Reign (The Italian Cartel Book 3)

by Shandi Boyes

  Theresa paces to my side of the room with her hips swinging and her eyes brimming with hope. “Is this the real reason you invited me here, to discuss business?”

  I work the disappointment in her voice through my ears three times before benefiting from it. “For the most part.” After placing a whiskey decanter onto a round table, I track the back of my finger down Theresa’s cheek before moving my hand to the throb in her throat. I’m not surprised when the vein in her neck doubles its beeps when my touch switches from gentle to dominant. She is as kinky as she is corrupt. “But I’ve also been recalling the fun we had before my girlfriend’s pregnancy forced her to become my wife.”

  “You’re married?” She plays the scorned victim well, but I’m not buying her act. The grip I have on her throat relayed the increase in her pulse from my confession, not to mention the cruel curve of her lips. “Is she still in the picture?”

  “She is.” I release her from my grip, then push her away from me with a demoralizing shove, smirking when she almost tumbles to the floor. “For now. I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with her nagging, though.”

  I swallow down a double whiskey faster than intended when Theresa mutters, “Perhaps if you didn’t sleep around, she’d quit nagging.” I feel a little dirty when she rights herself before she runs her nails across my pecs. “What do you need from me, Dimi? A public fuck? A shakedown? I could order one of my cousins to pay her a visit.”

  I pretend to consider her options for a couple of seconds before saying, “I need her to go away for a little while. Not permanently. Just until her voice stops ringing in my ears. I heard you might know of a place.” While I shift on my feet to face her, I make sure my face is showcasing the infamous half-smirk she’s obsessed with. “Somewhere like the establishment you sent Megan to.”

  “I didn’t send Megan anywhere…” Her smile would have you believing you’re looking at an angel. She’s attractive, she just has repulsively ugly insides. “This time. My lips are sealed pertaining to other matters. I never discuss business, even when it’s with the man who ordered it.” She either truly believes I set Maddox up to take the fall for Megan’s murder, or she’s a damn good actor. It could be a combination of both.

  Needing to keep my focus on a present injustice instead of an old one, I ask, “Did you at least use an alias this time around? Shroud may be a common name, but you’d have to be a complete fucking idiot to hide her in plain sight for the second time.”

  “Your worry is unneeded, Dimi. I know what I’m doing.” Her use of my nickname for the second time already has my mood nosediving, so I won’t mention my response to her hands lowering to the buckle of my belt.

  I’ve fucked women for less information than the underhanded easter eggs she scattered throughout our brief conversation many times in my life, but that isn’t the way I operate anymore. I just can’t let Theresa know that right now. I need her scratching my back, then when the timing is right, I’ll drag mine down hers so brutally, she won’t have time to secure a final breath.

  “Nuh-uh,” I force out with a fake moan while scooping up her hands. “There isn’t the time nor the instruments in this room to satisfy a woman as deviate as you. I need hours, many of them.” Her purr makes me fucking sick. “So why don’t you go freshen up in preparation for a night out, and I’ll come find you when it’s time to go.”

  “Okay.” She does a childish tiptoe up my chest with her fingers before she presses two fingers to my lips. “Don’t keep me waiting long. Your family already has me burning the candle at both ends, my fire might burn out while waiting.”

  “We only work you to the bone because we know how much you love a good workout.” Imagine a sick prick stroking one out on a sandy dune in the middle of the day, then you’ll have an idea how sexually suggestive my voice was.

  After biting Theresa’s fingers, ensuring she feels the sting of my teeth, I spank her ass before guiding her out the door she entered only minutes ago. “Wear something sexy. You never know who may end up seeing you in your little number tonight.” Fingers crossed, it’s a coroner.

  She yelps about my spank, purrs like a kitty at my comment, then saunters down the corridor with her hips sashaying back and forth.

  I’ve barely scrubbed the horrid taste of her skin from my mouth when a faint voice trickles into the room from the other side. “Was that Theresa?”

  Since Audrey is still weak, she more leans on the doorjamb for support than in the casual I-want-to-beat-your-face-in stance Rocco used it for earlier today. Her folded arms, though, they’re new.

  Perhaps she does have more of a backbone than believed.

  I scrub the back of my hand over my mouth for the third time before answering, “Yes, it was. I invited her here to discuss business.” That was the exact line I gave her when she walked in on Theresa and me fooling around in my office weeks into our ‘courtship.’

  No longer smiling, Audrey enters my office. “Business?”

  I jerk up my chin, my ability to lie not lost by the hope in my wife’s eyes that I will one day be an honorable man.

  “Okay.” She takes another two frail steps. “Can you tell her I said hello?”

  Hello? She wants me to pass on a friendly greeting to the woman she saw sucking my dick.

  What the fuck?

  Roxanne would kill Theresa just for the thought.

  It would be an exchange I’d pay money to see.

  After ensuring my smirk is hidden, I reply, “Perhaps you can tell her yourself. She will be at the function tonight.”

  I don’t mean to be a prick. That’s a trait I only reserve for Roxanne these days. I am merely being optimistic that if I push Audrey as hard as I pushed Roxanne, she’ll gain half her gall. Then maybe she’ll have enough valor to see our daughter graduate middle school.

  It seems to work when Audrey mutters out snappily, “I would have to be invited first.”

  “You’re invited,” I respond like it was always my plan to have her in attendance. “I’ll have Smith forward you another invitation since yours got lost.”

  The event is invitation only. If you don’t have one, you won’t make it past my security personnel. I did that not only to ensure Roxanne wasn’t in the same room as the many women I’ve fucked, but so I could concentrate on anything but her and Fien for a couple of hours.

  My businesses ran like oil through an engine while searching for Fien, but now that she’s home, everything has gone to shit. My Arabian event for this month was rescheduled, a massive drug shipment is stuck in customs in Africa since my bribe was a day late, and even with Petrettis Restaurant being raided only last month, it was hit again two days ago. It is as if the universe saw I was getting slack, so they hit me with back-to-back losses to ensure I know no matter how weary I am, the Cartel never sleeps.

  After tossing back a second whiskey, I place the glass down, then spin to face Audrey. “I’m about to see Fien. You can join me if you like.” I don’t know why I made my demand sound like it was an offer when it wasn’t.

  Fien has warmed to me greatly the past three days, but it would be a smoother transition if our exchanges weren’t occurring with two strangers in the room with her. It’s always India and me instead of Audrey and me.

  Even though India drives me bat-shit crazy, I can admit her assistance this week has been a godsend. Fien has taken a real liking to her, and since India involves me in Fien’s day-to-day activities, that fondness is slowly being transitioned to me. But, once again, I believe that would be an easier process if Audrey would step up to the plate to parent our child as she deserves.

  “Fien is about to have dinner. I’m certain Rosa made enough for everyone.”

  My clutch around Audrey’s waist could be classified as cruel, considering she underwent surgery only five days ago, but it makes the dismissive shake of her head less obvious.

  “Here he is. Dada has arrived to eat spaghetti.” India’s head pops up from the clips of Fien’s highchair
to the entrance of the kitchen, her eyelids fluttering when she spots Audrey tucked into my side. “And he brought Mommy with him. Aren’t you a lucky girl?”

  I’m a hard-ass gangster in every meaning of the word, but I’d also be a lying prick if I said Fien’s giggles didn’t do weird things to my chest. Even with them being produced from India tickling her tummy, they’re still such a rarity, I drink in every one of them as if she released them solely for me.

  The scent of someone in love with their perfume smacks into me when Audrey arrives at my side of the kitchen. Her eyes are on me, but her words are for Audrey. “How are you feeling? I’m a little concerned you are already up and about.”

  While India guides Audrey to the other side of the garlic-and-tomato-scented space to discuss her worries in-depth, I slot onto the dining chair directly next to Fien’s highchair. “What have you got there? Spaghetti. Yum.” When I rub my stomach, she peers at me like I’m an idiot. Today, it doesn’t make me want to go on a murderous rampage. “Can I have some?”

  She watches me with a slanted head and a twinkle in her eyes for a couple of seconds before she digs her hand into a bowl of mucky redness, then slams her grubby hand into my face.

  I’m not the only one laughing about the mess coating my lips. The faintest chuckle sounds through the door I forced Audrey through only moments ago.

  Roxanne’s giggles do a weird thing to my chest as well, but they also make me want to go on a murderous rampage. Not just because she has to watch my interactions with my daughter from afar, but because I have to be an asshole to ensure she maintains her distance.

  It feels wrong using Fien to strengthen my objection, but I don’t have a choice. I’m still being fucked in the ass. My enemies are just using Roxanne against me now instead of my daughter. “How about we feed Mommy some spaghetti too?”

  Fien’s eyes brighten like she understood every word I said before she holds her grubby hands in the air. She claps them together while saying, “Mama.”

  I assume she’s reaching out for Audrey. Alas, it isn’t just my businesses being siphoned down the gurgler this week. Audrey is no longer in the kitchen, and India is tiptoeing across the room like she has the ability to ease both Fien’s and my disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, Mama had to lie down. She was feeling dizzy,” India says before she playfully chews on Fien’s outstretched hands, sending her girlie shrills bouncing around the kitchen. “Yummo, that’s the most delicious sauce I’ve ever tasted.” She rubs her belly before she shifts on her feet to face me. A devious grin is stretched across her face, and her eyes are gleaming with a sparkle I’ve never seen before. “Do you think we should feed Dada some more spaghetti?”

  Before I can object, or at the very least, request they use a fork this time around, India scoops up a handful of spaghetti in her hand, then splats it down one side of my face.

  My first thought is to reach for my gun, but the clapping cheer of my daughter stops me. She isn’t giggling about India’s unexpected gall, she’s clapping her hands while cooing ‘Dada’ on repeat. It’s the sweetest fucking noise in the world and has me responding in a way my crew would never expect.

  “Oh. My. God. That’s warmer than I realized,” India says on a squeal when I upend my untouched bowl of spaghetti onto her white blouse. “Tastes good, though.”

  Laughing, she flings half the spaghetti on her chest into my face before playfully rubbing the other half into Fien’s hair. Like all toddlers, Fien loves the mess. She adds to the sticky goop flattening her already dead-straight hair before she tosses strands of pasta off her highchair, joining the food fight India instigated.

  We go at it for the next several minutes, laughing, cheering, and making a mess. Before we know it, a week’s worth of spaghetti is on the floor, India’s sauced-coated body is being cradled in my arms, her lips are an inch from mine, and Roxanne is racing for the closest exit.

  31

  Roxanne

  They have no connection.

  No spark.

  No chemistry whatsoever, so why the hell am I pacing the floor of my room like Dimitri’s ‘mistress’ comment was accurate?

  Because it isn’t the fire brewing between him and his wife you’re worried about.

  Ugh! I can’t believe I stood by and watched India fawn over Dimitri like a freak. They weren’t kissing, but they may as well have been. The intensity between them was ferocious enough to overcook the spaghetti they were tossing around, fully aware their mutual hierarchy would mean they’d never have to clean up the mess.

  My heart, on the other hand, can’t be passed onto a member of Dimitri’s staff. He made it the mess it is, so it’s up to him to fix it.

  If that’s what I still want.

  I truly don’t know anymore. The past three days have sucked. I was called a liar by the very woman Dimitri is playing house with, had my child’s life discredited by a doctor the community believes is morally ethical, and found out even if I could somehow forge a way back into Dimitri’s life as weirdly encouraged by Audrey the past three days, I could never give him what he so desperately craves—his missed months with Fien.

  It appears as if my mother didn’t have a change of heart. She merely knew handing me over to Rimi would have cost her more than my life. Rumors are he didn’t take kindly to people who deceived him.

  For future reference, selling a woman incapable of breeding to a baby-farming entrepreneur isn’t recommended if you’re fond of breathing.

  I won’t lie. It hurt discovering the real reason I was spared that day. I thought my mother had finally protected me, that she had saved me from the harm my father tried to inflict on me since I was three.

  Sadly, Rimi wasn’t the only person she fooled.

  Rocco assured me I have the means to fix the injustices she made. I just have to work out how far I want to take it. At the moment, that isn’t something I can do. My head is too muddled trying to work out what the fuck is going on with Dimitri to add more shit into the mix.

  Audrey swapped seats with me twice the past three days to ensure I was seated across from Dimitri at dinner. She hasn’t worn the wedding ring found amongst the carnage of Rimi’s crew once, and she’s been nothing but genuinely kind to me.

  Even with her having every right to hate me, she truly doesn’t.

  Dimitri, in contrast, hasn’t followed her lead. He’s been avoiding me like I have the plague, and it’s killing me more than I care to admit.

  After flopping onto my bed and throwing an arm over my eyes, I take a moment to deliberate. Perhaps I should let India’s head housekeeper pack my belongings? I can’t give Dimitri what he wants, so letting him go may be the nicest thing I could ever give him.

  That’s what I do.

  I forever place everyone’s needs before my own.

  My inability to place myself first is the only reason I didn’t replace the sauce stains on India’s blouse with blood. Believe me, it was hard walking away. It took all my strength.

  Do I feel like the better person? No, I don’t. But at least I didn’t force Fien to witness more violence than she already has in her short life.

  My deliberation gets a much-needed intermission when a tiny gust of air trickles into my ears. My door isn’t locked. Excluding Rocco, no one comes down here. I usually hear the clumps of his boots long before he knocks on my door. That didn’t happen this time around. My greeter’s steps sounded as weightless as a feather.

  Curious, I prop myself onto my elbows before I stray my eyes to the door. My heart pitter-patters in my chest when I spot an envelope on the floor mere inches from the carved wooden door. It isn’t overly fancy, but the gilded cardboard inside of it most certainly is.

  I creep toward the envelope like it could explode at any moment. When it fails to detonate, I scoop down and gather it up, breathing easier when I notice it is minus a single smear of spaghetti sauce.

  Although my inquisitiveness is demanding for me to open the envelope this very i
nstant, a much higher, much more willful stubbornness sees me opening the door to my room instead.

  “Audrey…” I call out, certain she is the owner of the red locks swishing around the corner. Her hair is beautiful and healthy since she never chemically bleached it to change its natural coloring. I often envy it when I need a moment of reprieve from Dimitri’s glaring stare across the dining room table. He wanted me uncomfortable enough not to eat. I refused to give him the satisfaction. I gobbled down my meals like my stomach wasn’t bulging against the zipper in my pants, begging for some room. Then, when it produced the infamous half-smirk Dimitri would give anything to remove from his face, I tackled dessert as well.

  When Audrey fails to hear my shout, I re-enter my room, close the door, then rip open the envelope like a savage. If my deliverer is who I think it was, something major must be happening. I haven’t had many interactions with Audrey the past three days, but everyone we’ve had has involved Dimitri in some way.

  The twinge of rejection I’ve been struggling to ignore the past four days gets a boost when my eyes scan a handwritten invitation. There’s no indication it was meant to be addressed to me, and its prose indicates it’s for an event way above my level of sophistication, but I act ignorant.

  The event at an exclusive nightclub commences two hours before I’m due to fly out.

  Its timing couldn’t be more perfect.

  My value hasn’t decreased because Dimitri no longer sees my worth. If anything, it has increased because he helped me find the strength to believe I’m worth more than nothing, and now I have the chance to expose exactly how valuable I am.

  A smirk etches onto my mouth when Rocco takes a staggering step back. “What the fuck, Princess P? I thought I was driving you to the airport?” As he chews on the corner of his lower lip, he rakes his eyes over my body-hugging strapless top, skintight leather pants, and pumps that would make most men cream their pants just at the thought of having them curled around their sweaty hips. It killed me trying to squeeze my ballooned foot into the tiny opening of my stiletto, but I made it work, determined it added to the authenticity of my ruse. “That outfit is not flight appropriate. I’m not even sure it’s club-worthy.” I realize I hit the bullseye when he grabs his crotch, wordlessly begging for it to calm down. “It’s gonna give D a heart attack.”