Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

She makes a tsk sound. “You know those detectives are only trying to get more money out of you. The police investigated it years ago, you know that. It was an accident.”

“No,” I reply, trying to keep my cool. “Someone dragged me out that night. I already told you that.”

“It could have been a dream while you were out,” she tries to explain. “Besides, you were so young. Maybe you just can’t remember it right.”

“Andrea, I’m sure. Please believe me,” I plead, desperate for her to believe me. “Someone murdered them.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to kill your parents, Harper? What motive could they have?” Her tone makes it clear she’s indulging me, but I continue the conversation.

“I don’t know. What if my parents were involved in … underbelly stuff? Like trying to get junkies off the street and into rehab? And what if the people selling those drugs didn’t want them to do that because it hurt their business?”

“Harper.” She sighs out loud. “You know that sounds ridiculous, right?”

“I’ve seen the information the PI gave me, Andrea. Some shady men are involved, and I have to find out more. I just have to.”

“Harper, please don’t do this.”

I bite my lip. “I can’t. I won’t stop. But I promise you, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I always do,” she says.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I can’t give this up. You have to understand.”

She sighs. “Okay. You know I love you, right?”

I smile, even though it’s a bitter one, because I know she’s disappointed. “I love you too.”

Then I hang up the phone and stare at the screen for a few seconds, wondering how I can ever convince her of what I saw that night … or if it truly was all my imagination.

Marcello

I’m seconds away from losing the last bit of my fucking patience.

Just then Odhran appears from the back of the club and heads in my direction. Fear tightens his features as he begins, “Mr. Dellucci–”

Tilting my head, I meet his eyes, promising a world of pain. “If the next words out of your mouth are anything but ‘the Duffy brothers are ready to see you,’ then I’m going to lose my temper, and we both know you don’t want that to happen.”

Odhran swallows hard, sweat beading on his forehead, despite the frigid A/C blasting from vents in every corner of the room.

“Mr. Dellucci,” he says again, “my employers are almost done dealing with the unforeseen problem. They just need another ten min—”

Climbing to my feet, I knock the tumbler from the table, and as it shatters at our feet, my arm darts out, and I grab the front of the trembling man’s shirt. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

He nods quickly, his breaths speeding up.

“Then you know what I’m capable of.”

“Y-Yes, Mr. Dellucci,” he says, his voice soaked with fear.

I bare my teeth. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, I know what you’re capable of.”

“Good. Then you know the respect I am owed.”

He nods quickly.

“Tell Patrick and Finnegan to get their asses out here now, or there will be hell to pay.”

Odhran nods again, and when I release him, he collapses into a puddle on the ground.

“You heard him!” Ricardo bellows as he joins us. He shoves a booted toe into Odhran’s ribs. “Go get those fucking Duffys!”

Odhran scurries away, whips around the bar, and disappears to the back of the club.

I sit down again, and adjusting my cuffs, I try to rein in my temper before I start killing people.

“Something has them spooked,” Claudio murmurs. “Either that or they’re scheming. Neither is good.”

Letting out a chuckle, I say, “Then there will be a bloodbath tonight. They have five minutes.” Turning my attention to the rest of my men seated at the table, I say, “Be ready for anything.”

“Yes, boss,” they all reply in unison.

“I’m going to the restroom,” Claudio says. I watch as he gets up and heads toward a hallway.

A waitress brings a new glass with whiskey splashed over some ice, and as I take a sip, my eyes scan over all the patrons and staff, ready for the first sign of trouble.

Harper

I put away my phone and go back to serving drinks. I pick up a new tray from the countertop meant for table sixteen, but as I pass a few tables, I overhear a conversation in a back room that draws me closer.

I peek through the crack in the door. Two similar-looking men are having a whispered, anxious conversation in the back. Their accents sound Irish, and one of them has an ugly scar on his neck.

I lean in and turn my ear toward the door, hoping to catch something that might be important.

“This is a bad idea,” one of them says.

“Calm down,” the one with the scar says, clutching the guy’s shoulders. “Get ahold of yourself.”