Page 2 of Shackled By the Mafia Boss

I must admit though, my other brother, Vincent, knows the right buttons to press to get Dominic all agitated. The two fight like cat and dog all day, but I swear Vincent has something on Dominic, because Dominic lets him get away with it all the time.

I’m fairly certain Vincent wouldn’t care less about Dominic’s reaction if he were me.

But he isn’t. Dominic would punch my teeth out before he would even listen to whatever explanation I had.

I inhale on my cigar again. Fuck. I should have let Dante come instead.

“It’s just a hundred thousand dollars, the Boss won’t miss it,” Antonio says, his light-brown eyes flickering between purple and red as the lights strobe around us. His laughter vibrates in the club when he notices the scowl on my face. “I didn’t kill him. Only roughed him up a little more than I intended. That fucker won’t be able to walk in the next two months…or three. Wonder how he’s going to come up with the money?”

Antonio is a big, grizzly-bear of a guy with a thick Italian accent, curly red hair he likes to tie at the back of his head and facial hair the same color hiding his thin lips.

And a belly bigger than his brain capacity. But his lack of common sense is compensated by the good use of his giant fists and a decent thirst for blood—the only reason I haven’t beeninclined to remove some of him limbs considering how annoying he can be.

“There’s a better alternative,” I say, crossing my legs and resting back.

He cringes under my stare, his peanut-sized eyes widening. A waiter comes with a tray, sets a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in front of me. She places a giant glass of beer in front of Antonio and his eyes follows the movement of her ass as she walks away.

I pour myself a finger of whiskey and clear my throat.

“Fuck,” Antonio mutters, reaching for his beer and guzzling the whole thing down in one long drink. He slams the empty glass on the table and huffs. “I swear I’m going to die in a whore’s cunt one of these days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I sell off parts of you to recover the money.” I down my whiskey and frown when the bitterness hits. “What part of you should I cut first?”

“Anything but my cock.” He guffaws and I swear I see his eyes disappear as they squint. It doesn’t make sense for a man this big to have such small eyes.

My frown deepens and he sobers up, rubbing his hands together. “I’m sorry, Boss.”

“Sorry won’t cut it when Dominic’s aiming for our heads.”

I fill my glass again and lift it to my nose, swirling the liquid and inhaling the spicy, wooden aroma. Just as I’m take a sip, I spot two guys striding into the club, hands tucked in their pockets, their eyes scanning the club.

It doesn’t take more than a second for me to decipher they’re cops. As much as I’d love to brag about my super sense, I can tell from the tacky haircuts and leather jackets they don’t belong here.

Devil’s Rome is one of the eleven clubs we own in New York and just like the others, it’s a place for rich, spoiled kidsto spend their parents’ ill-gotten money. There’s a VIP section down the red hallway for politicians to cheat on their wives and discuss illegal business.

And then there are the hitmen and rich ex-convicts like the one sitting at the bar with a bald, tattooed scalp. And then there is me, underboss of the Cosa Nostra and a devil in disguise.

Just like I can read the cops still looking around, I wonder if any of the guests here can read me like an open book. I doubt that they can though, most people tremble when they find out who I really am.

“Want me to take care of them, Boss?” Antonio asks, crackling his knuckles.

I shake my head, swallow the drink in my glass and rise to my feet. “No.I’ll handle it myself.” I smooth down my Armani suit jacket. “You’ve created enough mess for one night.”

The men turn their heads to me as I stride in their direction, both of them looking at me as if there are horns growing from my scalp. “Gentlemen, how may I help you?”

One of them—a blonde with piercing blue eyes—scrutinizes me from head to toe. At six-foot-four, I’m almost twice his size, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. “Who are you?”

I scoff a laugh. Bold of him to walk into my club like he owns it, have the nerve to ask who I am and with such a brutish tone. My fingers curl into fists and I’m close to showing him just who I am when the other cop speaks up.

“We’re detectives from the NYPD,” he says. This one seems to have some sense in him. He’s at least six-foot, with brown eyes and brown hair.He stretches his hand out for a handshake. “I’m Detective Taylor Cooper and—” he turns to the rude one, “this is Detective Josh Brown, my partner.”

Handshakes aren’t my thing, but I’d rather not be rude to a man who has some self-respect. “Marcus Romano. I manage this business for my family.”

“Oh.” Taylor’s mouth forms a bigO.“It’s nice to meet you. I have heard so much about your family and in fact, I am a big fan of your brother.”

I’m not sure if I should smile or not so I keep my expression flat. “What brings you here?”

“We’re investigating a murder that happened last night,” a soft voice says from the entrance door, drawing my attention. “I believe you’ve heard about it?”

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