Page 27 of He Should Be Mine
Swearing, I gulp down the rest of my coffee and slam the cup down on the counter. I shove my phone into mypocket and head for Molly’s room. I knock sharply on the door and then open it.
Molly is still in bed. He jumps to a sitting position and hides something under the covers. I don’t even want to know. Though, I don’t think it is a sex toy. I’m pretty sure I just woke him up. His expression is all sleepy and his blond hair is all tousled. Combined with the old-man pajamas, Molly looks adorable and not at all like the fiend he is. He doesn’t look like someone who was just interrupted while playing with a sex toy.
“I need to go out. Do not leave the apartment,” my order snaps out of me with more bite than I intended.
Molly rolls his beautiful blue eyes. “Yes, Boss.”
His words hit like a punch. My jaw clenches tight enough to grind my teeth together. I’ve been called boss a thousand times, by a hundred different people. So, why does it hit so very differently when Molly says it?
I inhale sharply and shut Molly’s bedroom door. I don’t have time to ponder it now. I need to go see my Don.
The Don’s London residence is exactly what anyone would expect it to be. Grand, stately, and old money to the core. The kind of place where nothing is out of place, and even the ivy looks like it is keeping secrets. The black iron gates open without a sound. I nod to the guards as I step inside.
A butler in a crisp suit greets me in the foyer. No need for introductions. I’m expected.
“This way, Mr. Bianchi,” he says, then turns with military precision.
I follow him down a long corridor lined with expensive art. Oils and tapestries, none of them flashy, all of them expensive in the way that doesn’t need to shout. The scent of polish and cigars clings to the air. I know this world. I was forged in it, even if I wasn’t born with the right name.
The butler opens the double doors to the Don’s study and then disappears. No knock. No warning. That’s how the Don does things. Power makes its own etiquette.
He’s behind a desk, flanked by windows that let in a dull gray London light. Dark suit, dark eyes, silver at his temples. He looks up from the paper in front of him and studies me. The silence stretches, and I meet it like I always do. Standing tall, expression blank, waiting.
But it’s there. The resemblance. Thirty years and a storm of distance separate us, but I’d be a fool not to see it. He sees it too.
“Dario,” he says at last. “Sit.”
I do. My hands rest on my thighs. I don’t slouch. I don’t fidget.
“I want you to report directly to me on Riccardo.”
Just like that. No pleasantries. No buildup. My spine stiffens. “With respect, sir, Riccardo is my capo.”
The Don raises a single eyebrow. “Because I placed you under him.”
I nod my hasty agreement. Seems like this isn’t a loyalty test, after all. It’s a genuine order.
“Riccardo is my son. But a few fools doubt he’s fit to inherit the empire.” He stops and fixes me with a steely glare. “I need to know the rumors before they spread.”
Ah. There it is. The English mother. The English manners. The whispers about bloodlines and softness and whether Riccardo really has what it takes.
I don’t respond. I can’t. There’s no safe place to stand when one Ajello wants you to spy on another.
“You’re already close to him,” the Don continues. “Closer than most. I don’t need every detail. Just tell me what I need to know. What he’s planning. What he’s hiding. So I can put out the fire and leave only smoke.”
“And if he finds out?” I ask, voice low.
The Don smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “He won’t. Unless you’re sloppy. And you’re not sloppy, are you, Dario?”
My jaw tightens. “No, sir.”
A pause stretches between us. I know I’ve just been drafted into a private war, and no matter who wins, I’m in the line of fire.
The Don stands. That’s my cue. I rise as well.
“Good.” He steps around the desk, claps a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. Enjoy the house. There are other guests here you’ll want to meet. Stay for dinner.”
“Of course,” I say.
