Page 2 of A Bride for the Mafia King

Movement from the hallway catches my men’s attention as three more Italians emerge.Suddenly everyone is in action, the air filled with sharp snaps and suppressed grunts as the men fight their way further into the house. We surge forward, precise and brutal just as I planned. The sound of fists on flesh ring out in the small space. Two men move ahead, clearing the stairwell. The other three remain on the ground floor to dispose of any backup.

An Italian comes running from a side hallway, lunging past Yaro headed straight for me with a blade in hand. He's fast, but I am much faster. Stepping to the side I grab a hold of the man’s wrist, pivoting at the same time and twisting his arm around and behind his back, leveraging it to bring him to his knees.

With a cry the Italian drops the knife as he goes down. I have to give the man some credit; he doesn’t give up easily. Twisting on his knees, he tries to lash out at me once more bare fisted. With a shove I put enough distance between us to cock my own fist back, then drive it straight into his jaw with brutal force.

The man takes the blow. He falters slightly but regrouped enough to rush me, the motion propelling us both into the wall at my back. The impact pushes the air out of my lungs but I'm already moving. Gripping my opponents shoulders I push enough space between us to grip the back of his head and drive my knee straight into his face. The blow is enough to knock the man unconscious and I watch with a smirk as his limp body crumples at my feet.

Straightening, I right the lapels of my coat, turning back to the fray just in time to witness Yaro toss another newcomer into the opposing wall.

“See? Told you. You don't need a damn bodyguard.” Yaro barks at me with a laugh.

I just smirk, a barely noticeable twitch of the lips, as I head in the direction of the stairwell, my second falling into step beside me once more. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, reading the message as the screen lights up. ‘We got him’.

Exchanging a glance with Yaro, we move quicker now, ascending the stairs two at a time. When we reached the landing I count the doors.

There.

The third door on the left. Except it isn’t where it should be. It has been completely taken off the hinges, smashed into pieces. Apparently the boys needed to break it down after all.

When I enter the room I take a quick assessment of the situation, and the state of my men. Artyom’s lip is bleeding and he has a cut above his eyebrow. Sacha is rubbing at his right shoulder, talking quietly to Yaro, while Vlad is leaning against the far wall with a hand on the Don’s shoulder, holding him in place.

Three of the Don’s men are knocked out and strewn across the carpet in various places around the room. Most of the furniture has been toppled and fractured all around. It’s a mess, and it will serve my purpose perfectly.

Just one final touch to be added.

Picking my way across the mess of a floor I stand looming over the Italian Don, Onofrio De Mello. What a piece of work. At 50 years of age he is cruel and greedy beyond imagination. I’ve been able to broker an agreement with most of the other families to stay out of the sex trafficking business, but not De Mello.

It's the dirtiest, ugliest part of the underworld in my opinion. Involvement in that particular aspect of crime led to my parents' death and it was the first thing to go when I assumed my position. I've spent the last seventeen years getting Chicago’s organized crime out of the trade and building less repulsive forms of business. Maybe more brutal, but still cleaner.

Agreeing to this part of the deal was icing on the cake for me. The Don has been the thorn in my side without reprieve for the entirety of those 17 years as the Pakhan. While the Italians aren’t officially involved in the dirty business De Mello himself was, and he has made it clear he has no desire to let go of his ‘cash cow’ as he once put it.

Looking down on him, slumped on the floor, face red and slick with blood, favoring an arm that twists at an unnatural angle, I can’t help but enjoy the moment. Maybe I am a sadist. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“I strongly suggest you reconsider your choices, De Mello.” My voice is ice cold, unfeeling as I spoke. “You thought you could buy your way into my territory? Not a chance in hell.”

De Mello spits at me, a combination of blood and spittle landing on the toes of my pristine black boots. I don’t flinch.

“Better yet, learn to make better choices,” I growl.

If looks could kill, the Don would have pulled his last breath right here and now under my gaze. It only takes one strike, the crack of the older man’s knee echoes through the room as it shatters beneath my boot. The Don screams in agony, then falls silent as he passes out from the pain.

“Message delivered,” I tell the others. “We’re done here.”

I turn on my heel, flicking blood from the toe of my boot and exiting the office. They follow me, filing out of the room one by one down the stairs in silence, not fazed in the least by the mess we’ve left in our wake. Italians, groaning or unconscious, line the walls and floor as we move back through the house. Outside, the SUV waits for us just as we left it, key still in the ignition, doors open.

The surrounding neighborhood is quiet, untouched by the violence that has taken place within.

Yaro, Vlad, Artyom, and Sacha all jump into the vehicle, glancing pointedly at me when I don’t immediately join them. I remain outside the vehicle standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the house, phone in hand.

My thumb hovers for a second before pressing the contact number saved in the phone.

It rings once, twice, then a muffled male voice answers cautiously. “Pronto?...Già fatto?...”

“Da, it’s done. My part of our bargain is complete,” I say coldly. I’m met with silence from the other side of the line. “Your turn. You have four days.”

Chapter Two

Eva