Page 1 of Forbidden Mobster's Daughter

1

Matteo

“Mr. Mancini wantsto talk to you,” Vito says with a cock of his head toward the elevator.

I know what that means.

Antonio Mancini, my boss and a well-known mobster in Chicago's modern-day mafia, is waiting for me in his office. We’re in a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of town, where he conducts most of his business. By business, I mean hardcore money-laundering operations, illegal drugs and guns.

I smooth my hand over my suit and click on the elevator button.

I’m his head of security. Started as a simple security guard, watching the premises of his warehouse. With time, I gained his trust, got promoted, and became one of his bodyguards. Professional climbing isn’t the worst thing, given I never applied for any of these jobs. Never wanted them. But refusing them would jeopardize my mother’s life.

Now, we’re finally coming to a close. One more month, and I’ll leave all this behind me. That was the deal when Antonio found his wife in bed with my father. He shot and killed my father on the spot and told my mom I’d work for him for ten years—otherwise, he’d kill her too. Why ten years? Because that was double the amount of time my father and his wife got cozy behind his back. Antonio has always been a big fan of doubling his investments.

I was twenty-five then and would have done anything to help my mom.

At first, I took the job with the wish to kill Antonio. In his sleep. Then, as days turned into weeks and I got to know more about him and his operations, the idea lost steam. There is no escaping. If I had killed him, my mother and I would be dead next.

I’ve often wondered why he recruited me to work for him. Did he want to take something from our family besides my father’s life? Did he want to instill more pain in me, the male representative of our little family? Did he want to make sure I never told a soul about him killing my father, and this was good insurance?

The elevator pings as it opens its doors.

So, I’ve been working for him. Biding my time.

My hands have seen more blood than an ER doctor.

I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of.

In one month, this madness ends. I’m leaving Chicago, taking the money I’ve saved from brokering drug deals and bribes—a hefty amount when you become the head of security—moving overseas with my mom and starting a new life. Away from this mess.

I exit the elevator and touch my collar.

I march through the hallway until I see the bronze statue of a lion.

Antonio’s tastes are questionable at best, but that’s the least of my worries. Anxiety creeps under my skin, and I have to remind myself to take it easy. It’ll all pay off. My mother will have a nice, retired life with safety.

I knock on the door.

“Come in,” says the raspy voice from the other side.

I open the door and enter his office. The large space occupies most of this floor, with golden accents scattered through the area and statues of predatory animals—more lions, pumas, and tigers. Antonio has always been obsessed with the top of the food chain.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

The medium-built man sitting in an oversized chair that almost dwarfs him gestures with his head for me to sit.

I choose a chair across from him, facing the smooth concrete industrial-style desk. After my father was murdered in cold blood, I dreamed of having alone time with Antonio. Many times.

Still today, that darkness lurks inside me. He killed my father, but he killed me too. I am not the same man I was ten years ago. No amount of freedom will change it. But I’ve become better at masking my flaws.

Also, I knew if I killed him and ended up in jail or dead, my mom’s life would be over. I promised I’d never let anything happen to her.

“Francesco is leaving prison soon. I just talked to his family, and if all goes well, he should be back in a few weeks.”

I nod. Francesco is the fifty-something son of another fucked-up mafia family. He took the fall on a deal busted by the FBI and has been in jail for racketeering and other counts for five years. I’ve always wondered why that family didn’t hurt Antonio when it all went down. They could have.

I doubt the prosecutor would have offered Francesco an out-of-jail deal, not with his rap sheet. But at least they could have reduced his sentence. Not that five years is that bad—in a strange way, I’ve been a prisoner of Antonio’s for much longer.

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