Page 6 of The Cost of Corruption

Then, in the next instant, all hell broke loose.

Moving so fast, I could barely track the action, my cousins flooded out of the party room, rushing to Alessia’s defense in various stages of undress. There was more slapping and screaming, spitting and hair pulling. Hands and insults flew as the wedding party matched up in a drunken brawl.

One particularly inebriated groomsman even stepped up to me, looking ready to start something. But before he could even open his mouth, Matteo was there, wrapping his arm around my waist and positioning me behind him.

“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” he growled, his low tone dark enough to frighten all the color out of the man’s face in an instant.

Then, turning around, Matteo grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall and away from the fray. We hadn’t even made it to the front of the club before a line of black-suited security rushed past us, ready to break up the fight.

Even though I had my issues with the morality of this club, there was no denying how well-run the place was.

“I’m supposed to wait in the lounge,” I protested when the bar area appeared in front of us. But Matteo kept walking, leading me through a swinging door behind the hostess station and up a flight of polished, dark wood stairs. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safer,” he answered without looking back.

“Where?”

“My office,” he said as we reached the top of the stairs.

As he poked numbers and pressed his thumb against a keypad at the side of the heavy metal door, I read the nameplate fixed to the center.

Matteo D’Angelo

Proprietor

Of course. I should have known.

The devil didn’t just roam the halls of this sin palace. He owned the place.

Chapter Two

MATTEO

Chastity Costa.

How many years had it been since that name had crossed my mind? Ten? Twelve? Somewhere in that range, I mentally shrugged. Long enough ago that she’d been a kid the last time I saw her.

Well, technically, we’dbothbeen kids back then. At least we’d still been in school. Even though we came from different crime families, we’d both attended the same exclusive private catholic academy. It wasn’t surprising. Half the New York underworld sent their kids to Holy Sepulcher, figuring it was the safest place. There were lines even violent mobsters like our fathers wouldn’t cross, and shedding blood on sacred ground was at the top of the list.

I searched my memory for the last time I’d seen her. I must have been a senior, and she was…what? A freshman? Maybe not even that. More likely, she’d still been in the underclasses held on the lower floors of the old repurposed monastery. She’d certainly been small enough.

Not that she’d grown much in the past decade.

She was still tiny. And not just short—the top of her head barely reaching my shoulders—but slight as well. Clearly, whatever convent Michael Costa had shipped his daughter off to hadn’t spent his money on food. It had hardly taken any effort to whip her behind me in the hall, and her wrist had felt as thin and supple as a willow branch in my hand as I’d pulled her up the stairs.

That wasn’t all I noticed about the feel of her. Her skin was warm and nearly as soft as rabbit fur.

Whoa, I chided myself. That wasn’t the kind of thought a man should have about a nun.

Especially not a man like me.

Not even if that nun happened to be a Costa.

Still, the sensation of her skin against mine was so pleasant that I couldn’t bring myself to loosen my hold on her until after the office door closed behind us, the automatic lock audibly clicking into place. Once I finally did, though, I turned back to see her gently rubbing the spot on her wrist where my hand had been.

For a moment, I worried that I might have accidentally been too rough with her, even though there were no red marks or bruises on her perfect peach skin.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

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