Page 2 of Thorns of Desire
Lampposts lit up the streets of Paris, casting a romantic glow as I made my way to the Marchetti venue where Reina Romero’s fashion show was due to start. Though Enrico was technically my nephew, he was only five years younger than me—the son of my older brother. Enrico and I, along with his brother, were raised as cousins since we were all close in age, but we were all raised in the world of the Omertà, where the only vow that counted was the one given to the mafia.
Over the last few decades, the organization in Italy had changed and adapted, allowing it to flourish. The five ruling families—Marchetti, DiMauro, Agosti, Romero, and Leone—had developed a finely honed sense of loyalty among their citizens, but we’d also made powerful alliances with the Irish, Russians, Brazilians, and Greeks. And through Kingston—the infamous Ghost—even with the Ashfords. Together we ran one of the most successful criminal organizations in the world, the Thorns of Omertà.
We had plenty of people who opposed us, and they never hesitated to strike from the shadows.
Like now.
I sensed the presence behind me and came to a stop in front of the window shop. I casually flicked a glance at the display, my eyes locking on the reflection behind me.
I turned slowly and met the fucker head-on, but before I could utter a single word, my stalker took off running.
The ignorant man would need to be taught that nobody ever escaped me. I trained too hard, kept my body in too strong a physical state to let myself be a target. And if they happened to outrun me… well, I always found them.
I started running, grateful for the loaded gun in my holster but pissed off about my custom suit and shoes. If we weren’t in the middle of the city, I’d shoot the motherfucker and get on with my night.
My loafers pounded against the pavement as I closed in on him, stretching my arm out and grabbing him by his collar. I spotted an alley and yanked him into it. He fell onto his knees, and before he could stand up, I propped my foot on his shoulder like my own personal footstool.
“No use running,” I said, my voice sharp. My eyes fell to the tattoo on his hand, a Chinese symbol in the mouth of a skull. “There’s nowhere to run.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Mercy.”
He knew better. There was no mercy in this world.
“Why are you following me?” I asked instead.
“I’m n-not,” he stuttered, his accent thick.
I sighed. “Who are you following, then?” The full moon over us glimmered as I waited for his answer. I pulled out my gun and shoved the barrel against his skull. “Who?”
“Atticus,” he choked out. “He’s in Paris.”
My brows furrowed. Atticus Popov was an enigma, causing trouble everywhere he went and disappearing before you could get your hands on him. His son, Danil Popov, had expanded on what Atticus started and turned it into one of the most successful organizations in the Balkans, possibly beyond too. But this was not Balkan territory.
“Why is he in Paris?” I demanded, pressing my foot harder against his body.
“Attending a fashion event at Marchetti's venue.”
I scoffed. “Why would he be at the Marchetti venue?”
“I don’t know, man. I’m just following orders.”
“What are your orders exactly?” He hesitated, and I pushed the barrel of the gun farther into him. “I hate repeating myself.”
“To find Atticus and an old mistress of his. There’s a price on their heads. That’s all I know.”
Atticus really fucked up when he went against Lykos Costello, the head of the Greek mafia. Some of us were old-school, which meant no flesh for sale. If a woman took it upon herself to enter the sex trade—consensually—that was her own business. But Atticus, being young and ambitious, thought he knew better and teamed up with the Albanians, the Triads—the Chinese mafia—and the Tijuana cartel to move flesh over the Greek territory.
His first mistake.
No move was made on Greek territory without the Costellos’ permission, and there was hell to pay if you got caught. Especially if the business transaction could start a war.
But Atticus thought himself smarter. Then, to make matters worse, he turned around and began selling the flesh to the Cortes cartel, fucking over the Albanians, the Tijuana cartel, and the Triads, making himself and anyone connected to him, forever a target. As the years went on, organizations forgave and forgot, but the Triads never did.
Until roughly eleven years ago.
The word on the street was that the score was settled—we all knew better than to ask questions.
“Are the Triads after Atticus Popov again?” He didn’t have to answer, it was written all over his face. “I thought the score was settled.”
