Return to the Mob (Detroit Mafia Romance Book 6)

by Tami Lund

  A memory from three years ago popped into his head. Hillary had shown up in the middle of a shitshow, and Marco had the pleasure of babysitting her, keeping her safe from the Armenians and Italians alike. He and Hillary had bickered like children.

  It had been the most exhilarating sensation. He’d actually enjoyed getting her riled up, pushing her buttons.

  It wasn’t the same to push Aunt Dee’s buttons, and besides, she was grieving too, and he didn’t want to be the reason anyone felt any worse than they already did. Not today.

  Aunt Dee waved at the bartender, asked for a glass of Chianti. After the young man served her and then stepped away, she took a sip. “I know you’ve had to make a lot of difficult decisions in a very short period of time, Marco, and I hate to add to your burden, but there’s still one more.”

  “There is?”

  She nodded, and her gaze moved to the left, toward the people standing and sitting in clusters in the restaurant, which had been closed to the public for this luncheon.

  “Custody of Julia,” Aunt Dee said.

  Marco immediately sought his sister out in the crowd. She sat at a table with Hillary and a few cousins from his mother’s side of the family. One of his cousins was holding a phone so that the rest could see the screen, and after a few seconds, peals of laughter rolled from the table.

  “I don’t consider it a burden to take care of my sister.” It would require a lifestyle change, certainly, but he was up for it. Anything to ensure her life wasn’t any more disrupted than it already was.

  “That’s not what I’m referring to.”

  Marco tore his gaze away from the redhead who was chatting animatedly with his sister. “Then what are you talking about?”

  Aunt Dee took another sip of her wine. “Your father’s sister. Your aunt Patricia.”

  There was no doubt a grimace on his face as he searched the area of the room farthest from the bar. And there sat Aunt Patricia with her mother, both in conservative black dresses, Marco’s grandmother adding a small hat and veil to the outfit. Proper mourning attire, she’d no doubt say if asked.

  Marco didn’t know his father’s side of the family well. He didn’t see them often at all. When his dad had fallen in love with his mother, knocked her up, and then married her, it had been a huge scandal. Not because they’d been so young—she was eighteen at the time, he, twenty-two—but because of his mother’s ties to the mafia.

  As a kid, he’d seen his aunt and grandmother at funerals, weddings, and high school graduation parties, and not much else. Since Mom and Dad and Aunt Patricia inevitably ended up screaming at each other at these events, it hadn’t been a hardship to disassociate with them.

  Earlier, when they were leaving the church, he’d overheard Aunt Patricia say, “This is what happens when you marry into that family.” He’d damn near turned around and punched the woman, but Hillary had been holding his hand, and she’d practically jerked his arm out of its socket as she pulled him away from the heartless woman.

  “What about her?” Marco asked, shifting his attention back to his favorite aunt and taking a swig of delicious, mind-numbing Irish whiskey.

  “She plans to fight for custody of Julia.”

  Marco choked on that last swallow. “What?”

  Aunt Dee nodded. “She believes you would be a poor influence, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  Aunt Dee winced. “She believes you have issues associated with your time as a SEAL.”

  “She believes serving my country makes me a bad influence? Are you fucking serious?”

  “Not just that. It’s also—”

  “Our family,” he said flatly.

  “Frankie spent time in prison because of his association with Gino Sarvilli. And even though this business with the Armenians is nothing official and there have been no arrests or even police investigations, she thinks she can convince the court that by living with you, Julia would be exposed to a dangerous lifestyle.”

  It was true, unfortunately. The Bianchi side of his family had ties to the Italian mafia dating back at least two generations. And given the way his parents died—even though the cops were claiming it was an accident, Marco knew damn well it was a message instead.

  Davit Grigoryan was not one to forgive and forget, and Marco had helped steal away what Davit considered his most prized possession.

  “I’ll protect her with my life,” Marco insisted. “Julia doesn’t even know them. It would kill her to go live with them. Especially because you know damn well they’d cut her off from all of us, her true family.”

  Dee nodded. “I know. I don’t want it to happen either. But it’s a very real possibility that you need to be aware of.”

  He dragged his hand over his face and cupped the back of his neck. “Is there anything I can do to prevent this battle? I don’t want to disrupt Julia’s life, not any more than it already is.”

  “You need to make yourself look as good as possible to the public eye. Stay on the straight and narrow. Don’t get involved in any of this shit Frankie is dealing with, with the Armenians. I know you want revenge, and I understand, but you need to distance yourself, at least until she’s officially in your custody.”

  Marco gnashed his teeth. Revenge was exactly what he was looking for. And he had every right to want it. To need it.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt to make yourself appear a little more…domestic.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  She sighed. “Your lifestyle, the late nights, the women, living on the edge like you do. That’s no way to raise a child.”

  “I’m not going to raise her like that.” Which his aunt knew, so why was she saying these things?

  “Marco, this isn’t my opinion, so don’t get frustrated with me. I’m trying to help you.”

  “How is this helping?”

  “I’m telling you what not to do. You’ve developed a bit of a reputation in the last couple years. Patricia will use that. She looks like a saint on paper, while you look like…”

  “Like someone who fights with the Armenian mob.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “Just play it safe for a while. Long enough to win custody. You know what would help?”

  “I can hardly wait to hear.”

  “If you were dating a good girl. Or better yet, got engaged. Someone who isn’t associated with Frankie’s crew. Do you have any friends who fit the bill? Someone who would be willing to pretend for a few months?”

  He stared at Aunt Dee. “Are you seriously suggesting I get into a fake relationship in order to win custody of my sister?”

  She didn’t blink, didn’t break eye contact. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  He dragged his hand over his face again. This was too much to take in. Too much to think about. To deal with.

  She touched his sleeve. “For Julia’s sake.”

  And then she excused herself and wandered over to the small group where Luca and Nina were standing, along with Luca’s siblings and mother.

  Instead of following, Marco ordered two more drinks and then made his way over to the table where Julia and Hillary were holding court. His younger cousin Jack sat next to Hillary, leaning in close, practically drooling into her cleavage.

  Marco placed the glass of wine in front of Hillary and grabbed the back of Jack’s chair, jerking it down. Jack rolled to the side, stumbling out of his seat. Marco promptly replaced him, smirking as the kid stood there, red-faced and sputtering, until he stomped off into the crowd.

  “Wow, rude much?” Hillary said.

  Marco shrugged and took a slug from his drink.

  “Hey, Marco, would you go get me a beer?” his twenty-year-old cousin Andrew asked.

  “Nope,” Marco said. He needed to be on the straight and narrow now. At least for a little while.

  One of his female cousins leaned over the table and whispered to the others, “There’s a cute boy at two o’clock, and I’m pretty
sure he’s not related.”

  They all giggled and began whispering while tossing covert gazes over their shoulders, and beer-less Andrew wandered away looking glum.

  “Will we live at Mom and Dad’s house or your apartment?” Julia asked abruptly. There was a very real prospect she may not get to live in either place.

  “Where would you prefer to live?” he asked his baby sister.

  “I think I’d like to stay in Mom and Dad’s house. I don’t want to go to a new school, and you live in a different district.”

  What a smart kid. That was something Marco hadn’t even thought of. Not that he would have pulled her out of her school, but that would be a hell of a drive back and forth each day from where he currently lived.

  “Then Mom and Dad’s it is,” he said. “At least, for the time being. I mean, I have no idea how much they owe on it and how much life insurance there is. We may need to sell it eventually and downsize.” He was pretty sure his parents had invested wisely, had planned for their own inevitable deaths, but until he dug into their paperwork, he couldn’t make promises.

  “I hope not,” Julia said.

  “Me too, kid. Me too.”

  Chapter Three

  Everything about this place made Hillary nervous, not the least of which was Marco Romano. He was 100 percent a good-looking Italian alpha hero. He’d served in the military, after all. Had spent ten years protecting this country and others from some of the worst elements out there.

  So yes, even though his manners were severely lacking and his attitude was perpetually grumpy, he was a hero.

  Not her hero, because that wasn’t the sort of man she was attracted to. She preferred men who opened doors and treated a lady like, well, a lady. She preferred men who liked to read rather than watch television. Who could carry on deep, meaningful conversations. Who weren’t afraid to admit they had feelings.

  And weren’t afraid to express them around other people.

  She didn’t know him well, despite having spent a week in his company seven months ago when Nina and Luca got married. Probably because Hillary and Marco had spent the entire time avoiding each other.

  He just made her so damn uncomfortable, and she honestly didn’t understand why. She wasn’t afraid of the man, despite how huge he was—and it was all muscle. From those broad shoulders, across a sharply defined chest and back, down to a tapered waist and thick, muscular legs. She’d bumped into him early one morning in Mexico, and he’d been wearing nothing but a pair of gray cutoff sweats, draped low on his hips. She’d finally fully understood women’s obsession with such otherwise unimpressive clothing.

  Shortly after that trip she’d started seeing someone, and the morning after they slept together for the first time, she’d convinced him to wear gray sweatpants for her, but he hadn’t lived up to the vision Marco had been.

  Not even close.

  “I need to use the restroom,” she said, standing and smoothing the back of her navy skirt, conscious of Marco’s gaze tracking the movement. “I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her purse and tried to force herself to walk slowly and confidently from the room, but she was certain she’d failed miserably.

  The ladies room had three stalls and two sinks with a granite countertop. There was a wicker basket filled with paper towels, instead of a machine attached to the wall. Hand soap, lotion, and even mouthwash were available in beautiful, blown glass bottles.

  The walls were cream-colored, with Italian words scrawled across them in elegant, cursive font. Soft music drifted from discreet speakers. It was one of the loveliest public restrooms she’d ever encountered.

  Grateful to be alone for a moment, Hillary stood in the middle of the room and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing, on trying to relax.

  Marco always made her so tense. She could feel it between her shoulder blades. And, though she loathed to admit it to even to herself, she felt it right between her legs. Whenever she was around him or even just thought about him, her inner muscles immediately began Kegel exercises.

  It wasn’t like the guy was interested in her, and she was most certainly not interested in him. Unlike her sister, she was not into bad boys.

  Damn it, she lost her concentration.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she held it, eyes closed, focusing on the music, which was some slow, Italian love song.

  “No way was it an accident.” The voice, obviously male, drifted through the closed door. Hill might not have even noticed it over the music if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard.

  “What really happened?”

  Her eyes popped open, and then she squeezed them shut again, like that would somehow help her to better eavesdrop on this conversation.

  Because she was certain they were talking about Marco’s parents, and she knew precious little about what had happened. All Luca told Nina and her was they’d been in a car accident and hadn’t survived.

  When they’d stopped at a rest area on the drive to Detroit, Nina had whispered that Luca did not want to believe it was deliberate. His aunt and uncle, like his own mother, had kept mafia business at arm’s length his entire life. If something nefarious had happened to Marco’s parents, it could happen to Luca’s too.

  Hillary let the subject drop after that.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dying of curiosity.

  “Hard to say,” another male voice said, only slightly muffled by the bathroom door. The two guys were obviously standing in the hall.

  “There’s no evidence of tampering. Brake lines, fuel lines, all fine. There was an autopsy, and no drugs were found in their systems. It’s like they just Thelma and Louise’d over the side of that hill and ended up at the bottom of a lake. Official cause of death was drowning.”

  “That’s a terrible reference. Aida and Pietro were happy. They had no issues. They wouldn’t have deliberately done that. Julia’s just a kid, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I agree, but I don’t work for the cops.”

  The other guy snorted. “Could you imagine?”

  “Hell no. I’d have to roll on more than half my family. No thank you.”

  Their voices drifted away, like they were moving farther down the hall, and then Hillary couldn’t hear them at all.

  Whoever they were, those guys didn’t believe Marco’s parents’ deaths were an accident.

  If someone like Mr. and Mrs. Romano—two people who had not directly adversely affected any of the bad guys—had been killed by this war between the Armenians and Italians, were any of them safe?

  Her immediate concern was for her sister’s safety; last time Nina had come into town she’d been on both the Italian and Armenian mafias’ most wanted lists.

  And then there was Shannon. That guy—what was his name?—Davit; he had an unhealthy obsession with Shannon, thinking of her as an object that had been taken away from him. If he knew she was in town…

  And of course, Hillary couldn’t forget about Marco. He had put himself on their radar when he first helped Nina get out of town three years ago and then Shannon a year later.

  She doubted anyone in this entire building believed his parents’ deaths had been an accident, despite what the police report said.

  Not even Hillary, and she wasn’t normally inclined to assume the worst. But this was Gino Sarvilli’s world, and even though he’d been dead for twenty years, his legacy lived on.

  Only now, the threat had been switched, and oddly enough, Gino’s men were the ones protecting Nina and Shannon and Marco.

  Thanks to her degrees in criminology and psychology, not to mention her own brushes with the mafia, Hillary found that particular fact probably a little too fascinating.

  Abandoning her attempts at finding her Zen, Hillary left the restroom, intending to return to the table where Julia and Marco were surrounded by family. Julia, for the moment, was smiling, as someone—a cousin, if Hill recalled correctly—told an animated story that involved a lot of arm swinging.

  Marco w
as leaning back in his chair, a lowball glass in his hand, only half listening to the tale. Hillary could tell because his gaze swept the room every few seconds, and even from her vantage point several yards away she could tell his shoulders were tense.

  Look at that, they had something in common.

  That gaze landed on her and held, dark eyes locking with hers, like he was holding her in thrall the way it happened in some of those paranormal romance books she liked to devour.

  She could almost picture herself strutting right up to him and straddling his lap, draping her arms over his shoulders, her boobs thrust into his face.

  She’d taken three steps before she caught herself.

  Whoa. Maybe she needed to back off on reading so much.

  Abruptly veering left, she went to the bar instead and ordered a glass of chardonnay. After the bartender handed her the wine, she turned to the right and nearly stepped right into Marco, who had snuck up on her and was hovering far, far too close.

  Clearing her throat, she took a step away and lifted the wine to her lips. He watched the action while placing his own empty glass on the bar.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she finally asked.

  He picked up his freshly poured cocktail and leaned against the bar. “What happened when you went to the restroom?”

  “You want a play-by-play?”

  His lips quirked. She’d seen him smile only a handful of times, and the action had transformed his face, made him appear more youthful, more playful, and, God help her, more attractive.

  “Okay, what happened that shouldn’t have?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  He used the glass to wave at her person. “You’re so tense you’re like a piece of driftwood, about to break at any moment.”

  “Weird analogy.”

  He shrugged. And waited.

  She sipped at her drink. She wouldn’t burden him. He had enough on his plate.

  “You and Julia picked up right where you left off in Mexico.”

  The change of subject was so startling, she nearly dropped her wine. “Sorry, what?”