”

It was more complicated than that, of course. Gio was an asshole, but that didn’t mean his men would abandon ship while Angelo was taking care of business elsewhere.

They knew he was looking for Ana.

We all did.

Who the fuck was horning in on Costa territory while they were in Europe?

“Luca,” my father snapped, pulling me out of my reverie. “Any word from the other families?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t think it’s mafia. It’s too smash and grab. If it were one of us, we’d see shifting alliances and someone would have checked in.”

Papà blinked, as if he were surprised I had analysis to add to the conversation. I tried not to resent the fact that he’d always wished my sisters were his sons. He frowned. “Then who?”

“Irish? Russians? The Nigerians and Ivorians have been scuffling over territory lately too,” one of the capos said.Idiot.

“Not the Irish,” I said. “We would have heard from them.” What a complicated web we wove—my eldest sister’s marriage to the former head of the Irish mob in Yorkfield had turned the new head, Declan Flanegan, and I into fast friends.

He’d have told me.

Hopefully.

“What did Nikolai say?” I asked. I couldn’t call the bratva myself—Nikolai was my father’s peer, not mine. And he didn’t have any sons. Only daughters.

Papà slammed his hands down on his desk. “Fucking nothing! He’s not taking my calls.”

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