4. Stephano

4

STEPHANO

I'm pacing the St. Chalamet presidential suite. Waiting is the worst. Two months of planning, and now, time drags. My body is buzzing with unspent energy and a nagging worry about Matteo I can't shed. The only word I got was a quick message stating it's done after he killed Randazzo.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. This better be my brother. I groan in relief when Matteo's shitface shows on the screen.

"Fuck, Matty," I say as I answer the call. "Are you okay?"

"Hey." He clears his throat. "All good."

"Bro. I'm sitting here on pins and fucking needles waiting to hear from you." I sweep my gaze over the ridiculous luxury of the space. ‘Pins and needles' isn't exactly right. The two-bedroom suite exudes class, money, and style. It has magnificent views over the white sandy beach of Cannes's La Croisette, currently packed with umbrellas, deck chairs, and vacationers. The sunlit ocean beyond is such a bright blue, it's almost blinding.

If I weren't so fed up with this virgin auction, I would've relaxed on the balcony and enjoyed the services that come with of this level of luxury.

Matteo laughs, if a bit drily. "I'm good. Made a fine escape on Don Trapani's yacht, I'll tell you this much."

He might be cruising in style, but now I'm sensing again things didn't go exactly as planned. "So the Don made the right call?"

"Yeah. And with our jet already in France, it will be harder for someone to trace our tracks."

I sigh in relief, but I won't feel at ease until I've seen him in person. I can't wait for all of this to be over. Up until my arrival in Cannes, I'd been going through the motions, mindless, forcing myself to make the necessary arrangements for this auction. With my twin brother Luca, we've done hundreds of virgin auctions, but the women always come to us, wanting to auction off their virginity for whatever reason. Student or medical debts for family members, wanting to fund their travels, buy a home for their ailing parents, anything. If you can think of a reason, it's been used.

Our clients are men with so much money they don't care to throw it around for a bit of innocent pleasure. With every woman who applied, asking us to arrange her auction, I've vowed it would be the last time. Yet every single time, I figured better us than another party with fewer scruples and measures in place to ensure the girls aren't brutalized in the process.

"What time are you arriving in Cannes?" I ask. The clock is ticking, and this show needs to get on the road.

"We're about to enter the marina. Should take another half an hour, I'd say."

"Seriously?" I want to strangle him. The whole freaking day, I've been waiting to hear from him, but he's ignored my calls, messages, everything. Something's up, and with what has happened in Sicily, it could be anything.

"You didn't get shot or something yesterday?" Panic grips my chest. Things can go wrong—things did go wrong that night with Alex twelve years ago. For all I know, Matteo got hurt and is keeping it to himself so we don't freak out.

"No, Burley's got a bullet in the butt and arm, but I'm fine. Listen?—"

"Fucking hell, Matteo!" I yell into the phone, pacing the room. "It was supposed to be a clean fucking job."

"It was fucking clean." His tone is cold and clipped. "But if that psycho's estate is torched, don't come ask me if I doused it with fuel. Randazzo had more maggots coming for him than a piece of carrion."

I sigh as I rub my forehead. Reading between the lines, it was a close call. "Okay. So what did you do today other than ignore me?" I'm not buying it. Something is so off, I can smell it from here. There's a beat of silence on the other side of the line, and I wait, giving him the opening he needs.

"Caught up with some work I've been neglecting," he replies, brushing over my question. "Are you ready for us?"

In that moment, he sounds so tired, I wish we could all just get the hell out of here and fly home. Skip this whole virgin auction part that's been destroying me like some flesh-eating fungus. "I'm ready. Party packs and all."

I glance to where our exclusive party packs are stacked in a pyramid on a console table, each containing everything a man could need for a perfect sex fest: condoms, lube, toys covering a wide range from handcuffs to cock rings, candles for wax play, chocolate body paint, you name it. For her, some Plan B, wipes, sanitary products, thrush and UTI meds. Painkillers.

If we were in the States, we'd include some recreational drugs, but I wasn't going to fly that shit in for anybody because I don't want to extend my stay in France for drug trafficking. I'm counting on our guests to bring their own.

"Steph, I—" He breaks off.

"What?" I swear he is pacing like a caged bear.

There's a long beat of silence and then he sighs, but it's more a grunt than anything else. "Just meet us at the marina."

"I'm on my way." Once I have seen him face to face, I'll know exactly what's up.

I kill the call and stride through the suite one last time. The virgin auction side of our online business has a certain standard to maintain or exceed, and this evening will be no exception. I might not condone what will be happening here tonight, but I have a reputation to uphold. For the first time ever, I have a live stream going too. I've set it up in the foyer for now but will have to change the camera's angle as the night progresses. Fuck Don Scalera for getting this creepy on his deathbed.

Flower arrangements give the place a homey, feminine vibe, but the bar is set up with a wide selection of some of the most expensive whiskeys in the world. An off-white circular sectional stands center stage, and on the coffee table, climate-controlled boxes of Cuban cigars await the bidders. Waiters will serve dinner, snacks, and champagne or wine. There's no limit on the spending here tonight.

I might have gone over the top with this one to soothe my own conscience. Funny how I seem to still have one.

With a sigh, I pocket my phone and check my appearance in the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling mirror. Stone-colored suit, white shirt, brown leather boat shoes with hidden socks. All very C?te d'Azur. I'll blend right in.

"Let's go. Party's starting," I say as I walk into the living room where my two bodyguards have been killing time.

Fuck it. I don't know when that slogan got ingrained in Il Consiglio's business affairs, but it's become our umbrella term for anything from Shit's going down to Bring more beer . You always need more context to read between the lines. In this case, it means I need to collect the merchandise .

We take the elevator and exit the hotel's main entrance. My driver has been waitingin the porte cochère.

Ten minutes later, as we approach the marina, I spot the Trapanis' yacht. We can drive all the way to their berth, but I need a moment to get a grip. I haven't had what I call a proper workout since arriving in Cannes, and it isn't a good space to be in, physically or mentally. My body is buzzing with unspent energy, and I'm feeling caged, but since arriving in France, the business at hand has taken up all my time.

"We'll walk the rest."

The driver parks, and I get out with my bodyguards, strolling along the marina and eyeing the ludicrously expensive yachts lined up. Most names are passable; some are so pretentious, they trigger my gag reflex.

The Trapanis' Onda Maestosa towers over some of the other moored boats. As I crane my neck to get in the full picture of the yacht , rushed footsteps draw my attention.

A dark-haired brunette is high-heeling it down the marina in a navy sundress splattered with red poppies, chiffon skirts so light, the breeze etches out her thighs. She's so focused on the yacht, she doesn't see me.

And then she trips, her ankle buckling as her heel hits a small hole in the pavement. Our bodies almost collide, but I steady her with a hand on her arm. Our gazes connect for the briefest moment before she stiffens.

" Merci ," she mutters as she shrugs loose but then continues down the dock as if nothing happened.

Close call, angel.

She seems to be rushing to the next yacht, and for a moment, I appreciate the visual of her ankles in those sandals, the length of her legs culminating in the perfect, rounded ass any man would want to sink his fingers into. Her scent trails in the air. Expensive floral perfume to match the dress.

" Ciao !" the brunette calls out and waves as she looks up.

I follow her gaze, and alarm bells go off in my head.

Tasha Armstrong, the senator's daughter—the merchandise as we labeled her if only to distance ourselves in some way from the Don's last, manic request—is standing at the railing, looking down at us as Matteo steps up from behind her.

Fuck. Whoever this unknown woman is, I can't allow her to talk to the Tasha. The brunette, who has stripped off her heeled sandals, hurries up the narrow stairs on the side of the yacht, as if she belongs .

Trust a woman to come and fuck up my day. I might hate an unwilling virgin auction, but I can tell you who hates it more: other women. I'm half a minute behind the brunette and call my men off. They'll have to wait down here in case she decides to run and we need to contain her.

I rush to the side of the yacht, following in her footsteps up the narrow stairs. She's already disappeared onto the yacht's main deck. As I scale the stairs two at a time I listen, but there's too much other noise to make out words. I hear voices, though—Matteo's and this woman's musical tones as they introduce themselves, all friendly.

Until it's not.

" Cara ," she says as I get my first visual of her on the deck. She's trying to step up to Tasha. "Are you held against your will? Have they hurt you?"

Fuck me twice over. This is the last thing we need.

Matteo has his hand on the brunette's shoulder, warning her not to approach Tasha. My brother looks exhausted.

"Gigi—" he starts as I rush onto the deck.

Gigi?

Fuck. Gigi Trapani. Don Trapani's daughter. Her dad is the owner of the yacht Matteo had exclusive use of for the job he had to do in Sicily. Don Trapani is one of the older Mafia kingpins in Italy. To think the old geyser can have such a beauty for a daughter. She can hardly be older than twenty-five. She also has an older brother and a younger sister, but that's the only information we've bothered to collect.

"Need some help there, Matteo?" We need to manage this situation. Redirect whatever is going on in Gigi's head. Silence her if necessary.

Fuck. This wasn't on my to-do list today.

Gigi turns to me, indignation flushing her cheeks.

"I don't care who the hell you are," she hisses, her words laced with a British accent, "but you're getting off my yacht. Right now."

Nice introduction. "I don't care who the hell you are, angel. I'm not going anywhere."

Gigi crosses the deck in quick strides and pushes me hard on the chest, making me freeze in surprise. I'm solid, and her palm connects with my pec as if it's a wall. It does nothing to me, but the heat of her hand spreads through the button-down I'm wearing.

"Leave!" she spits out.

Suddenly, that's the last thing I plan to do.

A woman only gets to slap me once. When she hits first, it's born out of fear that you'll get the first shot in and won't stop. I don't play such games. In fact, I hate them. This one has to calm the fuck down, and Matteo already has his hands full.

So I do the only thing I can to take charge of the situation. I fist Gigi's wrist, making her drop her sandals as I twist her into an armlock. She winces, and I hiss my own displeasure. I press my mouth to her ear, her thick hair against my lips, smelling of vanilla.

"Behave."

She struggles, her sweet ass pressing into my groin, and it's a split second before she does the next thing any woman does in this situation: scream. I cover her mouth with my hand and look at Matteo where he's clutching the railing, clearly as irritated as a storm cloud that needs to break but has to keep it together.

"Jesus Christ, Matteo." I sigh. "Can you stop collecting hoydenish shrews? It's bad for business."

"Fucking curve ball," he grunts. "Bring her inside so we can talk without an audience."