Page 9 of Devil's Bride

“Not the way I wanted to.” I tossed the towel around my neck and took a swig of my drink. “Did my father say why he requested a meeting?”

“Only that you needed to come as soon as possible.”

Gritting my teeth, I nodded just as a voluptuous blonde swaggered her way in my direction. It would seem satisfying my other brutal needs would need to wait.

While my parents maintained a lavish lifestyle, they’d insisted on remaining in the sprawling Mediterranean home they’d lived in for almost forty-five years. While there had been recent renovations completed throughout the estate, the bones were mostly the same. I had fond memories of my youth.

Even if my father’s firm hand would be considered one of a true savage.

At least I’d developed a strong backbone with every act of punishment.

The man still held an aura of power, feared by thousands. He’d recently made an example of a man caught bedding his mistress. The public display had been watched on closed-circuit television by thousands of people.

As I took long strides down the terracotta tiled floor, I thought about how my loafers managed to echo. Small things amused me since few things did.

I didn’t bother knocking, heading past my father’s hitmen into his personal space. No woman had ever entered the expansive room, including my mother.

“Papa. You had an urgent summons.”

My father was perched on his usual leather chair with a book in one hand, a glass of cognac in the other, a smoking cigar perfectly placed in the marble ashtray. He read another page before leaning over and placing the book on the coffee table, grabbing the cancer stick as soon as he did.

“That will eventually kill you,” I told him.

He grinned. “Thank God, something will. Come. Make a drink. Sit with your old man.”

That meant whatever he had to say was important. I knew all his habits, but I was one of the few who did. He’d made it his mission early in life to keep people guessing.

He gave me a disapproving look. The man had always hated my choice of cargo pants and work boots over more formal attire. Rarely was he seen without one of his signature Italian suits, usually gifts from a tailor who owed my father more than just his gratitude.

I unbuttoned my jacket, shoving one hand into the pocket of my linen trousers as I headed for the bar.

“You look like some episode of a bad American television show from the eighties. Would it do you harm to wear a suit just once?”

“I could have arrived in my gym shorts directly from the fight.” I grabbed a crystal tumbler, waiting as his eyes lit up.

“Ah. You should have called me. I would have been there.”

“You didn’t miss much, Papa. The opponent was… weak.” I chuckled and poured my favorite brand of whiskey, foregoing any ice.

“Weakness. Such a shame. I’m certain you put on a show.”

He might not approve of many of my activities, but he’d taught me every move I’d used over the years. With my glass in hand, I moved to the couch, plopping down and immediately crossing my legs. “What’s on your mind?”

“You haven’t heard the news.”

“What news?”

“They are trying to keep it quiet. They failed.” He grinned and took a puff of his cigar.

“Playing games now?” I eyed him suspiciously as I took a gulp of my drink.

He leaned forward. “Julio Morales is dead, gunned down inside a restaurant. I believe the one you were at this evening.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Really? That is news.” I was surprised I’d yet to hear anything. Morales was a pig, a man with no scruples whatsoever. However, he’d been considered a direct enemy through the years, although I’d never considered him much of a decent opponent. The man’s operation was half our size. “Who?”

“I was wondering the same thing. I thought perhaps you took it upon yourself to eliminate an opponent.”

There were no alliances in our world, no sense of fair play. With so many crime syndicates from other countries breathing down our necks, we’d learned a long time ago our merciless methods of handling business kept both our employees and other mafia leaders in line.

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