Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
To keep her safe, I'll do whatever I have to do. But on the off chance I ever forget what's at stake, Ricci Morano is a living, breathing reminder of just how little my brother-in-law trusts me on my own. Rafe installed him here to keep an eye on me.
Ricci reports back to Rafe about what I've been up to around here, I have no illusions about that. He's taking no chances that I'll betray his family again.
Guess the fact that my hands are stained with the blood of his enemies isn't reason enough to trust that I chose my side. My loyalty was all but guaranteed the minute he put a ring on my sister's finger and declared her queen. I won't make a move against him so long as it puts her at risk.
Sooner or later, he'll figure it out. Until then, it is what it is. I did the crime when I betrayed him and his brothers. If being watched closely is my punishment…it's a helluva lot less than I deserve. The sentence for betrayal in this world is death. The sentence for rats is a slow, painful one.
I got off easy.
The intercom on my desk buzzes.
"Mattia is on the line for you," Ricci announces.
"Send him through," I growl. Mattia Agostino is Rafe's consiglieri. He's also become a surprisingly good friend. Things were touch and go for a while—his loyalty is to Rafe—but somewhere along the way, an actual friendship developed between us. He's an interesting motherfucker.
Ricci sends the call through without another word.
"You're expected for dinner," Mattia says without preamble.
"Hello to you too."
He ignores me, same as he does every time he calls. Mattia's phone skills are shit. His people skills aren't much better. He doesn't do small talk or exchange pleasantries. When he calls, he says what he needs to say and that's the end of it. He's been mafia too goddamn long to trust phones. Shit. He's been mafia too goddamn long to trust anyone or anything.
And yet, for some reason, he trusts me.
"Rafe wants all of us there."
"All of us?" I quirk a brow, not sure which all of us he means.
"Luca, Gabe, you, me, Coda, and Domani."
Luca and Gabriel, two of Rafe's brothers, help oversee the Valentino empire. Between the three of them, they've got Chicago in a stranglehold. Gabriel runs their legitimate business—a multi-billion-dollar company. Luca oversees acquisitions for the business and day-to-day operations for their less-than-legal endeavors. Coda Passero and Domani Brambilla are two of Rafe's most trusted lieutenants. If Rafe is calling us in but not his twin, Nico, either someone fucked up or there's trouble on the horizon.
I don't ask for details. Mattia won't give them over the phone, and I'm not stupid enough to believe the FBI isn't still monitoring my calls. They stopped coming around months ago, but they're like a fucking dog with a bone.
"What time?"
"Be here at six." Mattia pauses. "And your sister says don't bring more shit for the baby or she's killing you. I believe she means it."
I smile in genuine amusement. Amalia's been threatening to kill me ever since she found out she was pregnant. Apparently, pregnancy makes her cranky. Or maybe it's all the shit I keep buying for their kid. Who the fuck knows? But she loves the presents, even if she'll never admit it.
And she won't ever admit it. My sister would kill for the people she loves, but she's stubborn as all hell and has a fiery temper. I'm not surprised Rafe fell for her. She's as temperamental as he is and just as much of a wild card.
The world will tremble when their kid gets here.
"Bring more shit for the baby," I murmur, pretending to write it down. "Got it."
Mattia's sigh sends static down the line. "It's your funeral, Butera."
"Mr. Butera."
I stop halfway across the parking garage outside my penthouse on the Loop, turning to glance over my shoulder. Most people who live here don't know who I am. I've never bothered playing nice with the neighbors. The less they know about me, the better.
Whoever's calling my name seems to know me, though.
My gaze lands on a curvy African American woman weaving her way between two cars, and my dick turns to steel. Even in heels, she's petite, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. Her black hair is pulled up in an elegant bun, leaving her round face unobscured.
I don't know who she is, but she's fucking gorgeous. She's strait-laced perfection, not a hair out of place. Not a single wrinkle in sight. She carries herself with her head high, her expression serene. It's a fascinating glimpse of who this woman wants the world to think she is. But her bright hazel eyes tell a different story. There's fire in her, burning hot. And it's not nearly as contained as she'd like to think it is.