Page 59 of Phantom Mine

I chuckle humorlessly, the sound hissing beneath my breath as I toss back my scotch. Joke’s on her for not realizing that’s exactly what she’s getting with me.

I’m not sure what drove her to run away from me last night, but I know it sure as fuck wasn’t lack of interest. She’d arched and moaned into me, her mouth fucking mine with greedy strokes of her tongue like it had that night a year and a half ago.

My blood scorches through my veins even now, burning my body up from the inside out. Anticipation bubbles to the surface, dangerous inches from erupting through my pores. This deeply inconvenient, maddeningly powerful, near-manic year and a half long itch is going to be scratched soon. Once I get Valentina out of my system, I’ll be able to focus on the business.

On Marina. On a life mapped out to be free of emotional burdens with a spouse I neither like, nor dislike. On the creation of a family for the sole purpose of having heirs.

I didn’t grow up in a loving, stable home and, consequently, I’m not capable of providing it to any family I’ll create. What I can guarantee is a home free of the abuse and trauma I suffered. That’s another reason an arranged marriage with someone I have no feelings for makes sense. If the emotions aren’t there, then they can never be perverted into hatred and mistreatment. Marina makes sense.

Valentina and I just need to fuck so I can put myself out of this misery. That’s it.

A crisp, metallicclackechoes, ripping me from my thoughts. Then a sharp snap. Theclackagain. With a practiced flick of his hand, Rocco flips the lid on a vintage zippo lighter open and closed then open again, his eyes trained on me.

Unfortunately, my brother isn’t completely talentless. No sociopath ever is. He has two rather unorthodox strengths in his arsenal, both of which he loves to practice on me. First, there’s the particular knack he has for sniffing out people’s weaknesses and using them against them, and then there’s the way he’s cruelly efficient at creating new weaknesses.

Which is why, as we’re sitting with our father in one of the private VIP rooms atFirenze, his arm is dangling off the side of the armchair and he’s playing with a lighter.

With a deft brush of his thumb, he spins the wheel. Not powerfully enough for a full flame to emerge, but enough for sparks to flash out of the top. His finger looks outwardly lazy, absentminded almost, but I know better.

Cruel, beady eyes watch me for any reaction, enjoying the clear tension in my body, the way I can’t tear my gaze away, no matter how much I want to. The rasp of the wheel turning grinds in my ears, the noise punctuated by a soft, sizzling sound as the spark ignites and a flame erupts from the lighter.

Sweat beads at the back of my neck. The air grows shallow, the oxygen sucked out of the room by the small flame. I feel like I’m going to fuckingsnap.

“Are you listening, Matteo?” my father barks.

“Sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid snapping my gaze back to the lighter and reopen them to stare at my father. “I am.”

“You’re the one who wanted to talk, so speak.”

I gnash my teeth together, calling upon every ounce of control inside me to focus away from Rocco’s needling.

“The increase in the house cut that you announced during the meeting was ludicrous,” I grit out through my clenched jaw. “Going up to fifty percent isn’t going to be possible, you know that.”

Augusto Leone laughs, a sound that comes from deep within his fat belly and rumbles up his thick throat with difficulty, years of smoking cigarettes having roughened the passage. The laugh morphs into a coughing fit before it ever leaves his mouth. He leans forward, hacking repugnantly into his fist for long seconds before he says, “If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it, Matteo.

There was a very brief time in my life when I idolized my father. I was seven and I’d watched him command his men to attack a rival shipment, then celebrate the successful mission with them once it was done. I barely understood what was going on, but I remember the pride I’d felt. I remember it well because it died the very same week it was born, when he’d walked into our home’s basement playroom to find me tied down using jump ropes and Rocco, five years my elder, burning me with a cigarette.

The relief at seeing my dad, at knowing that I was going to be rescued, was too monumental to put into words. It paled in comparison to the cataclysmic fear that washed over me when I realized he wasn’t going to help me.

Instead, he’d plucked the cigarette from between Rocco’s fingers and handed him his cigar.

“This is good training for when you’ll be Don. You have to be ruthless, Rocco. Merciless.” He’d glanced emotionlessly at the freshly charred circles that decorated my back.“If you dab a bit of gasoline on the skin and then use the cigar, it’ll burn a larger area. I'm proud of you son.”

With that piece of advice and compliment given, he’d left the room. He’d leftme.

“Be rational.” It takes everything in me to keep my tone even. “There’s no way we can sustain an increase that significant.”

Rocco spins the wheel again, the grind of the metallic spinner against the flint making my eyelid twitch.

Augusto’s gaze narrows on me. “We need to make up for lost profits somehow.”

Sizzle, pop.

Fresh flame.

“By bleeding the branches dry?” The bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. “We can’t support a twenty percentincrease, not without bringing in more business. That’s not going to happen overnight.”

“You clearly think you’re so much smarter than us, little brother,” Rocco whispers, his voice slippery as a snake’s. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

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