Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

by Catherine Wiltcher

Never, ever, am I the victim of it.

  I find Zaccaria in the dealer’s chair at the head of the blackjack table, shuffling a deck of cards like a pro. Six of his clan are fanned out either side of him, three apiece. Some are leaning against the other tables. Some are slouched in their chairs, smoking gold tip cigarettes and sharing another of my whiskeys. Straight swigs. No finesse. Their suits are as tailored as my own, but strip down the Armani and we’re just a bunch of Fagin’s crew underneath it all.

  The number of men doesn’t faze me, but their attack formation makes me pause. The don has positioned himself like a centerpiece general, but I’m the one who’s firing first.

  “We had a deal, Zaccaria.” Sliding my hands into my pants’ pockets, I stride up to the table, acting like the iceman has cometh and my last fuck to give just took a private jet out of Monaco. “I hope you’ve come to deliver.”

  He laughs, the sound as wicked and depraved as I remembered. “My, my, the young boy who ran away to Sicily all those years ago has done well for himself.”

  It goes both ways, old man. Still, I take the compliment with a nod, projecting the whims of a so-called gentleman, even though we both know its bullshit. I did what he asked of me, and now I want what I’m owed.

  “I’m cleaning your money more effectively than a Chinese laundry these days. We’re fast approaching the two billion mark, and Interpol still doesn’t have shit on us. That’s two billion—neatly folded and pressed, and delivered to an account of your choosing.”

  “Yes, yes.” He dismisses my words with a flick of his wrist, as if that figure was nothing more than a monetary inconsequence. “Your servitude to this organization has been noted.”

  “Noted?” My emphasis on the word is doused in disbelief. “Is that all I get for making you enough clean green to keep you in white truffle pizzas for the rest of your natural life?”

  He hums and shuffles the cards again, but I’m smart enough to know when a soft sound is a prelude to a tough sell. He wants something else from me, but I’m damned if I know what.

  “You will never be a made man, Knight,” he states gruffly, as if it’s some kind of personal tragedy to him. “You will never take the vow of Omertà. Still, I like to think that noi siamo vecchi amici.” That we are old friends. “That you will always be more than an associate to this great family.”

  And you will always be more than a mere Capodecina, I think, taking in the slicked-back gray hair and the trenches plowed deep into his skin like the graves he’s dug for his enemies. He finally earned the title of Capo Dei Capi a few years ago. He’s the boss of all the bosses now. All the clans of the Cosa Nostra bend the knee to him or they have them shattered.

  Cruising to a stop in front of the blackjack table, I bite down on my patience and don't much like the taste of it. “You’ve known all along that my interest in your organization only cuts as deep as your connections.”

  He smirks and nods, splitting the deck into two equal piles. Plumes of smoke curdle the air all around me as he reveals the top four cards, each one representing a different suit:

  King of spades.

  Ace of diamonds.

  Queen of hearts.

  Jack of clubs.

  He chuckles again. “Do you weight your cards, Knight? Are they always this rich in your presence?”

  “I gamble with choices, not money.” I finger the old lighter in my pocket, rolling the smooth steel between my forefinger and thumb. “Nothing more than a thousand euros ever leaves my wallet here.”

  “What about history? Do you gamble on that?” His next smirk strikes me like a lash from a cat o’ nine.

  “Are you questioning my loyalty?” I narrow my eyes at him. Once upon a time, he scared the shit out of me. Now I only scare myself. “What is this? A mafia interrogation or a real swell time?”

  “This, Knight, is more of that servitude we discussed fourteen years ago.”

  Our gazes catch and I fire an unspoken question at him.

  “All in good time, my friend.” He offers me a sage, Brando-esque style nod as life imitates art in all its stupid hubris. “You have a history; we have a history. Even these cards have one.” Reluctantly, I follow his eyes down to the cut deck. “Some believe that the four suits represent the four classes of English Medieval society.” He points to the king of spades. “Swords for the military.” He moves his finger to the ace of diamonds. “Coins for the merchants.” Another swipe left to the jack of clubs. “Batons for the peasants, and finally...” His digit comes to rest on the queen of hearts, tapping gently. “Chalices for those who believe.”

  “Are you suggesting I find God?” I say idly. “He and the cult of innocence are pariahs out here. This is where the good die young and the bad live forever.”

  “Not God, no.” I watch him swing his fingers back to each card in turn. He’s taunting me with something that’s still masked in black. “Tell me. Which of these four suits represents you best?”

  “Suits being the operative word.” I adjust my Windsor knot and smooth down the black tails of my necktie. “These days I own the most exclusive casino in Monte Carlo so I’m staking my claim over all of them.”

  His wispy gray eyebrows turn down in disapproval. “Greedy?”

  “Realist.” I flash him a cocky grin and a ripple of amusement pierces the smoke. “Give me what I’m owed and I’ll let you educate me some more.”

  “Sit.” He gestures to the empty leather chair in front of him. “You’re wrong. Three suits smile at you. The other mocks you.”

  “Mocks?” I take the chair with a scowl.

  “You are an army of one, you were born into poverty, and now you’re a nobleman for sin.” He deals my life story with dangerous aplomb, pointing to each card in turn, before returning to the queen of hearts. “Your weakness will always be this…this lack of faith.” I watch as he takes the card and rips it in two, tossing the pieces in my direction. “You are an associate out of duty only. You are an associate only because it gets you what you want.”

  “I was straight with you from the start, Zaccaria. You knew what I wanted.” Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on the table. “You’re giving me a headache with all the hush-hush. Spit out the reason why you’re really here, and then I can go back to corrupting this place.”

  There’s a long pause, and then he’s sweeping his hand across the cards, forming a jagged white arc on the green felt. “Do you recall the day we first met?”

  I’m transported back to a memory room with peeling paint, infused with the rich earthy aroma of freshly roasted Italian coffee and sweet Limoncello.

  “I remember a boy on a mission,” I clip back. And emotions I’ve long since buried.

  “You came to me for answers.”

  “You gave me fuck all in return.”

  He huffs out a disagreement. “I educated you. I taught you the discipline of La Famiglia. Don’t forget, I was the one who set you up here—”

  “Zaccaria—”

  “Three months ago I was sworn into La Società Villefort. I have the names you seek. I have your list.”

  The room falls silent.

  “All of them?” The glide of my throat sounds like thunder.

  “Both of them,” he clarifies with a nod. “One hitman. One look-out.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I am of my sons’ devotion to me.”

  But not of mine.

  His subtext is clear. Since I left Sicily, I’m not his fixer dog anymore. Lack of faith, my arse. The old man’s feeling neglected.

  “So? Where are they?” I fold my arms across my chest to disguise my hammering heart.

  “I will honor our agreement, Knight, but there are new caveats.”

  “What fucking caveats?”

  “I see your language is as colorful as ever.” He glances at his eldest son, Luca. “This stretch of coastline is being eroded by war,” he states briskly. “We are not the only big fish in a golden pond. Le Milieu—the Fren
ch mob—Bratva… Especially Bratva. No crime is committed here without Russian or Italian involvement. Bloodshed is rife, yet why waste more lives when there is an abundance of opportunity for us all.”

  He’s not telling me anything I don't already know. My ties with the Bratva cut off the circulation to my morals as effectively as my ties to the Cosa Nostra do. Their money filters through this place as well, and I go to great pains to ensure that neither one knows about my involvement with the other.

  “There was an agreement,” interrupts Luca, taking a lazy drag on his cigarette. Dark-eyed, Sinatra smooth, late twenties. We could almost be twins. “The first of its kind, between Aleksandr Dubov, the Semion Pakhan, and my father. It was a way to bring peace to our organizations.”

  “What agreement?” How the fuck did I not know about this?

  “His eldest daughter, Karina, and Luca were deemed the match to bring our two great families together.” I watch Zaccaria’s expression switch to that of a Tuscan thunderstorm.

  “Were?” I gesture at Luca’s bare ring finger. “Was her Russian pussy not up to standards?”

  “Her double-crossing Russian pussy,” he corrects with a glare. “A day before the wedding the baldracca disappeared, bringing shame upon us all.”

  Not me. I’m immune to such sentiment.

  “Big deal. So, you got jilted.”

  “Dubov has another daughter.”

  “There you go.” I toss him a sympathetic grin. “Second time’s a charm. Let’s hope she’s not the runt of the litter.”

  “Not me, bastardo,” he says, his fleshy lips curling into a smirk.

  I can feel a plot twist coming on and I’m not going to like it.

  “Karina is a disgrace,” agrees his father. “She will be found and dealt with in due course. Meanwhile, Dubov has offered us Ielena as a sweetener to help keep the deal alive.”

  Ielena?

  “So which of your sons is the lucky man?” I glance at each of them in turn, only to be greeted by a wall of gloating.

  “She will never be good enough for us.” Zaccaria gathers up the cards into a messy pile. “Not now. Not ever. Instead, I have decided that you will marry her.” He stops and flashes his teeth at me, like he did all those years ago—a camera flare on a done deal. “To have her betrothed to an associate, and not to a made man will punish Dubov for his eldest daughter’s indiscretion… And bring us favorable terms for the deal.”

  A bark of disbelief rumbles up from the center of my chest. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to take a wife. Find some other man to do your dirty work.”

  “You want the first name on your list?”

  “My God, you’re serious.”

  “Two caveats for the two names you seek. The first will be given to you as a wedding gift, and the second for information about the whereabouts of Ielena’s sister—”

  “So, I’m your fucking P.I., too?” I’m struggling to comprehend the maelstrom of shit he’s just dumped on me.

  The Italian frowns, deepening the trenches to bat caves. “Ielena is hiding something and I want to know what. Are we clear?”

  “No we’re not fucking clear. What are you going to do to the next ‘old friend’ who cleans two billion for you? Cut off his dick and make him smoke it?”

  “In seven days I’ll be back in Monte Carlo to finalize the deal with Dubov and I want you sitting at the table with me. The deal will benefit you, too. That’s all the time I’m giving you to seduce the secrets out of your innocent new wife. Lie, steal, debase… Show me how much you still want your justice.”

  Is he kidding me? What have the last fourteen years been? A scratch and sniff commitment? At the same time, my free will is slipping down my spine like ice. This marriage is all that’s standing between me and the only thing that matters.

  “We have other ways to make people talk besides forced matrimony, Zaccaria,” I snarl. “I should know. I’m damn good at it.”

  “Arranged matrimony,” he counters smoothly. “Not forced.”

  That’s a matter of opinion.

  “Anything else?” My temper is crashing through the flashing red safety zone now. “The blood of my firstborn, perhaps?”

  Zaccaria reaches into his jacket pocket and produces an Arturo Fuente cigar. He’s celebrating, and so he should be. Turns out, I’m still his lapdog after all.

  “Why me?” I grit out.

  “Your lack of faith was…concerning me.” He clips the end of his cigar with a stainless-steel cutter and brings a match to the stub. “The Cosa Nostra is demanding this show of loyalty. You’ve grown powerful outside the confines of La Famiglia.” Puff. Puff. “You’re turning into a dangerous man, and dangerous men need to be taught humility once in a while.”

  “By gift-wrapping me and delivering me to the Russians? I’m amazed her father agreed to this.”

  “He is a proud man. Bratva obey their own codes of honor. He is also a man of vision, and Ielena is a sacrifice he is willing to make.”

  My fingers close around my father’s old lighter again. It’s a solid reminder of why I do what I do when shit gets hazy, and things are pretty out-of-focus right now.

  “The marriage application will be lodged with the Town Hall immediately. The intent will be posted, all hugely expedited of course. The ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?” I move fast, slamming my fist down on the blackjack table, and setting off a ricochet of shouts and cocked guns behind me. “How do I know this list isn’t just a couple of random hits you want taken care of?”

  “I gave you my word.” He ices me up with glare. “You’ve waited and hoped and I’m here to deliver, with a few tweaks to the original agreement.” He smiles, but it doesn’t come close to affection. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

  I ram my fists into my pants’ pockets again. “Is she here?”

  “She arrives from Paris today. She’s been born and raised in this country. She knows no other.”

  My fiancée.

  My. Fucking. Fiancée.

  This is a joke.

  “I want that first name, Zaccaria. Before I even think about consummating this sham. Do you hear?” I pause as I exit the room to deliver my parting shot. “And if you think I’m partaking in any of your prehistoric first night mafia rituals—”

  “I don't give a damn what you do with her.” He rises to his feet as well, his movements stiff and deliberate and more in keeping with his age than the devil that he is. “This is not a traditional mafia betrothal. Send her back to Paris after you’ve used her up. Throw her over the side of your yacht. Her father won’t intervene.” His harsh laugh follows me out into my glass-domed atrium. “As far as we’re concerned, the only useful things about Ielena Dubova are her sex and her secrets.”

  Chapter Three

  Aiden

  Present…

  “What the hell happened to you?” says Frankie as I erupt from the bar a dripping mess of fury. He’s leaning against my Maserati, smoking a Marlboro Red, his expression of interest framed by silver trails of cigarette smoke.

  “I had a disagreement with a bottle of Saint-Émilion. What do you think happened? And what the hell did I tell you about smoking?”

  His eyebrows quirk in disbelief as I stand there, raking my fingers through my sopping wet hair and shaking off the excess.

  “Tough vintage.”

  “Tough day. Jesus.” I rip at my tie in disgust, yanking it down to half-mast. “I smell like Bill Gates’ wine cellar. Where the hell did she go?”

  “Who?” Frankie chucks his stub away and glances up and down the palm-tree lined Croisette, but there are only fast cars and sunburned tourists littering the spotless asphalt.

  “The uptight socialite. Dark-haired, easily offended…” Dick-jerkingly stunning when giving me heated declamations.

  Frankie shrugs. “Haven’t seen her. Did Anderson cough up?”

  “Not yet. I’m considerin
g a debt extension.”

  “He owes the casino half a mil, Aiden…”

  “Bring the baseball bat out of retirement if it tickles your balls so much. He’s staying at The Mandrake. Penthouse suite.” With that, I stalk over to the car with red wine tricking down between my shoulder blades. There are two schools of thought when you’re born piss-poor like us. If money ever comes your way, you count the pennies like him, or you hold it to ransom like I do.

  “I’m not splitting it with you, if I do,” he says slyly.

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  “Was she cute?”

  “As cute as a used syringe on a kiddie beach,” I say, wrenching the driver’s door open.

  I’ve been walking around like a lit fuse ever since Zaccaria’s happy little casino stopover this morning. I was planning on detonating it all over that weasel, Anderson, and then I clocked the Paris Hilton clone sitting at the next table—her manners as neatly folded up as her napkin. A beautiful waste of space, whiling the hours away in the company of rich strangers, just because she could.

  Something about her slid right under my skin like broken glass. The world is a spinning sphere of prejudice. I’ve had to fight for everything. I’ve fist-pumped one deadly sin after another to cement my place, while people like Issa have had it handed to them on a silver platter by a snooty English butler in coat tails.

  She never stood a chance.

  Turns out, neither did my suit.

  “It’s not like you to crash and burn,” I hear Frankie say. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to quit sharking about with a new fiancée in your pocket.” He aims it low with his trademark grin, landing a bulls-eye on the one thing I’m trying hard not to think about.

  “If we ignore that particular shitshow, it might go away.”

  “It?” He strides around to the passenger door, shooting me a dirty look over the clean black lines of my two-hundred-thou car. “Your fiancée has a name, Aiden.”

  Ielena.

  Ielena.

  I-don't-want-to-be-married-to-ya.

  Burt Bacharach should make a song about it.