Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

But we dispatched them with ease. Dead Russians litter the area, seeping blood onto the concrete.

What the fuck was the point of this shoot-out?

Did Igor want to get rid of his men?

I search through the darkness, looking for answers.

“Marcello …” Claudio says. “I think we got them all.”

“Be ready for more,” I growl, peering around the area, trying to find hidden Russians. “I have a gut feeling it’s not over yet.”

He shakes his head, reading my thoughts, and holds up his cell phone. “I’m in touch with our guards at every location we operate. It’s silent as a graveyard out there, sir.”

It might be silent, but they must be hiding somewhere. I just know it.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel grabs our attention. We all look up in unison as a sleek black sedan rolls through the open gate and comes to a stop. My men immediately train their gun sights on it. I hold up a hand, ready to order them to fire.

I wait, hand still raised. The door opens, and a foot emerges, then another.

Igor Metdner steps out.

That motherfucker.

I’m contemplating pulling out my gun and shooting him in the head then and there.

But something about the way he looks, the way he moves, holds me back.

Somehow, he looks older than when I last saw him, thinner and more hunched over. Even his suit seems to have lost some of its luster. Seems the war is taking its toll on him.

He reaches into the vehicle and pulls out a cane. I’ve never seen him use a cane before either, but he seems to be dependent on it. He sighs in discomfort as he starts to walk toward us.

None of this feels right.

“Igor!” I call out, my voice echoing in the night. “What the hell is going on here? Surely, you have another ace up your sleeve, no?”

He doesn’t say anything or look up, he just keeps shuffling forward until he stops a few feet short of me. He looks mournful in the weirdest way. Something is so wrong here.

“Are you going to speak, old man?” I demand.

I want him to say something. Brag about how he got Giovanni to turn on me. Anything.

Instead, he raises his eyes up to meet mine. “I’m sorry, Marcello.”

Of all the things he could possibly say, that stuns me.

“Sorry for what? For burning my men? For putting a mole in my ranks? For trying to get Claudio framed?” I take a half-step forward. “Answer me, Russian!”

“He’s apologizing for me,” another voice I haven’t heard in fifteen years calls out.

Frank Fitzgerald slides out from the back seat through the door Igor left open.

Frank Fitzgerald—former don of the Irish mob.

My former business partner.

A man I swear I saw die.

He doesn’t look dead now, though.

In fact, I’ve never seen him more lively than now, and it makes my skin crawl.

He straightens the lapels of his jacket before striding over to stand next to Igor.

When he claps a hand on the Russian’s shoulder, Igor winces. It’s a strange sight for a man like him to show fear or pain.

Frank fucking Fitzgerald in the flesh. He stands tall and broad, suit impeccable, eyes gleaming cunningly.

“Would you like to hear a story, Marcello?” Frank asks politely.

What the fuck?

I grit my teeth. “Cut the shit. What did you do, Frank?”

Frank starts to talk. His voice is nonchalant and carefree, as though this is all a big fucking joke to him.

But the picture he paints is clear. By the time he’s done, everything I thought I knew has been revealed as a lie.

“You thought I died the night of the attack, didn’t you?” He nods to himself without waiting for me to answer. “When our friend Igor here sent his soldiers into the restaurant and tore my world to pieces, they didn’t finish the job they were sent to do. Like you, they thought I was dead.”

Igor coughs into a napkin. When he pulls it away, it’s reddened with specks of blood.

Frank balls up his fist. “Molly and I made it out alive. Hurt, but alive.” His face darkens. “And I promised myself one thing. Everyone who had a hand in this night would pay. Including you.”

“Me?” I interrupt. “Frank, what the fuck are you talking about? They attacked me too, you know. You think I set you up?”

“You shut the fuck up!” he bellows. A millisecond later, he’s calm again. But that image of him—eyes bulging, face reddened—sears itself into my brain.

He’s gone fucking insane.

“I didn’t do what you think I did,” I finish coldly. “I never set you up. I had no hand in the attack.”

He laughs scornfully. “Igor here tried to tell me the same thing. Said he was the one who planned the assault on the restaurant.” He shakes his head. “But I’m no fool. I’ve been in this game since long before you were born, since before this Russian fuck even came to this country. I know when I’ve been stabbed in the back. And you—” he jabs a meaty finger in my face and laughs again, a bitter, jarring sound like breaking glass. “That business deal was all a lie. You wanted to take what’s mine. My money, my empire. My fucking life.”