Page 1 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
CHAPTER1
GIORGIO
The sun is alreadylow in the sky when my plane lands in Ibiza, but the scorching temperature hasn’t begun its descent. Everyone at the airport appears to be barely awake. Given how things normally run here, it's somewhat surprising they don't just close the airport during siesta and tell everyone to go home and nap, but then again, if there’s one thing Ibiza loves more than maintaining its reputation for being a worry-free paradise, it’s money.
I meet De Rossi's driver in the arrivals lounge, and he takes me to the car. He's competent, clearly trained in defensive driving, but I’d prefer to be the one behind the wheel. I don’t like being at anyone’s mercy, let alone someone I've just met.
He eyes me in the rearview mirror when he thinks I’m not looking, but I notice it in my periphery. I noticeeverything. It’s one of the skills that have kept me alive all these years.
Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m thirty-three. It feels odd, like I’m living on borrowed time. I always thought I’d die young. I guess that’s a pretty strange thing to think as a kid, but when you see boys only a few years older than you dying on the news every day, certain expectations are set.
In Secondigliano, the district of Naples where I was born and raised, optimism is a myth. The populace lives in collective apathy, knowing that each day brings the possibility of death, drug busts, or yet another tragic overdose of some twelve-year-old whose parents were both high on meth. Secondigliano is where most dreams die before they’re born. If you’re unlucky enough to have even a shred of ambition, there’s only one path.
Become a man of the Camorrasistema.
I drag my hand over my trimmed beard. My cynicism is showing. I should probably try to keep it in check given the task at hand and its implications. It’s not every day that everything you’ve ever wanted falls into your lap. I could at least attempt to enjoy it.
Like most men, I’m a single-minded creature, and there’s been one thing that’s kept me going through the years.
This one damn thing that I’d give up everything for.
Justice for my mother.
I’ve spent over a decade trying to figure out how I can get it without throwing everything into chaos, so I was surprised when De Rossi called me last night and unknowingly gave me the final piece of the puzzle.
A favor in exchange for keeping his sister, Martina, safe while he makes his bid to become the next don of the Casalesi clan.
A favor I know exactly how I’m going to redeem. De Rossi isn’t going to like what I ask for, but his fatal flaw is that he’s a man of his word. If I do my part, he’ll do his.
Martina De Rossi might not know it yet, but she’s about to acquire a shadow. I’m going to be watching her every move. Not one hair on her head will be harmed while she’s with me, because I won’t give De Rossi a single excuse to break our deal.
We pull into the driveway of the Spanish villa I visited less than two weeks ago, and through the windshield, I spot two guards flanking the front door, as well as a sniper pacing on the roof. Looks like De Rossi finally implemented the security measures I told him to put in place.
About fucking time.
If he’d done it sooner, he could have avoided that breach last week.
Tension creeps into my shoulders at the thought of what happened. Lazaro, the ex-husband of De Rossi’s new wife, broke into the house and took Martina hostage. As if that girl hadn’t been through enough already. This had been the second time Lazaro managed to get his hands on Martina, the first one being a few weeks prior during a trip she took to New York.
That’s the kind of shit that’s not going to happen on my watch.
I get out of the car and make my way to the door.
“Tell De Rossi that Napoletano is here to see him,” I say to one of the uniformed guards.
The man eyes me through his sunglasses as he brings a walkie talkie to his mouth. A few moments later, he receives the go ahead and leads me inside.
We pass through the empty living area and take a turn down the hallway that leads to De Rossi’s office. The house is strangely quiet. Where is his wife? She seems like the type who’d grill me before I leave with Martina to make sure the girl’s in good hands—not that I need or give a crap about her approval. De Rossi asked me to do this for him because he knows I’m the best. I’ve been the Casalesi’s security expert ever since Sal, the current don, brought me on over a decade ago—a move he’ll deeply regret if things go my way.
A voice filters through the door, and the guard waves me in.
“Napoletano, have a seat,” De Rossi says.
I sink into the leather chair across from him and take in the state of the office. It’s a mess. There are papers everywhere, a few drawers pulled open, and two empty whiskey tumblers sit on the coffee table at my side.
It looks like things were sorted through and discarded in a rush. De Rossi’s probably putting his affairs here in order before he leaves.
Despite the chaos around him, the man himself is composed. He and his sister have lived the past decade exiled in Ibiza, but by blood, they’re Casalesi royalty. Before Sal murdered De Rossi’s father, he was one of the most powerful dons the clan has ever had, and their grandfather is credited with leading the Casalesi to victory against the Nuova Camorra Organizzata back in the seventies. Despite Sal’s best efforts, the De Rossi name is still muttered quietly over nightcaps with respect and admiration.
