Page 8 of Bitter Prince
Romero’s focus was on me, studying me as he shook Dante’s hand next. “Nobody.”
We followed him up the drive and stepped into the entrance hall. I had my gun holstered under the light material of my suit jacket; neither Dante nor I went anywhere without protection. We even wore them at home. The only time I took mine off was when I went to bed, and even then, it remained within arm’s reach.
He led us to the back of the open-concept house, each corner filled with a plant or a statue. It felt like a set from an old Hollywood movie.
“We’ll have privacy in the office,” Romero remarked.
Once inside, Dante and I took a seat across the table from him, the ocean view stretching for miles through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. Photos of red-carpet events, movie premiers, and celebrities surrounded us. It was clear from the decor and the feminine furniture that the office didn’t belong to Romero.
A photo caught my attention. It was Reina carrying a surfboard, wearing a pink bikini and grinning widely. It had to have been a recent photo, and the girl looked so fucking happy. There was something peaceful about the grin on her face—maybe it was her eyes crinkled from the sun or her tangled, beachy hair… Whatever it was, I could feel the hot sand beneath my feet just from looking at the image.
Romero must have noticed me staring at the photograph because he scoffed. “Reina has it in her head that she’ll be a surfer. It seems to be this month’s goal.”
“Is she any good?” Dante’s tone told me he couldn’t give two shits whether she was, but at least he was making conversation. Usually, all he wanted was to talk business and get the hell out of here. It caught me off guard actually. While I hated Romero for how he used my mother, my brother utterly despised him. It went beyond the revenge and protectiveness we felt toward our mother, but Dante refused to elaborate on it.
For now, we were focused on finding the document my mother needed, which was supposedly stored in one of Romero’s safes. When my mother left her family to be with Tomaso Romero, it took my grandfather a while to concede to my mother’s choice.
As a part of his concession, he and Romero came to an agreement that was later put in writing. He kept the original, and Romero got a copy.
I wasn’t sure why my mother needed it so badly now. It seemed moot seeing as their union never happened. Yet she was now desperate to have a copy, and neither Dante nor I could ever deny our mother.
I asked my mother once why Ojisan—my grandfather—wouldn’t just give her the document. Her answer gutted me: he’d said she had shamed him with her choice. Grandpa came to terms with it eventually, but he didn't forgive her. She was also a woman, and a woman held very little value other than as a bargaining chip. And per his words, he would give it to me when he was ready.
Whenever that was.
“She won a few surfing competitions,” Romero grumbled. “It’s safe to assume she won’t be a world champion. She’s doing it because I forbid it. The girl is stubborn. Anyhow, back to business. I need the Leone port open so I can send a shipment to Italy.”
“What’s wrong with your ports?” Dante asked. “Last time I checked, you owned some in Venice.”
“April is a busy month in Venice, meaning ports will have extra security.”
“And our intel tells us you have those port authorities on payroll,” I remarked. “So what’s the problem?”
“They won’t turn a blind eye to flesh trading.” My blood pressure skyrocketed at hearing his answer. Romero was the final member of the Omertà still involved in flesh trading, and I fucking hated it. Hated him. What kind of man—especially with daughters—could move women like they were nothing more than stock?
Our father had done it too, and it was only when Dante and I earned him more money from drug smuggling that he finally gave it up. Maybe we could convince Romero to do the same. All he had to do was be smart about it and do it right. He’d be raking in profits within months.
“The answer is no,” I gritted through my teeth. All the fucker had to do was look at the photos of his daughters lining the walls in his office to realize how wrong it was.
“It’s not your call,” he snapped.
“Actually, it is,” Dante said, keeping his simmering rage at bay. Knowing him, he wanted to reach across the table and choke the living daylight out of him. “Father left it to us to negotiate deals as we see fit.”
“So it’s the fee,” Romero drawled with a greedy glimmer in his eyes.
“It’s not the fee,” I said, my tone flat.
“The Leone family is no longer involved in flesh trading, and we won’t allow it to move through our ports,” Dante added. My gaze flitted to him, where he gave a subtle eye roll, and then he stood up. “Bathroom?”
It was our signal for him to go snooping around. It was far-fetched, but maybe Romero kept some documentation in his mother-in-law’s residence. And nobody could break into a safe like my brother. He should be called the “safe whisperer.”
“Out the door, up the stairs, first door to the right,” Romero supplied with a scowl, his fists clenched tight.
Dante disappeared, his footsteps firm against the marble staircase. Romero grabbed a cigar out of its fancy case and offered one wordlessly. I shook my head. I’d always hated the smell of that shit. It reminded me of my own father.
A clock ticked. Cigar smoke hung in the air, mixed with a distinctly female scent. Displeasure emanated from Romero as he leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowed on me. The feeling was mutual.
We sat in silence, something building in the air. It might have been labeled as uncomfortable, but I didn’t give a shit. I’d withstood plenty of uncomfortable moments in the span of my life, especially under my father’s roof. I learned to survive, and sometimes actually preferred silence to constant chatter.
