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y the most lethal mafia boss on the East Coast. But rig
strial ceiling sprinklers, laughing as
owning. I looked through the glass at my
he terrace railing, sipping his bourbon whil
assing me," he warned through t
d smiled and whispered a
your little phobia. F
y money, secured his legitimate suppl
him in the dark, and he had turned i
d to be my shield watch me dr
r was suddenly burned away
he bulletproof glass with my bleeding han
untant, I would show him what happens when yo
pte
na
lethal mafia boss on the East Coast. But at this moment, the intercom ab
within thirty minutes, or we lock the doors
nter of the stone terrace. My gaze searches for my fiancé, for some sign of rescue. I see only F
nderboss of the
before his twenty-fifth birthday-a man whose na
m, wearing a custom black suit that sets off the breadth of his
e, laundering his dirty money and s
ething more than a portfolio of shi
de this glass cage on
e conservatory doors clic
lers embedded in the ceiling, soaking my desig
rom my eyes and st
artel associates are gathered ar
the small flashes of ligh
stands at the fr
, Fabiano's childhood friend, and the woman who orchestra
ther hand depresses the silver button of the external m
e two-way intercom system w
so untouchable,
sts when you are stripped of your tailo
s, condensation makes the joints of my
entless, beating down on my shoulder
iana and lock e
railing of the terrace, a lit ci
e two dry wells, r
sip of his bourbon, watching
, open t
ainst the small microph
es no
lieutenants chuckles and
d of thick gray smoke
sure she do
crackling intercom, as smo
s to learn that the Romano Famiglia
s whistle and ch
itional initiation
nk this
ontrol in front of the glass
just begun, Si
to stop, or we will see how
he man I love-the man who promised to p
ag of his cigar and
veiled insult, convincing myself that his affection was s
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