34. Davide

Emilio flashes me a hand signal from across the street: he's coming.

I wait in the shadows of an alley that runs between a fancy salon and a deli. It smells like rotting meat and old fucking hair. I bet there are mounds of the stuff in the dumpster, half of it rotting and covered in gel. I shift back and forth, staying light on my feet, shaking out my hands. It's late and the darkness is thick in this part of town. We came through a few days ago and made sure most of the lights were broken just for this occasion.

A part of me wants to be back home. It's not a feeling I'm used to. A few months ago, I would've been excited for the chance to go to war—this is my chance to show how important I am to the organization. I'm not a businessman, I'm not a lawyer or some great earner, but I can hurt people. I'm great at breaking bones and making men scream. I'm a brutal thug, a knife in the dark, a killer. War should feel like a dolphin at sea. Completely natural.

Instead, I keep thinking of Stefania.

She's probably worried. We've been fucking like my dick's about to fall off and it's been the best few days of my life, even though I have a million reasons to stress. My father's still in the hospital and my family is about to plunge into a brutal, ugly conflict. And yet all I can do is touch my wife, kiss her, taste her, drink her in, wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.

Because I feel safe when I'm deep between her legs.

And I feel right when she's in bed with me, breathing to my rhythm, wrapped in my sheets.

My fucking wife. When did this even happen? I'm supposed to be cold and emotionless. Instead, I have all these feelings swirling around me, and I like them. That's the worst part—I like the way I am when I'm with her.

I catch sight of Emilio again. Another gesture and I tense. I hear footsteps coming toward me, walking fast, and I count them in my head. One, two, three, four?—

I throw myself around the corner of the alley and slam my arm out, catching my target right in the throat. It clotheslines him over, throwing his feet out straight into the air, and he slams down onto the hard sidewalk with an ugly thud.

"What the fuck?" he groans as I grab his boot and drag him into the alley.

He starts to struggle. I think he realizes something's up. I kick him hard in the ribs and he curls into himself. The fucker's young, in his early twenties, with shoulders like a bull and a gut to match. He's shorter than me by a head with a trim beard and an immaculate fade. The fucker's Cubs hat fell off and it sits in a pool of stagnant water.

I stomp him again and kneel on his chest, drawing out a thin knife, flipping the blade in one easy, practiced motion. His eyes widen, his hands hanging in the air as I press it against his throat.

"I have one question," I ask through my teeth. "Where is Santoro?"

The guy doesn't move. He doesn't speak. His brown eyes judder around like he might find help, but there's nobody.

The stupid bastard has a routine. His name is Joey Wick, and he's one of Santoro's workers, not quite a Capo, but not a lowly soldier, either. Joey manages a club for his boss near here, and every night after close, he takes his route back to his shitty apartment.

"Better start talking, Joey," I snarl and press the knife tighter. "Or I'm going to kill you and move on to someone else."

"I don't know," he whispers and his voice comes out harsh. "I'm nobody. I don't know where the boss is."

"Start thinking." I rear back and slam my fist into his mouth. He groans and his head lolls to the side as he spits blood onto the ground. I shove the knife back into position, this time cutting him slightly. "Where is Santoro?"

"I don't know," he says, pleading now. "Seriously, I'm a fucking nobody. Come on, man, I don't know where Santoro's staying. I can tell you where my boss is?—"

"Talk," I snarl, two seconds away from gutting him and moving on.

"He's always at the Dirty Rotten. It's a club a few blocks south of here. He's there every fucking night."

"Your Capo?"

"Yeah, my fucking Capo, okay? Just put the knife down, man."

Suddenly, sirens scream nearby. They're a few blocks away, but they're close, and getting closer. I stare across the street and Emilio's flashing signs at me, telling me to get out of there.

I stare back at Joey, and he's smirking now.

"What the fuck did you do?" I snarl in his face.

"Guess I got some friends in the neighborhood."

I curse and press the knife tighter. He must've hired some local kids to watch his back and call the cops if something ever happened to him on his walk home. It was a pretty common insurance move for some of these scumbags.

Except in this case, it's backfiring.

"Here's your mistake," I whisper, getting close. The sirens are louder and I should already be running, but I'm too angry to move. "You thought I'd care about having blood on my hands."

"Wait—" he starts but I plunge my blade into his throat and saw across his windpipe. He gags, struggling and flailing like a fucking animal, but it's too late. I shove off him as he bleeds out, his life pumping from a jagged gash in his ugly neck. The sirens are a block away and Emilio's already gone.

I run to the opposite end of the alley and throw myself onto the next block over. I'm covered in blood, but exhilarated, and I'm lucky there's nobody around. I sprint across the street, through an empty lot, and on to the next street over, where I proceed to hop fences, skirt parked cars, and prowl in the darkness until a car comes screaming to a halt in front of me. Emilio's behind the wheel, and he doesn't look happy.

"You should've run right away," he says, glaring when I get in beside him. "Did you really kill the bastard?"

"It's war. You better start driving."

Emilio sighs and hits the gas.

Santoro won't miss Joey, but he'll get the message: we're coming for him. And now I have my next target.

* * *

I take a long,hot shower to get all the blood off me. I burned my clothes in the back yard and I'll bury the ashes in the morning. I'm sure Simon already got word of my near-miss and he'll have something to say about it, but I don't care. I scrub to get all the blood from my fingernails.

Stefania's waiting for me by the sinks when I get out. She glances at my naked, dripping body, and I know my wife likes what she sees, but she doesn't move closer.

"Should I get back in there? Do you want to join me?" I ask, a teasing smile on my face.

"No, thanks." She throws a towel at me. "Elena just called."

I groan and look at the ceiling. My fucking siblings. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"She said you nearly got caught. She said you were being reckless. Davide?—"

"I'm fucking fine." I wrap the towel around my waist. It's a shame, because I'd love to fuck my wife right now, especially with all the adrenaline from that kill still rolling in my veins. "It was a calculated risk."

"That's not the story I heard."

"You shouldn't be hearing anything at all," I say and brush past her into the room. I start getting dressed, annoyed that my siblings are talking about me behind my back and second-guessing my decisions. Emilio's going to get some shit for telling them about this.

"You have to take care of yourself," Stefania says. I pause, my shirt halfway on, and slowly pull it down before turning to face her.

She bites her lip and I swear on my life, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Not only is she immensely fuckable, but she cares about me in a way I've never experienced before. My sisters give me shit for taking risks, and my brothers shout me down when I go too far, but Stefania is genuinely worried about my well-being.

All day when Dad was first in the hospital, she sat by my side. Even when I didn't want to talk, didn't even want to look anyone in the eye, when I was at my lowest, deepest in self-revulsion, she was there. And through it, she helped my family, tried to comfort my mother, she did everything a good wife should do—no, she did more, she did what a good person should do.

She stepped up, and I fell for her so fucking hard in that hospital waiting room.

And now I feel myself falling all over again.

"Come here, wife," I say very gently.

"How about you promise to take it easy first?" She crosses her arms, glaring at me.

I take a step closer. "Dolcezza, I'm not asking. Come here."

"Davide—"

I reach out and grab her arm. She sucks in a breath as I yank her close and bury her mouth with mine. I kiss her and drink her in, I fucking feast on her, because she's the first person to really care about me when she doesn't have to.

My family is stuck with me. They have no choice but to give a shit.

But Stefania has agency, even if she doesn't realize it, and she's choosing me.

Which makes me need her that much more.

My tongue invades her mouth and I blister her with a searing kiss, sealing my fate.

"What was that for?" she asks when I pull back. She's breathing hard and I can tell she wants more.

"I'm not making any promises," I say, my thumb brushing her kiss-puckered lips. God, the filthy, fucked-up things I'm going to do to those lips. "But I want you to know that I have every intention in the world of coming back to you every night."

She looks away. "Is that enough?"

"It's more than enough." I make her look back at me. "You are more than enough."

Her eyes go wide like she doesn't believe me. "You're just trying to get me in bed."

"No, baby. I'm trying to make you understand. I'm going to kill every single man that works for Santoro, and then I'm going to burn him alive just like he nearly got me roasted when I was a child, but I'm not suicidal. I want to live, baby, and I want to live with you."

She closes her eyes. They're tear-rimmed and sparkling when she opens them again.

"You mean that?"

"I mean that. And I'm also trying to get you in bed."

She laughs and hits my chest, and I kiss her again, because I've had enough talking. Now I want to fuck my wife until she understands how much I want to live, and how alive she makes me feel.