Underboss (With Me in Seattle Mafia 1)

“And nothing is missing,” Rafe says. “Father took all of the jewelry and any money Gram had lying around here home with him a few days after she died.”

“So, someone broke in and was disappointed at the lack of loot,” Carmine says with a shrug. “We’ll ramp up the security, especially if you don’t want to keep living out here.”

“I don’t really mind it,” Rafe says, thinking it over. “It’s just so damn far out of the city. By the way, I checked your house the other day. Nothing’s going on there.”

“We’ll head over after we finish here,” Carmine says. “But thanks for checking. I have around-the-clock security.”

I finish my bagel and sigh in happiness. “Thanks for the carbs.”

“You’re welcome. Have you heard from Annika?”

I wondered if he’d bring up my cousin. Part of me wanted him to so I could drill him.

But the man standing across from me just looks…miserable.

“Yeah, we text just about every day.”

“How is she?”

I tip my head to the side. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“I have. She doesn’t fucking reply.” He drags his hands over his face in agitation. “She’s cut me out entirely, and it’s more frustrating than I can tell you.”

“She’s getting by,” is all I say, but when he just stares at me, I continue, carefully choosing my words. “She feels foolish. And she’s mad.”

Rafe nods, and Carmine reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“If you talk to her, just tell her to text me back.”

I laugh and then shrug when Rafe sends me a look that’s likely made plenty of men piss their pants.

“I’ll mention it. But Annika is her own woman, Rafe. And she wants nothing to do with the mafia. She’s never made that a secret.”

“I can’t be held responsible for the family I was born into.” The frustration rolls over his face as he shakes his head. “And neither can she. She has to stop punishing us both for it.”

“Is that what she’s doing?” I wonder. “Or is she simply trying to live a simple life?”

“She’s stubborn as hell, that’s what she is,” Rafe says.

“On that, we can agree. I’ll pass along your message.” I turn to Carmine, who’s remained quiet as he listened to the exchange between Rafe and me. “What time are we meeting with our dads?”

He checks the time and then stands. “In a few hours.”

“You’re meeting with Pop and Igor?” Rafe asks with surprise.

“Yes. We need to talk about the men who followed us in France,” Carmine says. “And I want to do it in a secure place. Over the phone or internet won’t cut it. You’re welcome to join us. Is Shane still in Colorado?”

“I’m not sure where he is,” Rafe says. “He said something about a job in Colombia.”

I raise a brow. “What, exactly, does Shane do for a living?”

“That, we can’t tell you,” Carmine says but takes the sting out of the statement with a kiss to my head. “Let’s go home and freshen up for our meeting. Rocco, we’re meeting at three, at the downtown building.”

“In the office?” he asks.

Carmine nods and sets our dishes in the dishwasher, then leads me out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

I want to ask for a tour of the magnificent house, but I know that we don’t have time. And, at the end of the day, no matter how close Carmine and I have gotten, I’m still a member of the Tarenkov family. There will always be a line. And taking me on a tour of the Martinelli matriarch’s house might be crossing it.

We’re quiet in the car. So much so that I close my eyes and rest. Neither of us slept on the flight here. We even went and laid on the bed, snuggled up, but couldn’t doze off.

We didn’t talk, simply lay there. Restless. Uncertain.

Pissed off.

Someone’s still after us, and we don’t know who. Not to mention, I didn’t like leaving bodies behind in Europe. It was supposed to be a vacation. We weren’t supposed to have to kill anyone or constantly look over our shoulders.

Not that the looking behind you ever entirely goes away, even when you feel absolutely safe.

Because the truth is, being in the mafia means you’re never truly safe.

I open my eyes when Carmine stops the car and then frown.

“We’re not going to the penthouse?”

“No,” he says and turns to me. “I want you here. In my home.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I first brought you to Seattle months ago, I didn’t want you here because I didn’t trust you. And I was with you for other reasons. It was all a farce. The penthouse was neutral territory, so to speak. But that’s all changed.”

He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine.

“I want you here, in my house. Not the penthouse.”

“But all of my things—”

“Have been moved here,” he finishes with a small smile. “Come on, let me show you.”