Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

I have my gun pressed against his forehead, right between his eyes. There’s fear in them, but he is handling it well. I would have expected no less. Claudio was never a coward.

I have fought with him, killed with him. And that wasn’t enough? Now he’s gone and sold me out to my enemy?

Disappointment lies heavy on my shoulders as I stare down at the one person I trusted with my life.

Behind me, the rest of my capos sit in a semi-circle. No one says a word or moves a muscle. There’s only the stench of Claudio’s sweat. This room—the council room in my basement has seen its fair share of executions like this one—feels dark and claustrophobic.

“Now is your time to confess, Claudio,” I say in a grim rasp. The men around me are watching, waiting for this traitor’s explanation. “Tell the council what you did. Tell them how you betrayed us.”

My hand is shaking with fury. I trusted this man, and he used that trust to stab me in the back. Laws be damned—I ought to blow his brains out before he even gets the chance to speak.

“Claudio,” I bark, “You’ve been accused of betraying the mafia you swore to protect. This Family will never tolerate a traitor. I sentence you to death.”

“I swear I didn’t betray you, Marcello,” he says. Even in the face of death, his voice is clear and unwavering. It’s hard not to admire that. “The phone was planted. I’ve never seen it in my life.”

“Bullshit,” I bark. “You’re a fucking liar. Just say what you did, and I will put you down quickly.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t confess to what I didn’t do. All a man has in this world is his word and his honor. I’m offering you both, Don. You have to believe me.”

“We found the phone in your apartment,” I snarl. I readjust my grip on the gun and wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. The men are silent and waiting. It is up to me to decide what happens next. “We all read the texts. Clear as day. You sold us out to the Russians. You told them fucking everything.”

Claudio shakes his head again vigorously. “It wasn’t me,” he repeats. “That phone wasn’t mine.”

“Prove it,” I say finally. I ease the gun off his forehead a tiny bit.

“Check my real cell phone,” he says, and he points toward the pile of his things Ricardo took from him when he was brought into the council room for this execution.

I nod to Ricardo. He bends over and riffles through the stuff. Finding a cell phone, he hands it over to me. I hold it down to Claudio. “Open it,” I order. “Go slow. If you do anything suspicious, I’ll blow your fucking head off without thinking twice.”

“Yes, Don,” he murmurs. He unlocks the screen and swipes through to click on an icon I recognize as a home security app. He calls up the archived footage and starts to scroll through.

“I have cameras around my home,” he explains. “Men like us can never be too careful. Somewhere on here is the traitor who put this phone in my apartment.”

He knows this is it. Either he finds proof of his innocence, or he dies. There is no other choice.

It’s as if the whole room holds its collective breath while Claudio searches. Every second that passes brings him closer to the edge.

But as long as there is a sliver of doubt, I am willing to wait. I owe Claudio that much for all the years we’ve worked together.

“Here!” Claudio erupts. He holds up the phone triumphantly.

I peer close and see a night vision view of his apartment. It looks normal enough—couch, dining table, a peek of the kitchen in the upper right-hand corner. The edge of his front door is barely visible.

As I watch, the door handle jiggles, then swings open, and a man steps inside. He crosses over to stand in the middle of the living room and looks around like he’s searching. Then he pulls a cell phone from his hoodie pocket—the cell phone in my other hand right now—and places it in the drawer of the side table next to the armchair.

He turns to leave. But just before he vanishes, he looks around again. As he does, his gaze passes over the camera. It’s only a split second, but Claudio’s thumb mashes down on the pause button.

The face of the man in the recording is clear as day.

It’s one of Igor’s men, wearing that familiar Russian emblem that’s scorched into my fucking brain.

There’s no denying the footage. This guy planted the phone. He framed Claudio. Why? To make me lose trust in my own goddamn men?

Something buzzes in my pocket. It’s my own cell phone. I step back and answer, the phone almost crushed in my hands.