by V. F. Mason
Waitresses with short skirts and tight tops moved efficiently between the tables, while bulky security hit anyone who decided to be grabby with them. Ten to fifteen velvet booths were scattered around the place with brown, wooden tables in the middle, and the marble floor shined brightly under the expensive diamond chandelier, which hung so low it looked ready to fall down any minute. The bar in the right corner had five bartenders who created drinks in a blur, while roars and groans echoed throughout the place as various people bet on the outcome of the fight.
The ring, or rather cage, had metal bars, only fighters inside the wide space with a hard floor, so whoever hit something wouldn't have any mercy or an easy “fall.” The bars had sharp edges, so whoever bounced on them would bruise their skin in the process. Since it was located right in the middle of the venue, everything else circled around it. It looked like we came in right at the end, as the bets and money stakes were exceptionally high. Round five or six probably. “Do you see Vito?” Vitya asked, maintaining a tight grip on Michael, who was practically plastered to his side, not liking the violence around him.
“He should be here,” I replied, scanning the place one more time, and finally, my eyes rested on Vito Rossi who sat in the biggest booth, surrounded by his bodyguards. He had a woman between his legs giving him head while another one murmured something in his neck, and he chuckled, although the overall vibe he gave was boredom.
Must’ve been really bad head.
The reason I dragged everyone here was to finally meet with the mafia boss and decide how much involvement he had in the disappearance of Rosa. Starting a war with him on his territory was stupid, reckless, and not something I would ever subject my Bratva to. But establishing a relationship with him, creating a curious interest so he'd be lured away from Italy?
Yeah, I wasn't taught by Vasya and Radmir for nothing.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice shouted in the mic, which snapped me out of my thoughts. The announcer who had entered the cage a few seconds ago was dressed in black and white attire.
Blyat, those Italian people went all out when creating something illegal. In Russia or America, such places were held in the basement with a concrete floor, dark rooms, and, sure as fuck, no luxurious stuff lying around the place. There, it reminded me a lot of a street fight, but entering here, one would think they had professional MMA going on. “Stefano wins this fight over the Stone!” Cheers erupted, glasses shattered, and a blonde wearing only a thong rushed to them holding a golden chain in her hands. They even had prizes. How fucking cute.
Stepping closer to the stage, I studied the picture in front of me and had to give it to the winner. He sure as fuck destroyed his opponent.
Stone lay on his back, breathing heavily and choking on his blood as he turned purple and blue. He couldn't inhale enough air, and having plenty of experience, I understood he had broken ribs. Stefano roared, beating his chest with his fists, running around the cage basking in the attention. Everyone applauded, not even caring for half-dying Stone on the floor.
After closer examination, I froze, as the kid couldn't be older than eighteen. “You have to be fucking kidding me,” Damian snapped furiously, ready to dash to him, but my hand stopped him. As much as I was grateful for my brother to follow me here and offer his support while his soul cried out to be with his woman… this wasn't his battle.
“Anyone else brave enough to face Stefano the Steel?”
Michael snorted at the lame nickname, while Vitya covered Michael’s mouth with his hand. We didn't need unnecessary attention.
Removing my jacket and then shirt in one swift motion, I called out, “Me.”
The public quieted down as they watched me, shocked, while Stefano pulled his head back as if measuring me and then laughed. “Sure.” I passed by the blonde, who licked her lips, running her gaze over my chest and smiling seductively, but I just ignored it and stepped inside the cage.
Since no one bothered to help the kid, I motioned with my head to Vitya, and he nodded, pulling the phone from his pocket. In a second, Knyaz and Artur showed up, picked up the kid, and took him to our headquarters here. I had some questions for him, and he displayed good potential.
The pakhan never missed an opportunity to recruit good, fresh blood. Things must have been desperate for him to even compete against Stefano. The boy didn’t have the physique or strength for it. The only explanation could be money.
Cracking my neck from side to side, I faced him while he roared again and pounced on me, the announcer dashing to hop on the stand outside. The guy was massive with ripped muscles as if he lived and breathed the gym, and he had a physical advantage on me. However, his tiredness after the previous fight and my excessive training in the Bratva put us on equal ground.
I swirled to the right, hit him hard on the back, and he fell down, not expecting it. The audience booed at me while chanting his name. He got up, almost jumped, and punched me in the gut. I dipped in two, but then delivered a blow right between his eyes and kicked him hard in the liver, knowing full well that it was one of the most vulnerable places for a man like him, who earned money beating the shit out of everyone.
He swayed, dizzy, but I didn't give him the chance to recover. All the pent-up rage from seeing Rosa in the arms of Oliver rushed back, and I transferred it into my every action. Bending, I propped him on my shoulder, lifted him off the ground, and slammed his back on the floor. As he howled, I made sure to press my finger on a specific point in his stomach that would activate his gallbladder and send the gastric juice up his throat. In a second, Stefano was throwing up all over the place, not even able to get up or turn to the side as I’d most probably bruised his spine. His coach rushed inside with a few men, screaming for help while turning him on his side so he wouldn't choke on his own shit.
A murmur ran through the crowd, not knowing how to react to what had happened, and then I heard the loud clap.
Turning around, I noticed Vito Rossi getting up from his seat and slowly walking to the cage as his palms continued to slap each other, and he half smiled at me, which looked more like a grimace on his granite face. He paused, clicking at the bartender, and in a second, he had a glass of whiskey in his hand, raised it, and said, “Benvenuti a Firenze, Pakhan.” His bodyguards rose as Vito welcomed me to Florence, holding guns while the music was cut off, and women with shocked expressions disappeared behind the bar. More than twenty Cosa Nostra men surrounded us, and that was when I nodded, giving the signal to the Bratva.
In an instant, my byki and enforces surged into the basement, holding the enemies at gunpoint. Did I forget to mention I brought my best soldiers with me? I could never risk losing Rosa again, not to the madness that this boss seemed to have floating in his mafia house.
Vito tilted his head back, laughed, although it didn't reach his eyes, and then motioned for me to join him at the table. “Let’s talk, Pakhan. There is always time for killing later.”
Hiding my victory smirk, I sat on the opposite end of the booth and extended my hand to him. “Dominic Konstantinov.”
He shook it with a strong, tight grip. “Vito Rossi. What brings you to my territory, Pakhan?”
Leaning back on the seat, I placed my hands on the table and decided to start the game. “Your niece.”
He frowned, and something flashed in his eyes akin to fury and jealously, as he gritted out, “Ciara?”
Lifting my brow, I found the information interesting. As much as he wanted to act indifferent, it was clear as fucking day he had a thing for the green-eyed girl. Considering she wasn't his niece by blood, he had the right, but what a fucking perv for wanting a girl who grew up in front of his eyes.
Angelica’s mother, Vito’s sister, Ines, fell in love with a simple boy named Amedeo, who had an ice cream shop and lots of dreams. Needless to say, the family didn't initially approve the match, but they must have loved Ines, as they succumbed to her desire and gave her permission to marry. After one year of blissful marriage, Amed
eo died in a car accident, leaving Ines alone and pregnant with their child. Vito’s father, then boss of the Rossi clan, attached Ercole to her side and ordered him to marry her so his granddaughter would have a father. Ercole married Ines, although rumors had it that he never stayed faithful, and she learned to deal with it. Based on all the pictures, she didn't feel much love for him either. Ciara was Ercole’s niece, who he had to raise as his own when his French brother died along with his wife. The girls grew up together and were close in age, so I wasn't even sure they were aware of the history between the families.
“No, Angelica.” At my reply, he lit up his cigar, inhaled it, and then exhaled the smoke with a curious expression.
“What about her?”
“I want her as mine.” As archaic as it sounded, women rarely had a say in the mafia world. Marriages or alliances formed based on the need or connections; love didn’t even factor into the matter. Men just chose who they wanted and approached the head of the family.
He threw the cigar on the floor, studied me carefully while thinking hard about something, if his rubbing his chin was anything to go by, and finally said, “Why would I give her to you?” Funny, how he thought it was his decision to make. It just confirmed that he wasn't happy about Oliver to begin with. Those Italians preferred to keep marriages in the family or when it could help the bloodline. Marrying an American clerk who had no fucking clue how to even conduct business without acting like a moron didn't speak well for an entire organization. Based on the reports I got though, Vito adored his nieces and agreed only because Angelica begged and pleaded for it. For all his bad reputation, the man seemed to have exceptional softness for females in his family.
“Because then you can have access to New York.”
He froze, leaned forward, and stated, “New York is controlled by Emiliano Giovanni.” Yeah, Don was in for a surprise, since I never told him about my suspicion or plan. I couldn't put the man through the pain for nothing. He had just started to rebuild his life recently and had enough of his own problems.
“Not anymore. He is weak. I can ensure your leadership there as long as Angelica becomes mine.”
“Yours?” he questioned, although I already had him hooked. Who wouldn't want to reign over the Big Apple? This conversation moved in the exact direction I’d predicted. Vito Rossi didn't surprise me.
Waiting for a second, my mouth spilled the words I held in my heart for a long time. “My wife.” He jerked, took a sip from his whiskey, regarded me with intensity, and then grinned.
“You have nerve, kid. I’ll give you that.” Then his grey eyes changed into steel, as he said lethally, “But you can go fuck yourself. My niece’s happiness means more to me than a fucked-up deal. Not to mention my respect for Don.”
Damian, who stood next to the booth, shared a look with me, and I raised my hand, waiting for him to place the folders in it.
Vito Rossi had just passed a test, and unfortunately, that put me back to square one.
If he wasn't the one who organized it all, then who the fuck did, and where could we find that person?
And more importantly… was Rosa really safe?
Without saying another word, I slid him the papers and he read them. Then he listened to my story.
And then he became part of my plan.
Viva, la Italy.
Rosa
Clicking of forks against porcelain china was the only sound heard in the dining room, as Father did the best he could to ignore my mother while she glared at him. Confused, I sent a glance to Ciara, who just shrugged, sipping her red wine, clearly unfazed with their attitudes. Living with them for the past months had certainly proved they didn't have a loving relationship, so I wondered why they hell they even bothered staying married to one another.
The wide room could easily be used for a photo shoot in an expensive magazine; that was how artificial everything seemed. Bourbon paper walls, expensive oak furniture handmade by Andy, who apparently was one of the best masters of our generation. The rectangular table with twelve dining chairs was placed in the center of the room under the glistening pink crystal chandelier while the wooden floor was covered with rare and luxurious Persian carpets. Vila de Rossi had golden marble as the foundation stone, so slippery I preferred wearing socks, which gave my mother a heart attack. Apparently nothing short of heels was acceptable.
Various paintings hung on the walls, somehow creating a claustrophobic feeling so strong I didn’t enjoy eating here. I usually woke early enough to eat in the kitchen, but the family dinners once a week were nonnegotiable. The villa as a whole had the same cold vibe, having more than thirty rooms with fifty people to serve us. Red, golden, and green dominated the design, and it irritated my eyes. Who the hell combined those colors?
Eliza, our housekeeper, picked up my empty plate, and asked, “Would you like a dessert?” Shaking my head, I gave her a weak smile, wiped my mouth with a white napkin from my lap, and stood up, the noise of the chair sliding back on the floor grating on everyone’s nerves. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.” Father frowned while Mother huffed.
“I don’t like your night trips. A good girl doesn't do it.” His eyes narrowed while he scanned my appearance. “Especially in those disgusting clothes.” I barely restrained myself from laughing in his face—jeans and a T-shirt evoking such a reaction in him, really? Nothing pleased them unless it was a flowery dress or a ballroom gown.
“Father—”
Mother cut me off, clearly wanting to jump into the routine lecture of theirs. “I don’t even understand why you need it so much! You have a wedding in nine days, which should be your main concern. Not some child who has his days numbered anyway.”
Coldness gripped as a tremor rushed through me, and my jaw almost hit the floor from how shocked I was. They never approved of me volunteering at the hospital, but so blatantly disrespecting the patients? Especially the little ones, as they were the hardest to watch disease sucked the life out of.
“Mother.” I prayed for patience, as screaming matches with them never helped, and they refused to see anything from my perspective. This was one of the reasons children shouldn't live with their parents once they hit the twenty-year-old mark. “In nine days, as you put it, my life will forever change. Before then, please allow me to rule it as I see fit.”
“No! I will not allow it. We’ve waited ages for this day.” Mother's voice turned almost desperate, panicky, and it confused me. The wedding appeared to be more important to her than me. Like some kind of lifeline she hung on to.
Placing my hands on my hips, I cocked my head to the side while raising my brow. “And why exactly would I need your permission?” With the way they hadn’t shown affection toward me and my sister, it baffled me why we still lived with them. Independence seemed like a much better option than this. One of many reasons I couldn't connect with the past Angelica. The girl let everyone walk all over her, if their orders were anything to go by. But I couldn't let them. Everything in me rebelled against the idea like a powerful storm.
Father hit the table with his fist, making the glasses and plates shiver and jump, and shouted, “Watch your mouth, Angelica!” He breathed heavily as veins in his forehead popped, displaying his anger and control threatening to snap. Taking a step back, I blinked several times. I couldn't believe it. As much as they acted like old folks set in their old ways, never once was I scared.
Ciara quickly joined me, laced her arm with mine, and did her best to defuse the situation. “Father, she didn't mean it like that. Please, her memory is not back, and she just feels vulnerable. Remember how the doctor told us she might have odd behavior? That’s one of those things.” She pinched my side, while keeping her focus on our father who studied her and me, deciding if she was selling him bullshit or not. Since she gave me the signal, I nodded, and he relaxed a bit.
His anger transformed into calmness in an instant as he lifted his hand and caressed my cheek, and by the tight grip Ciara had on my elbow and
her nails digging into my skin, I understood I shouldn't wince or show any kind of revulsion. “Angelica, I’m sorry. You may go. Just make sure to let them know it does not continue after the wedding.” Licking my dry lips, I willed myself to act normal and nodded.
We walked upstairs, where Ciara pushed me inside my room and shut the door quietly behind us. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed, running her fingers through her hair.
Rubbing my arm, I blinked rapidly, still dumbstruck from the scene downstairs, while she continued ranting, “No one acts like this around Dad! Unlike you, he didn't have any brain damage, sorella! This is unacceptable.”
Finally finding my voice as my anger rose, I grabbed my bag from the floor, checked my wallet and money, and replied, “Father or not, he has no right to act like this.” Did he always have these abusive tendencies? Ciara knew exactly how to defuse the situation enough for him to come out the winner, and it didn't sit well with me. “Why do we live with him?” Her eyes grew wide, and she exhaled a heavy breath.
“Because anything else is improper for good Catholic girls.” Which again made zero sense to me. We attended church once a week on Sundays, and besides that, he didn't act religious or give us lectures on perfect behavior. Whatever he demanded was more in line with mafia gang culture than anything else. But the flashes of his character that I’d witnessed downstairs sure unsettled me. Any act of violence, be it here or in a movie, created a feeling of ants biting into my skin as terror held me prisoner. No one could explain why, only that before the accident, it had never happened to me.
“I don’t understand… he allows you to travel all over the world and date whoever you want. Yet he can’t accept us moving out?”
A devastated expression marred her face before she composed herself again, and tiredly said, “I’m not you.” Before I could even ask what she meant, she shooed me outside. “Go, do your thing or he’ll change his mind. His guilt can last for only so long,” she whispered, and if I hadn't been late already, I’d have stayed with her, since she clearly was out of sorts. But my responsibilities at the hospital called to me, and quite frankly after the incident today, which added to already hectic feelings since meeting Dominic, I needed the walls of the hospital to center me enough to function. For several hours, I needed to be selfish.
