Page 52 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
One hand drifts across my chest with all the subtlety of a spotlight, and I let her stay there, if only because it keeps the night moving.
The music is louder now, the rhythm soaked in bass and sex, and my pulse moves in time with it, steady and detached.
Then the phone starts buzzing.
I ignore it at first.
Anyone who knows me knows not to interrupt.
This is my time—hours carved out of obligation and wrapped in silk and sin. But the buzzing doesn’t stop.
It hums once, twice, again.
Then comes the call.
I glance at the screen, ready to silence it without a second thought, but the name flashing across it isn’t one I can ignore.
Marco.
I nearly laugh.
Of all the people in the city, my brother is the last man I expect to hear from when I’m buried in nightclub shadows and pressed between women who know better than to expect a morning after.
I let it ring once more, watching the light of the screen flicker against the edge of my glass.
The dancer’s mouth is on my neck now, teeth grazing lightly, but the sound keeps pulling at me.
I tap the screen, slide it open, press the phone to my ear.
"What?" I say, not bothering to hide my irritation.
"I need you to listen," Marco says, his voice edgier than usual, not the carefully composed tone he uses at meetings or the weary condescension he saves for family dinners.
There’s an anger beneath it I don’t like.
"This isn’t about the ports, or the ledger, or that mess in Trieste. It’s personal."
The girl in my lap tries to reclaim my attention, but I lift a finger without even looking at her.
She pauses, pouts.
I push her off gently, not unkind, just finished.
My gaze settles on the mirrored wall opposite, and I stare at myself as I speak.
"You called me during a Friday night for something personal?" I say, voice dry, eyes hard. "Let me guess. Luca’s decided I needa fiancée. Or one of you managed to get shot without dying properly."
"It’s about Gianna Rossi."
The name slides through the line and cuts through me faster than any knife could.
I straighten, not enough to be noticed by the crowd still watching me like I’m a god in velvet and liquor, but enough to feel the change coil tight behind my ribs.
My mouth goes still.
My hand curls around the edge of the table.
"You’re going to repeat that," I say slowly. "And you’re going to do it carefully."
