Page 17 of Wicked Mafia Beast
I prefer vodka, but it's seven in the morning and even I have standards.
Damaris moves around the table with the efficiency of a woman who has spent fifteen years learning exactly how each of us takes our coffee. She's compact, sharp-eyed, and has never once asked what happens in this room after she leaves. Rafael pays her well for that discretion. I respect her for never needing to be told.
Katriana follows behind her with a second carafe, her dark hair pulled back in a neat twist. Drake's eyes track her movement around the table with the kind of focus that used to be reserved for hostile takeovers. The man has it bad. We all pretend not to notice, which is its own form of respect.
"Cream, no sugar," Katriana murmurs as she fills my cup, and I give her a nod of thanks.
The seven of us are arranged around the mahogany table like chess pieces waiting for the game to start. Rafael stands by the window, his usual spot, silhouetted against the Chicago skyline with a coffee cup in hand. Drake is to his right, silver hair impeccable, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tattooed fingers wrapped around his cup. The man looks like he hasn't slept, which is true. Fuck. None of us have. Not since we heard the news.
Luca sprawls in his chair with a pen spinning between his fingers, that absent-minded habit that makes you forget those same fingers have ruined lives and toppled empires. His long black hair is pulled back today, which means he's in work mode rather than chaos mode. Small mercies.
Massimo sits with his fingers steepled, whiskey-colored eyes fixed on Rafael with the patience of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've seen that look before. Emergency meetings at the ass crack of dawn are never good news, but whatever shitstorm is about to land on this table, he's already planning how to bury it in paperwork. We work hard to keep everything we do legal.
Most times, that is.
Rowan sits at the far end of the table, shoulders loose, fingers resting lightly on the arm of his chair, looking for all the world like a man half-asleep in a boring meeting. He's not. He's cataloging every breath, every shift, every micro-expression in this room and filing it away for later. It’s a little fucking freaky, if you ask me, but whatever. Every man has his hobbies, I guess.
The man speaks maybe ten words a day, which is why the rest of us have learned to shut up and listen when he opens his mouth.
And then there's Cristian, my cousin. He takes up space in the chair to my left. He’s unnervingly still. A family trait we share. We share other family qualities Katriana and Persia love to point out, too. Our dark hair, though his is cropped short where mine falls past my shoulders and then there’s the single streak of silver at our temples that runs in our bloodline. Our sharp cheekbones and strong, elegant hands until you notice the calluses due to our line of work.
But where I am built for breaking things, Cristian is built for taking them. He moves through shadows and leaves no trace. People have called him a ghost. Pretty damn accurate. He handles our high-end acquisitions and sales of priceless pieces–artwork, jewels and information. He’s a man every museum fears and private collectors worship.
We’re happy to have him join the brotherhood, but he still has a ways to go to prove himself.
His pale gray eyes meet mine. I keep my expression flat, neutral, the mask I've perfected over decades of violence and negotiation. He smirks anyway, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he sees right through it. Then he returns his attention to Rafael, leaving me to wonder what the hell just showed on my face.
Family. Can't live with them. Can't kill them without paperwork with the Men of Genesis.
I’ll explain later.
Anyway, Damaris and Katriana finish their rounds and slip out, the door clicking shut behind them with the soft finality of a vault sealing us in.
About fucking time.
Rafael doesn't waste time.
"We have a problem." His voice is calm, measured, the tone he uses when the problem is big enough to require calm. "Last night, two women were attacked in our back alley. One was taken. One was left for dead."
The temperature in the room drops. I feel it in my spine, that cold warning that tells me violence is coming. I just don't know whose yet.
"Our alley?" Drake's voice is flat, dangerous. "Behind our building?"
"Behind Scarlet Thorn," Rafael confirms and turns from the window to face us. "Security found the injured woman within minutes of the attack. She was conscious, barely. Broken arm. Concussion. Clutching a laptop bag with a death grip and looking like she went a couple of rounds with the devil’s hell hounds."
"Witnesses?" That's Massimo, already scribbling something on the pad of paper in front of him.
Rafael shakes his head. "None. It was just the two women. The security guard who found her said she was mumbling something when they found her. A name." Rafael's dark eyes sweep the table. "Malone."
The word lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
My spine goes rigid, every muscle in my back locking tight. My fingers tighten around my coffee cup hard enough that I'm surprised the ceramic doesn't crack. A prickle races across the back of my neck, that ancient animal warning that says pay attention, this matters, this changes everything.
The Malones. Irish mob, old money, deep roots in Chicago's rotten underbelly. Seamus Malone runs the show, has for decades. His brother Declan is the face, but everyone who matters knows Seamus holds the leash.
We've been watching them for months. Building files. Waiting for the right moment to move.
"Malone," Luca repeats, the pen going still between his fingers. "As in Seamus Malone? The Seamus Malone who's been trying to undercut our territory Since Enzo was taken off the board?"
