Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

“We were supposed to offload at Dock 23.”

He shrugs again. “They moved us. I don’t know why. Port supervisor told Ricardo, then Ricardo told me. You know how it goes with these grease monkeys down at the port, boss. They’re idiots.”

My nostrils flare as anger begins to simmer in my chest. “Why the fuck wasn’t I informed of this?”

He shrugs for a third time, which is really starting to piss me off. “Didn’t seem like a big deal. A dock is a dock, right?”

His casual manner irritates the fuck out of me. I step right up to him. “Do you want to fucking die today?”

Fear flashes over his face. “No, sir… Sorry, sir,” he stammers. “I’m sorry for not letting you know.”

“I don’t give second chances. Don’t fuck up again,” I warn him with a look promising pain and death.

Suddenly, a shot rings through the air. A bullet slams into Giovanni’s shoulder before he can even reach for his weapon.

I yank my gun from behind me and fire a shot in the direction the bullet came from.

All around me is the keening whine and rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire.

We’re caught out in the open. It’s a concrete wasteland, and I’m standing fifty feet away from anything that could protect me from whoever the fuck is daring to shoot in our direction.

I have to run, to move, to get the fuck out of the way and figure out a plan to fight back.

Just then, a bullet buries itself in the concrete six inches shy of my left foot. Claudio roars, and we dart into action.

“Run!” I yell to Claudio. “Find cover!”

I turn toward the car, dig my toes into the ground, and sprint as fast as I can, keeping my head low. Claudio is next to me, returning fire.

My men fight back, and soon the dock becomes nothing more than a war zone. Bullet fly. Bodies drop. Death feasts on the fallen men, both mine and the enemy.

Somehow, Claudio and I make it to the car unscathed. The driver is dead where he’s slumped over the steering wheel, courtesy of a bullet that pierced the windshield and then his forehead.

My consigliere and I take up positions and begin returning fire. All I can hear is the clack of spent bullets hitting the ground and the deadly hiss of enemy fire. It’s fucking chaos. The groans of wounded men rise up from their vantage points all around the concrete courtyard.

My gun makes a chkk-chkk sound. Out of bullets and I quickly reload it.

A bullet flies past my head and grazes my temple. The pain erupts, but I was lucky. An inch to the left, and I’d be a dead man instead.

“Marcello!” Claudio bellows in my ear. “We need to get out of here! Fall back!”

“No!” I tell him. I will not abandon my men or my shipment. I am the don, not some fucking coward. I will fight to the death if that’s what’s needed.

Standing our ground, we take the enemy out one after the other, and only when the last gunshot rings through the air do I leave the safety the car offered and stalk toward the bodies. Staring down at the fallen enemy, I recognize Igor’s men.

The fucker made a big mistake coming after me. I will end him and the Bratva.

I begin to shout orders, instructing half of my men to clear out the wounded and dead and the other half to offload the shipment. I send one to keep watch for when emergency services arrive, so we’ll have time to get out of here.

As we rush to get everything done in record time, anger rages in my chest, and my thirst for Igor’s blood grows.

My body is trembling with adrenaline by the time our cars peel away from the docks with screeching tires. As Claudio drives us home, I stare out of the window, planning my retaliation.

Arriving home, I stalk inside the house, and storm to my office, leaving a silent Claudio in my wake. After I slam the door behind me, I stand still for a moment, fists clenched at my side as I try to regain control over the destructive emotions whirling in my chest.

Suddenly, I flip the desk with a wordless roar. It crashes to the ground, sending papers flying everywhere.

Seizing hold of the glass tumbler full of whiskey on the bar cart, I fling it at the wall. It explodes, shards of glass scattering onto the carpet.

Slumping down on my chair, flashes of revenge fill my mind. I don’t know how long I sit there. My eyes are closed, though I see red behind my eyelids. I don’t move again until my breath has calmed and the last of my furious energy has dissipated.

Climbing to my feet, I stalk out of the office. It’s like I’m being drawn by some invisible force. I know immediately where it is taking me—this powerful, unspoken need that lives deep in my chest.