Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

ella

gray drizzle drifted in through the open archways, leaving greasy, iridescent puddles across the asphalt. Through the exit,

datory purr in the gloom. I was halfway to the do

bell

of barely contained fury. Rocco trailed a step behind him,

at his Underboss, his e

text message sent to Giuliana... it's a ghost, Boss. It was routed through multi

k a menacing step toward me. "You used Falcone resources," he accused, his voice

he was looking at 'K', the very ghost his men were chasing. "I'm just a discarded wife, Damien. I

ith a dangerous, volatile storm. He was a Don used to ab

omplex-his desperate need to control and protect-flared to life. He stripped off his custom, five-tho

g back as if his to

silk-blend fabric slipped from his grasp, falling with a wet,

alth and authority soaking up the grime of the garage floor. When he loo

to buy back the control he had just lost. "I'll add a

unadulterated disgust. "I d

but he slammed his hand aga

his mouth. "Don Carlo. He wants us both at the family estate tonig

the Moretti legacy. To defy him was a

he command in his voice bleeding into a desperat

rman's dinner was the absolute epicenter o

o a deadly whisper. "But don't expect me to perform the role of a doting wife, Damien. And don't expe

ad just handed him a live grenade, a

ordered, pulling the door open and forcing

my driver pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Damien Moretti was left standing alo