Page 47 of The Don's Secret Heir

“No, nothing like that. It’s just... Armando.”

“Armando?”

Armando Ricci, one of my lower-level men, has always been a bit of a mess. He likes to party, gamble, and fuck, and while I can’t exactly blame him, he sometimes prioritizes the party over the life.

And that’s where we differ.

After my parents died, I became committed to taking on the business, making a name for myself, just like my father did.

He’d want me to keep his empire alive.

“Yeah. Haven’t seen him in a few days. He’s missed a lot of meetings, and no one can get in touch with him. Part of his shipment was missing. A big part.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. This isn’t the first time Armando's been suspected of stealing drugs, but now it’s becoming a problem.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Probably holed up at his apartment. He parties there, brings girls there.”

“Then we’ll go get him.”

“You’re going to come with me?”

“I think it’s time I correct him myself. Maybe it’ll stick this time,” I say firmly. Giovanni hums on the other line.

“Fair enough,don. I’ll come and pick you up.”

I don’t often take my own car to do dirty work—it's too flashy. And I have multiple other cars parked in my garage, but they’reallflashy.

Giovanni has more eclectic tastes in vehicles, so when he pulls up in one of his sedans I open the door and slide into the leather seat.

“You sure about this, boss? Going yourself... you know it’s a statement.”

“One that needs to be made,” I say firmly, and Giovanni sighs.

“I hate that it’s come to this, but you’re right. It has to be done.”

We arrive at Armando’s apartment complex and the music booms through the pavement as we drive up.

Armando seems about ten seconds away from someone calling the cops about a noise complaint, so I’ve got to do this quick.

“Just stay in the car,” I say to Giovanni. “I want to make an entrance.”

“Alright,don.”

I doubt Giovanni wants to see what I’m about to do, anyway. He and Armando have always been close.

I draw in a deep breath through my nostrils and get out of the car, taking the stairs to his third-story apartment. The door is half open and I push it all the way, a chorus of gasps rippling through the crowd.

Armando is in the back, holding a bottle of half-empty vodka. His eyes are wide and glassy when he looks at me.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “Cut the music!”

The music continues and he huffs, stalking over to rip out a power cord from the wall.

The music stops and the conversation dulls down to a low whisper as everyone looks toward me. I don’t pay the crowd any mind, just staring at Armando.

“Do you want to do this here?” I ask in a low voice. “You know the punishment for breaking my rules.”