Page 26 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
When the final paper is signed, the lingering unease breaks like a dam. The dock owners exchange relieved glances, muttering quiet goodbyes as they shuffle out into the night.
Marco approaches, his expression gleeful. “Efficient,” he says.
“As it should be,” I reply, my gaze lingering on the dark water beyond the loading bays. The deal is done, but the unease remains, a whisper in the back of my mind. The Rossis won’t let this go unanswered, and I need to be ready when they make their move.
“Adriano,” I call, turning toward him.
He straightens instantly. “Boss?”
“Double the security on this route. I want eyes on every corner, on every shipment. If a fly so much as lands on one of our crates, I want to know.”
He nods, already pulling out his phone to relay my orders.
Marco claps me on the shoulder as we head toward the car. “Another win.”
“For now,” I say.
And in this business, “for now” is the best you can hope for. The affair at the docks is over, but we haven’t finished what we set out to do. There’s been movement in the rail corridor north of Campobello, just a few quiet payments from Rossi-linked fronts, funneled into a logistics shell that’s been dormant for five years. It could be nothing, but it could also be everything. The Rossis still have old money, and old money doesn’t sit idle when its pride gets bruised. If they’re trying to rebuild their trade routes on land, I need to catch it before it gains traction and before they find their footing again.
I send Marco to the estate to check on Valentina, and Adriano goes with him. Two of my other men, Rami and Fede ride with me, both handpicked, both quiet in the way that matters. They don’t ask questions when I pull off the main road and kill the headlights. The warehouse squats ahead of us in the dark, low and sprawling, tucked between the rusted bones of a rail yard and a weed-choked service road. It looks abandoned, but the dust on the gate latch is fresh, and someone’s cleared the gravel just enough to drive a truck through without drawing attention. I don’t like it. Nothing about this place feels accidental. I motion for silence, and we move in through the side entrance, weapons drawn, boots soundless over cracked cement.
It’s cold inside, the space carrying that faint funk of stillness. The structure is bare, no crates, no forklifts, no paperwork. Just open space and scaffolding, as if someone meant to stagea shipment here and then changed their mind. I walk the perimeter, checking for signs of life. Rami moves left. Fede holds the rear. I crouch near a stack of broken pallets, run my fingers along the ground. There’s no dust where there should be. Tracks curve into the center of the space and disappear behind a canvas tarp. Someone’s been here, and not too long ago. And they didn’t bother to cover their exit.
Bang bang bang!
The shot comes without warning. Rami drops before I even register the sound, a tight impact to the chest that folds him backward with a dull grunt. Fede shouts something, half a curse, half a warning, but it dies in his throat as a second shot hits him clean through the neck. His weapon clatters to the ground. I don’t have time to think. I dive behind a concrete pillar, the air splitting open with the stutter of suppressed gunfire. My pulse thunders against my skull as I return fire, quick and low, just enough to make them hesitate. There’s no cover here. No elevation. No line of retreat. This was never an inspection. This was a trap.
Pain sears through my shoulder as a bullet grazes the skin there. It’s not a major injury, but enough to slow me down. Somehow, I push myself behind the forklift, breath hissing through my teeth. Somewhere to my right, a man is moving. It’s clear he’s not here to kill me. This is a message being delivered. "Don’t take what’s not yours," an unbothered voice says, like we’re discussing business. "We won’t be this kind next time." The sound of boots retreating tells me they’re leaving.
I’m down two good men. Rage floods my system, but I didn’t win over this city with anger. Anger makes you foolish, pushes you to act on impulse, and nothing kills quicker than impulse. I grimace as I press the palm of my uninjured hand to my shoulder and make my way out, and into the car. The drive back to the estate isn’t easy, but what’s more bothersome is the waythe guards at the gates straighten, their eyes widening as they take in the state of me—bloodied, disheveled, and alone.
My men scramble to meet me as I cross the threshold. One of them steps forward, his hands outstretched like he’s about to help, but I wave him off with a sharp gesture. “I’m fine,” I snap, swatting away assistance. They hesitate, exchanging uncertain glances, but they don’t press.
I make my way through the grand halls, the familiar opulence doing little to soothe the storm raging in my mind. My thoughts churn with the implications of the night’s events. This wasn’t just a botched negotiation. It was a betrayal.
Someone knew about the meeting, about our plans. Someone wanted to send a message, and didn’t care about possible fallout. But that doesn’t erase the cost. I reach the study, pushing the door open with more force than necessary. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city skyline beyond the window.
I pour a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as it swirls in the crystal tumbler. The first sip burns, the second sip layers clarity on that burn. I’m not going to respond to this surgically. It’d be wiser to watch them first, snare them in before I go for the kill. The sound of footsteps behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, expecting Marco or Adriano with a report.
But it’s not either of them. And I am not prepared for what happens next.
It’s Valentina, standing near the arched window, framed by the pale moonlight streaming in from outside. Her silhouette is delicate yet unyielding, her posture straight despite the weight of the world I’ve dropped on her shoulders. For a moment, the chaos in my head quiets. The fire, the blood, the disappointment, all of it fades into the background, replaced by the light in her eyes.
She’s moving before I can speak, her dress flowing behind her as she rushes toward me.
10
VALENTINA
Luca has never been anything but calm, the cool guy, the guy who kills at lunch and makes it look like the easiest thing he’s ever done. But now, he stares at me like a wounded lion would, the bullet wound in his shoulder nothing compared to the anger and hurt in his deep, dark eyes. He’s carrying the weight of an empire, but right now, it’s as if this burden is costing more than blood. For a man like him, pain is just another accessory, but tonight it clings to him differently. It softens the edges of his usual dominance, revealing cracks in the armor I thought was impenetrable.
And for all my reservations and resolve to hate him forever, the visible pain on his face shatters something inside of me. I’m moving toward him before my brain catches up with my feet. My hand brushes his arm tentatively, unsure if he’ll snap or let me near, and he freezes. His gaze meets mine, the emerald of his eyes dimmed by exhaustion but no less piercing.
“I’ve got this,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel.
“Clearly,” I say, my tone waspish. My fingers tighten on his arm, daring him to pull away. “Sit down, Luca.”
His brow lifts in that infuriating way of his, like I’ve just said something adorable. But there’s no fight in him, or perhaps this is a wordless nod to me:do what you want, woman.He lets me guide him to the sofa, and I’m almost sure I can hear him chuckle under his breath. I set him down and crouch beside him, my mind racing. He’s bloodied and bruised, and I’m not sure if it’s anger, fear, or some sick combination of the two that makes my hands tremble as I reach for the buttons of his shirt. “I can do it myself,” he says, his voice a shade softer now, though his posture remains rigid.
