Rafaele pulls out a pocketknife and approaches Cleo.
My breath catches inside my lungs. My fiancé is an exceptionally dangerous man, and I can’t help but think that having him with a knife close to my sister is a bad idea.
But he doesn’t do anything besides quickly snipping the zip tie off.
Cleo rounds on him as soon as she’s free and snarls. “You do that again, and you’ll regret it.”
“Cleo!” I exclaim, more than a little concerned for her life, especially when Rafaele’s gaze darkens.
I rush over and tuck her against my side. When I catch a whiff of her, my eyes widen.
She smells like liquor.
The idiot.
She must have hidden a bottle of something inside her purse. It’s not even noon, and she decided to get drunk while walking on the side of a road?
Horror floods me. I should have never let her go.
My fearful gaze flits toward Rafaele. Is he going to out Cleo to our parents? There’s no way he didn’t smell it while they were in the car together.
My fiancé walks over to greet Papà. I barely breathe as I watch them shake hands.
My prayers are answered when they only exchange a few words before Rafaele moves on to say hello to Mamma. She mutters a string of apologies for Cleo’s behavior. He just nods and then comes over to me. I push Cleo behind me, trying to get her out of his sight. My sister’s insane enough to provoke him even now.
Rafaele studies me in his usual dispassionate way. When he looks at me, I’m never quite sure that he really sees me. For Rafaele, all I am is a name written on a contract, nothing more.
He doesn’t take my hand like Nero did.
Doesn’t touch me.
He simply nods in acknowledgement and says, “Hello, Gemma.”
CHAPTER 8
RAS
Last night was a fucking shitshow, and that’s saying a lot for someone who’s lived nearly a decade in Ibiza.
I couldn’t get the image of Gemma’s tear-stained face out of my head all night. She left her seat as soon as I returned to dinner, like she couldn’t stand the sight of me. I oscillated for a while between going after her to say I’m sorry or giving her space. In the end, I chose the latter.
I didn’t want to risk ruining the rest of her night.
She’d been trying to enjoy her time here. The thought of her coming here hopeful and excited, only to have everyone shove her engagement in her face made my chest ache.
I left the party early, passed out on a bed in one of Dem’s guestrooms with my clothes still on, and dreamt of terrible things.
Now, it’s late morning, and Messero’s just arrived.
The fact that I think I’d enjoy putting a bullet in his head doesn’t bode well for our meeting, but I have to put my feelings aside, because Dem’s counting on me.
This deal with Garzolo is important. It’s our first time working with Americans. Camorra’s influence is widespread throughout Europe, but none of the clans have managed to make inroads in the US in recent years. If Damiano and I can make this partnership work, it will go a long way to cement his position as our leader.
So as much as I hate it, Garzolo and Messero have leverage over us. We want to make this work, but we have to be careful not to come off as too eager.
Let them think they need us more than we need them. It’s probably true anyway.
I take a spare suit jacket out of the closet, slip it on, and head downstairs.
Thank fuck Messero and his crew aren’t shacking up with us. They’re at a five-star hotel fifteen minutes away, and they’re only around for two days.
I can handle myself around him for two days.
In the living room, Dem and Garzolo are talking to two other men.
One is the size of a grizzly bear. The other man is tall and slim, with sharp features and a cold gaze that seems to pierce right through me when our eyes meet.
“Ras, this is Rafaele Messero,” Damiano says. “And this is his consigliere, Nero De Luca.”
We shake hands. Messero’s slightly shorter than me, but he carries himself with the confidence of a man who knows he’s in charge. No one would mistake him for a foot soldier.
My gun grows heavy in its holster.
Before I do something really fucking stupid, I clench my jaw and step away.
Dem leads us outside for a tour. It’s a nice day, perfect for a swim. I glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gemma somewhere by the pool or in the garden, but I don’t find her.
Nero falls in step with me, an easygoing grin playing on his lips. “We finally made it to Ibiza, and we won’t have any time to go see your boss’s clubs. It’s a damn shame.”
As someone who’s used to being the biggest guy in the room, it’s somewhat disconcerting to have him peer down his nose at me.
But there are downsides to being that size.
There’s a lot of surface area to hit.
“You’re welcome to come back anytime,” I say to him.
He tips his chin down. “That’s very generous. You and De Rossi built this island empire together? You were isolated out here. How did you manage to do it?”
Dem, Garzolo, and Messero are ahead of us, far enough where we can’t quite hear their conversation, but I can see that Messero’s keeping his mouth mostly shut.
Maybe because he’s got nothing clever to say.
I get the feeling Nero talks enough for two of them anyway.
“Slowly. Our clan already owned two clubs when we arrived, but they were being terribly mismanaged. Damiano took over, made them earn, and then used the profits to invest back into the business.”
“It’s impressive that he came here as a newly minted capo and developed a territory to this extent. Were you made when you arrived?”
“I was not. Back in Napoli, I wasn’t exactly on the path for it.” I was too busy spending my days and nights drinking in my dark apartment, thinking about Sara, and wishing Nunzio was dead. “It took me a couple years to earn it. In the Casalesi, your bloodline only puts you in the running, but to get made, you have to show that you can be a real asset to the clan and earn. I was twenty-three when Damiano called the meeting.”
“Hmm.” Nero pulls out a small metal box of cigarettes and offers me one. “We do it differently. For us, becoming made means showing that when you find yourself in a situation with only one way out, you have what it takes to do the hard thing.”
The willingness and ability to kill for your family.
We halt for a moment to light up.
“You take your traditions seriously,” I tell him over the flame of my lighter. “That’s how it used to be done many decades ago for us as well.”
“Traditions are important to the Messeros.”
I inhale on the cig. “For us, that particular criteria didn’t prove to be enough. Our clan wouldn’t be what it is today if all we had were fighters. We have enough of those. To be made, you have to show you’ve also got a mind for business, something that’s far more rare than brute force.”
The insult isn’t buried too deep, but Nero laughs it off and blows out a puff of smoke. “Then I’m even more excited about working with the famed Casalesi. I’m sure Garzolo already told you we’re here to talk about expanding our partnership. We’re delighted to be attending De Rossi’s wedding.