Page 17 of The Mafia King's Stolen Fiancée

The guy’s gaze briefly darted toward me before he answered, “You have a phone call.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was about me, but I didn’t get the chance to ask before Rafa stroked his hand down my back, muttered, “Be right back,” and stalked out of the room.

I decided to take a figurative page out of Scarlett O'Hara’s book—which was on one of the shelves behind me—and worry about my problems later since Rafa didn’t seem to be in a rush to kick me out of his house.

8

RAFFAELE

“Raffaele DeLuca,” I barked into my phone. I knew who was calling, but I wanted to establish exactly who the fuck he was talking to right away. And I wasn’t just referring to my name.

“I demand to speak to my daughter,” Vivienne’s father growled.

“Your demands mean nothing to me, Franklin.” I deliberately used his first name to make it clear that I viewed him as being beneath me.

He didn’t speak at first, and I almost smiled when I pictured his face turning purple with anger and indignation.

“If you’re not going to let me talk to Vivienne, why did your goons insinuate that you were waiting for my call? They’re terrible at their jobs, by the way. I spotted them the second I walked out the door of my house.”

I sighed, then spoke to him as if he were a child who needed to be schooled. “If I’d wanted my men to be invisible, they would be, Franklin. You think I’d fuck around with that shit?”

Franklin muttered something under his breath, then asked, “Why didn’t you call me?”

I barked a laugh that held no humor. “Because people come to the boss, not the other way around.”

“The boss?” He tried to sound shocked, but I knew better.

“Come now, Franklin. Cut the bullshit. You may not run in the highest circles”—it was a petty dig, a level I rarely stooped to. But this was about Vivienne, not me—“but I know you’re aware of who I am. Who my family is.”

He grunted. “This is a waste of time. I want my daughter returned to me immediately.”

Unlike his quiet pouting, my extended silence was chilling. Finally, I asked, “Why the fuck would I deliver her to people who served her to a motherfucker like Chet Chanler on a silver platter?”

Franklin sputtered briefly, then mumbled, “Don’t believe everything Vivienne says. She can be a little overdramatic.”

My eyes slid closed, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying to St. Monica for patience. As shitty of a parent as he was, I didn’t think Vivienne would forgive me if I killed her father.

“If what you are saying is true, then I suppose she caused the black eye and split lip by hitting herself?”

“Her what?” Franklin croaked.

I wondered if I’d finally gotten through to him. Perhaps he cared more about his daughter than I’d given him credit for.

“When she came running into the parking lot at the event last night, not only was she fucking terrified, but her cheek was red and swelling and there was a cut on her bottom lip.”

“Well…well…I—” He stumbled over his words for a moment before grunting, “I’m sure there’s an explanation. There are two sides to every story.”

Any thoughts that he might have a soft spot for his daughter were obliterated.

“Give me my daughter.” His voice was full of false bravado, but he couldn’t fully disguise the tremor of fear beneath it.

“I don’t take orders from you, Franklin,” I responded cooly. “And I won’t let you hand Vivienne over to a monster.”

He scoffed. “You’re calling Chet a monster? That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? I mean, you're in the Mafia!”

“Even if you’re right about me”—I wasn’t about to confirm his accusation when there was a possibility he was taping the conversation—“I am in no way comparable to Chet.”

“Right,” Franklin sneered. “Okay, I’ll bite. Enlighten me?”

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