When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

“Or broken,” Dennis added, and I knew he’d read my tone correctly.

One of us would win, and one of us would lose.

Dennis needed the win to fill the sails of his political campaign.

I needed the win so I could get out from under the shadow of my family, their accomplishments and pitfalls, and stand strong in the limelight as my own person.

It would come down to who was the more desperate of the two, I knew, because it always did. I’d grown up in Naples where children fought with their fists in the sandbox because they’d seen their own parents do it in the streets, so I knew all about winning at any cost.

But I didn’t underestimate Dennis O’Malley just because he lived a life of privilege now. If he was anything like my father, whom he grew up with, he’d started poor and hungry.

It took more than a couple of decades to satisfy the insatiable appetite such an upbringing instilled in you.

“May the best person win,” I offered with a tight smile as I stood and offered my hand in farewell.

Dennis stood to take it, his hand smooth and callous free around my own, his eyes an inch below mine where I stood in my towering heels. He was not cowed.

“To the winner, the spoils,” he agreed as his thumb stroked over my palm. “To the winner, the spoils.”

ELENA

Dante lived on Central Park East in a penthouse suite that covered two floors overlooking the greenery of the multi-block park. It was an older stone building with gargoyles carved into the layered balconies of the top floors. I was surprised by its elegance and old-school charm. Dante struck me as a glass and chrome, modern kind of macho man in his design sense. Still, I recognized the cost of a space like that in the city and was awed again by the fact that mafia families operated like Fortune 500 companies, accruing so much untold wealth that reporters could only speculate at the dividends of their schemes.

There was a private elevator to his floor, and the man who let me up was as Italian as they came, thick neck, broad shoulders, short in the way of southerners with wiry black hair.

“Ciao,” he’d greeted me with a robust yell that startled me. “You are here to see Mr. Dante, si?”

“Mr. Salvatore, yes,” I allowed, offering a polite approximation of a smile as I followed him into the elevator, clutching my bag to my front as if it could shield me from his Italianisms.

As if such things were contagious and I was in danger of catching it.

He grinned a gap-toothed smile at me. “Shoulda known Mr. Dante’d have a good-looking ragazza to represent him.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just rolled my lips between my teeth and kept my feminist retort on the back of my tongue.

“Busy day?” he continued in the same friendly vein as if we were good buddies. “Got all three floors moving out and in today.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, my interest piqued as the elevator began its smooth glide up the tower.

“Mr. Dante bought out the two floors beneath his,” he said, frowning at me like I was stupid. “Man’s gotta have his family close to him if he’s stuck here. Loneliness does terrible things to the human spirit.”

I raised my brows at him incredulously. So, within the space of forty-eight hours, Dante had bought out the top three floors of a luxury apartment building in order to have his associates nearby.

Oh, but in its own way, it was a genius move.

He wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment building, but within the structure, he had free rein to use the amenities and no one would flag him for visiting other apartments. It was a clever way to slip past the requirement that no known criminal associates could visit him while on house arrest. If they already lived in the building, it made it that much easier to meet and collude.

Oh, yes, Dante was clever.

And powerful, evidently, if he could bribe or coerce people to leave their homes on such short notice.

The lobby man, who was beginning to remind me of some kind of Italian leprechaun with his jaunty grin, short, stocky body, and oddly jovial wisdom, flashed me another smile as he touched the side of his nose.

“Name’s Bruno,” he introduced, sticking out a plump, hairy-backed hand to shake mine. “I know all the goings-on in this building. Mr. Dante’s eyes and ears, if you will.”

“You could be deposed by the prosecution,” I warned him. “I hope you’re not so free with information with them as you have been with me.”

Instantly his small eyes folded into heavy creases cast by his frown. “I’d die before I turned traitor.”

“Because he’s your boss,” I surmised, testing him because I was curious about how Dante’s soldati related to him. Was he a tyrant, an angry heathen like I wanted to believe?