The sun is already low in the sky when my plane lands in Ibiza, but the scorching temperature hasn’t begun its descent. Everyone at the airport appears to be barely awake. Given how things normally run here, it’s somewhat surprising they don’t just close the airport during siesta and tell everyone to go home and nap, but then again, if there’s one thing Ibiza loves more than maintaining its reputation for being a worry-free paradise, it’s money.
I meet De Rossi’s driver in the arrivals lounge, and he takes me to the car. He’s competent, clearly trained in defensive driving, but I’d prefer to be the one behind the wheel. I don’t like being at anyone’s mercy, let alone someone I’ve just met.
He eyes me in the rearview mirror when he thinks I’m not looking, but I notice it in my periphery. I notice everything. It’s one of the skills that have kept me alive all these years.
Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m thirty-three. It feels odd, like I’m living on borrowed time. I always thought I’d die young. I guess that’s a pretty strange thing to think as a kid, but when you see boys only a few years older than you dying on the news every day, certain expectations are set.
In Secondigliano, the district of Naples where I was born and raised, optimism is a myth. The populace lives in collective apathy, knowing that each day brings the possibility of death, drug busts, or yet another tragic overdose of some twelve-year-old whose parents were both high on meth. Secondigliano is where most dreams die before they’re born. If you’re unlucky enough to have even a shred of ambition, there’s only one path.
Become a man of the Camorra sistema.
I drag my hand over my trimmed beard. My cynicism is showing. I should probably try to keep it in check given the task at hand and its implications. It’s not every day that everything you’ve ever wanted falls into your lap. I could at least attempt to enjoy it.
Like most men, I’m a single-minded creature, and there’s been one thing that’s kept me going through the years.
This one damn thing that I’d give up everything for.
Justice for my mother.
I’ve spent over a decade trying to figure out how I can get it without throwing everything into chaos, so I was surprised when De Rossi called me last night and unknowingly gave me the final piece of the puzzle.
A favor in exchange for keeping his sister, Martina, safe while he makes his bid to become the next don of the Casalesi clan.
A favor I know exactly how I’m going to redeem. De Rossi isn’t going to like what I ask for, but his fatal flaw is that he’s a man of his word. If I do my part, he’ll do his.
Martina De Rossi might not know it yet, but she’s about to acquire a shadow. I’m going to be watching her every move. Not one hair on her head will be harmed while she’s with me, because I won’t give De Rossi a single excuse to break our deal.
We pull into the driveway of the Spanish villa I visited less than two weeks ago, and through the windshield, I spot two guards flanking the front door, as well as a sniper pacing on the roof. Looks like De Rossi finally implemented the security measures I told him to put in place.
About fucking time.
If he’d done it sooner, he could have avoided that breach last week.
Tension creeps into my shoulders at the thought of what happened. Lazaro, the ex-husband of De Rossi’s new wife, broke into the house and took Martina hostage. As if that girl hadn’t been through enough already. This had been the second time Lazaro managed to get his hands on Martina, the first one being a few weeks prior during a trip she took to New York.
That’s the kind of shit that’s not going to happen on my watch.
I get out of the car and make my way to the door.
“Tell De Rossi that Napoletano is here to see him,” I say to one of the uniformed guards.
The man eyes me through his sunglasses as he brings a walkie talkie to his mouth. A few moments later, he receives the go ahead and leads me inside.
We pass through the empty living area and take a turn down the hallway that leads to De Rossi’s office. The house is strangely quiet. Where is his wife? She seems like the type who’d grill me before I leave with Martina to make sure the girl’s in good hands—not that I need or give a crap about her approval. De Rossi asked me to do this for him because he knows I’m the best. I’ve been the Casalesi’s security expert ever since Sal, the current don, brought me on over a decade ago—a move he’ll deeply regret if things go my way.
A voice filters through the door, and the guard waves me in.
“Napoletano, have a seat,” De Rossi says.
I sink into the leather chair across from him and take in the state of the office. It’s a mess. There are papers everywhere, a few drawers pulled open, and two empty whiskey tumblers sit on the coffee table at my side.
It looks like things were sorted through and discarded in a rush. De Rossi’s probably putting his affairs here in order before he leaves.
Despite the chaos around him, the man himself is composed. He and his sister have lived the past decade exiled in Ibiza, but by blood, they’re Casalesi royalty. Before Sal murdered De Rossi’s father, he was one of the most powerful dons the clan has ever had, and their grandfather is credited with leading the Casalesi to victory against the Nuova Camorra Organizzata back in the seventies. Despite Sal’s best efforts, the De Rossi name is still muttered quietly over nightcaps with respect and admiration.
The same can’t be said for my own name. De Rossi and I might buy our suits from the same tailor, but some days when I see myself in the mirror, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m wearing a costume. I still have the threadbare striped sweater I used to wear during the winters of my adolescence stuffed somewhere in the back of my closet. Before I got sucked into the vacuum of the sistema, I was a nobody. I suppose I’m a somebody now, yet no amount of achievements will wipe the subtle stink of lowborn blood off my lapel.
De Rossi pins me with a serious look and drags a hand over his silk tie.
“You dismissed the household staff?” I ask.
He nods. “Told them to leave while they can. A few hours ago, we received our first cocaine shipment from the Americans. We’ll be in breach of Sal’s contract with his suppliers—” he glimpses at his watch “—twenty-five hours from now, when we fail to pick up their weekly drop. As soon as word gets back to Sal, he’ll catch onto what’s happening.”
Cut off Sal’s drugs, then cut off the flow of money from Ibiza. It’s a move that’ll cause deep ripples in clan business and put the don’s power into question.
It’s a move that’ll start a war.
Do I think Damiano is going to be the best don we’ve ever had? No. But he’ll be far better than Sal.
Not to say that I was thinking of the clan’s best interests when I agreed to support him. He’s simply the most likely candidate to get the position, and I’ve grown tired of seeing Sal on his throne.
The wait’s been long, and my patience isn’t infinite.
Sal will pay for what he did to my mother, and then my wait will finally end.
“Vale and I will be leaving Ibiza tomorrow,” De Rossi continues. “Some meetings are already lined up.”
At the first sign of weakness, some of Sal’s allies will turn on him. Our don isn’t well liked by anyone with half a brain between their ears. Still, that leaves more than a few idiots who’ll stay loyal, and unfortunately, they control a lot of manpower.
“The wife’s coming with you?”
“She wouldn’t have it any other way. While she’s with me, I need to trust you’ll keep my sister safe.”
I hold back a sardonic laugh that threatens to spill past my lips. “You don’t need to worry about Martina,” I say, when what I really want to tell him is I’m not you, stronzo.
The fact that he’s failed so badly at protecting her is embarrassing.
I mean, the situation in New York was unfortunate and perhaps hard to preempt, but what happened in his own home? An inexcusable shitshow.
It was pure negligence on Damiano’s part. He was too wrapped up with his wife and his scheming to follow my instructions with appropriate diligence.
Why was Martina even allowed out of the house? Given the situation, she should have been confined to her room.
Annoyance pulses in my temple.
This island’s made him too relaxed. He’s forgotten how made men keep their women safe.
I haven’t, though.
“How did Martina take the news about coming with me?”
De Rossi lets out an exhale that suggests she didn’t take it well. “She’s hard to read at the moment. The latest attack has left her in a bad place mentally.”
I furrow my brows. “Explain.”
“She’s…not really there. I thought the wedding might cheer her up, but she just, I don’t know, existed through it. She put on a smile when the situation demanded it, talked when spoken to, ate when food was served. She went through the motions, but that’s it.”
The girl nearly got killed in her own home, and De Rossi thought a party would make it all better? Cazzo, despite what he thinks of himself, he’s definitely not winning brother of the year.
“Have you tried talking to her about what happened?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Of course we’ve tried talking to her. I’ve tried, Vale’s tried, even Ras. One-word answers are all we get as soon as the topic comes up. I wish Lazaro was alive so that I could kill him a second time.”
It was his wife who killed Lazaro, but I decide not to rub it in.
“What about having a doctor see her?”
“A shrink? I already offered. She refused.”
“Who’s in charge here, you or her?”
De Rossi huffs. “What do you want me to do? Put a gun to her head? She’s not a mark. She’s my sister. I can’t force her to talk to someone if she doesn’t want to talk.”
“The change of scenery will be good for her.”
“I hope so.” He looks up at the ceiling and exhales a long breath. “I know she never stopped feeling guilty about what happened to her friend, Imogen. I’ve told her it’s not her fault a million times, but I haven’t been able to get through to her. Vale told me she thought Mari was starting to let go of it, but then Lazaro appeared again and dragged her right back down to that dark place.”
No fucking shit. Martina got away from Lazaro in New York, but her friend wasn’t so lucky. Survivor’s guilt can destroy someone from the inside out if it’s not properly dealt with.
I clench my jaw. This is a problem. How bad is she? I can protect Martina from external threats, but unless I handcuff myself to her, I’m not going to be able to keep her safe from herself. I have to know she’s not going to slit her wrists as soon as I leave her alone.
An unpleasant sensation spreads through my chest at that thought. I don’t know the girl, but she seems like a nice kid. The idea of her being so down on herself… It’s not right. I’ve got to get her to snap out of it. Do something to get her spirits up.
Plus, she needs someone to take control of her situation, since she’s clearly incapable of getting out of it herself. And by someone, I mean me.
After all, Damiano needs to focus on the task at hand—outsmarting Sal and his cronies—which means the quicker I can take Martina off his mind, the better.
“Are you going to tell me where you’re taking her?” he asks.
“Better not. The less people know, the better.” My gaze slides to the hidden camera placed on the bookshelf just above De Rossi’s shoulder.
He notices what I’m looking at and makes an incredulous sound. “How are you able to spot it so quickly?”
“I know what to look for. Tell me that’s not connected to the Internet.”
“Local network only, just like you said.”
“Good. Martina will be somewhere safe, and I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”
De Rossi rises, grabs two clean glasses off a shelf, and pours us a finger of whiskey each. “I’m not sure being around you won’t just worsen her mood,” he jokes, handing me the drink. “Maybe practice smiling before you meet her. She’s not used to your sour face.”
“She’ll be fine if she’s managed to live with yours.”
He lets out a low chuckle and tips his glass at me. “To change. The only constant in our world.”
“To change.”
I throw back my whiskey and check the time. “We should be leaving soon.”
De Rossi stands. “I’ll go get her.”
Leaving the office after him, I make my way back to the living room and stop in front of the sliding doors that lead out to the pool.
The sight of it triggers a memory of the girl.
Yes, a girl.
Although when I saw Martina by the pool the last time I came around, that wasn’t the first descriptive word that came to mind.
I place my forearm against the glass and press my forehead into it.
She was lying there in a yellow bikini that barely contained her curves, and before I realized who she was, my cock stirred at the image of me peeling it off her with my teeth. Then Damiano reintroduced us, and I pushed that image far out of my head. The first time we met, she was a gangly thirteen-year-old with braces and a pair of prescription glasses that made her look like a bug, so I latched onto that memory instead.
Still, one would have to be blind not to appreciate that she’s bloomed into something quite spectacular since then.
Silky blonde hair, petite frame, and curves that any man would be lucky to handle. Her expression was all shy innocence, but that body was pure sin. If she wasn’t only eighteen and wasn’t De Rossi’s sister, things could have gone very differently for us, but I’m not one to linger on things that could have been.
Any second now, Martina will become my ward.
And that’s all she’ll ever be.
I push off the glass and drop my arm to my side. Turning away from the pool, I take a seat in one of the armchairs and check my watch again. They’re taking their damned time.
My attention snags on a book on the coffee table. I’ve seen that cover before.
It’s the pocket-sized special edition of Jane Eyre that Martina was reading by the pool that day.
I like Brontë. Reading is one of the ways I pass my time when I’m not out doing Sal’s bidding. I pick up the book, flip through the pages, and nearly smile when I find the line: “I am not an angel, and I will not be one till I die.”
Last time, De Rossi left us on our own for a few minutes. Martina was bashful and shy around me—qualities I’ve never valued in women before, but in her, they struck me as endearing. A strange weightlessness crept inside my chest while I stood beside her, and when I noticed it, I immediately set out to crush that feeling by any means necessary. In general, I dislike things that throw me off. So I said those words to her, inspired by the book in her hands, and meaning them as an honest warning. She blushed a deep red in response, the color making her even prettier.
When I left that day, I convinced myself whatever that episode was, it wasn’t going to be repeated. Women came and went in my life like the winter season. The first glimpse of snow is always exciting, but by the time it’s late February, you’re sick of the cold and ready for something new.
Martina, though… That girl is summer, through and through.
A door opens. Voices float from upstairs into the living room.
My gaze drifts to the side of the staircase, and a moment later, two sun-kissed legs begin descending the steps.
Fuck.
My fingers tighten on the book, the hard edges of the cover digging into my palm.
An inexplicable urge grips me—take the book.
Just before Martina’s face comes into view, I give into it and slip the book inside the inner pocket of my jacket.
