Theirs to Protect (Mafia Menage Trilogy 3)

When my fingers were smarting from the intense heat, the water finally ran clear. All traces of blood had been sluiced away. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I quickly dried my hands so I could check the alert.

I unlocked the screen to find a text from Joseph. Where are you? Forget the waffles and come home. The message was followed by a string of thirsty emojis, including two eggplants and a peach. A short laugh huffed from my chest, pushing back the crushing darkness around my heart. My best friend still acted like a horny teenager when it came to Ashlyn. It was ridiculous and endearing; he was completely unashamed of how much he wanted her, and the purity of his desire for Ashlyn soothed something inside me. Joseph deserved to be happy. He deserved this life that we were building in Boston.

I’d make sure he kept what he so desperately craved.

I stepped out of the bathroom and snapped a picture of the crowded café as explanation for my extended absence. Long line. Get started. I’ll catch up.

Another message vibrated my phone, from Ashlyn this time. A photo of my babygirl filled my screen, her lips pillowed in a dramatic pout. Come ooooonnnnnnn, Daddy!

My chest warmed, and my mouth curved in a smile. More pouting, princess? You must be desperate for a spanking.

Ashlyn’s winking emoji hit my messages a split second before Joseph’s double devil faces and an angel flashed on the screen.

I switched to our group thread, making sure they’d both get the message: Joseph, get her ready for me. Don’t let her come.

Another image appeared almost immediately. Joseph had captured a picture of Ashlyn’s shocked little gasp when she read my text. A third image of our girl filled my screen, her dark brows drawn together in her most dramatic pout yet.

A low chuckle rumbled from my chest, clearing away the worst of my lingering darkness. I stepped up to the front of the line and placed our order, gratefully falling into the distraction of my family’s antics to avoid the violent, ugly things that roiled deep inside me.

Chapter Three

Marco

Maybe I’ll take a turn with your pretty slut once we’ve buried you and Russo.

Once we’ve buried you.

We.

My enemy’s threat rattled through my mind with enough force to make my skull ache. The solitude of the twenty-minute bus ride from Cambridge to our neighborhood in the South End gave my brain too much time to simmer in what I’d done. I tried to focus on my family, but even staring at the texts that’d made me smile only minutes ago had begun to lose its power over my psyche. The image of Ashlyn’s pout blurred before my eyes, and all I could see was the man’s pale face, twisted with fear and hatred.

We. He hadn’t been acting alone. There were others who wanted us dead, too.

A copper tang painted my tongue as I gnashed my teeth hard enough to cut my cheek. I hadn’t gotten any answers out of the bastard. I’d lost control. I couldn’t hunt down the fuckers who threatened us, because I had no idea who they were.

Playing the gruesome scene through my mind once again, I noted that Ashlyn’s stalker had a Boston accent. His features hinted at Italian heritage like mine, but he’d been raised here, not in New York. He probably wasn’t associated with my former criminal family.

But why would anyone in Boston give a fuck about Joseph and me? We were exiles, shunned and shamed. We had no value, and even though Joseph was still on good terms with his father, that wasn’t general knowledge. Dominic Russo’s enduring affection for his only son wouldn’t do us or him any favors. He’d only just taken control of the mafia after Victor Lombardi’s recent death of natural causes. The last thing he needed while consolidating his power was rumors that he was still in contact with his pervert son.

Homosexuality was taboo in our world: a disgusting sign of weakness and a betrayal of the vicious masculinity that supposedly made us so tough and lethal. When Joseph’s cousin had discovered us in bed with Ashlyn, he hadn’t bothered to learn the nuances of our relationship. As far as everyone else was concerned, Joseph and I were poison to our organization, a perceived weakness that would make our allies into targets for bloodthirsty rivals.

Joseph and I had never judged anyone for their sexuality—we’d be fucking hypocrites to look down on anyone’s lifestyle choices. Our personal beliefs made us outliers in the mafia, as we had been in so many ways. Exile had been a blessing, freeing us from a life neither of us wanted, especially Joseph. He belonged in our new world, this normal, nonviolent life we’d created for ourselves in Boston.

Maybe I’ll take a turn with your pretty slut once we’ve buried you and Russo.