“How much deeper can I get? I just listened to a man admit to murder and you plot a coverup.”
She’s got a point there. She’s practically my employee, and even at the end of six months, I won’t be able to let her go without some hefty non-disclosures and surveillance. “I’m not a gang leader.”
She arches an eyebrow at me, waiting for more.
“What I do is…bigger. It’s more intricate and sophisticated.”
She already knows the gist of what I do, so putting words to it shouldn’t be this hard. I still struggle, though, like somehow slapping a label on it will make her run, but she doesn’t back down.
“How so?”
Running my fingers through my hair, I lean back. “My family runs a section of the Italian Mafia. I inherited the position from my father, just like he did from his.”
Madison doesn’t answer for a second. She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m telling her the truth, eyes narrow and apprehensive.
“LikeThe Godfather?”
I snort. “Well, a lot of that was sensationalized for the movie, but more or less, yeah. LikeThe Godfather.”
“And you run the whole thing?”
“There are parts of the group throughout the whole country, but I run everything here in Vegas. I own an import and export line that sends gun parts all over the world.”
“Just the parts?” she asks, a cautious curiosity flickering in her eyes.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Parts aren’t traceable. Parts are legal.”
“I didn’t expect the Mafia to care about what’s legal,” she quips. For as smart as she is, that streak of stubbornness always catches me off guard. I just told her I run part of the Mafia and have access to everything that entails, and she still gives me a hard time. I don’t know what it says about me that I actually enjoy it.
“If you’ve got a legitimate business, it’s easier to hide the less…legal things.”
Madison presses her lips together, eyes darting away as her fingers trace the top of her glass. She wants to ask, and when she looks up at me through those thick, dark lashes, my heart races. She’s got no fucking clue what she does to me.
“Whatless legalthings do you do?”
“Never drugs. That shit gets messy, and too many people get hurt,” I say. “We’re mostly in big ticket gambling and counterfeiting. It’s easy to do in a place like Vegas. Obviously, issues come up, and we have to handle them in some unconventional ways, but it’s like any other business. I look at profit margins and target demographics and potential investors. All of that stuff. At the end of the day, it’s about making money and monopolizing the area.”
When Madison finally speaks, I barely hear her over the flicker of the fire. “Okay.”
I expect her to say more, and when she doesn’t, I burst out laughing. “I tell you I run a section of an international crime organization and all you say is okay?”
Madison bites her lip, pulling a smile as she does. “I don’t know what to say. I knew from the beginning that your job was dangerous and highly illegal, so Mafia leader tracks.”
“It’s called a Don. I’m a Mafia Don.”
“A Mafia Don,” she repeats. “I guess I understand why you didn’t tell me that before I agreed to work for you.”
“Would it have changed your answer?”
She considers her answer and then shakes her head. “No. As long as you’re paying off my debt with real money and none of your counterfeiting bullshit.”
“You’ve got my word. Your money will all be legal.” I chuckle. Her answer surprises me a little. I’ve had Madison pegged as a quintessential good girl. Sensible. Responsible. A rule follower. But if the idea of the Mafia doesn’t send her running, maybe I’ve been wrong.
Maybe there’s a little more mystique and adventure underneath all of that common sense and restraint. Maybe there’s a girl desperate for a little wild and crazy, and maybe I’m just the guy to give it to her.
Howdoyoufollowsomething like that up? Roman just gave me the rundown of his job as the head of a major criminal organization and he lounges back on the couch so casually, you’dthink we were talking about the weather. He even tried to pass it off like he’s a regular CEO, as if I haven’t witnessed firsthand how wrong that is. Mention of the Mafia alone should have been enough for me to end this right where we’re at. To get my things, move out, and forget, I ever knew the name Roman Molanari. I’m still sitting here, though, and it’s not because he slapped a pair of cement boots on me. It’s because I’m intrigued—and probably delusional.
At this point, I’ve been up for almost twenty-hours, and I can barely keep my eyes open as we talk, but I’m not ready for the night to end. This almost feels normal, and I likenormalwith Roman—when we’re not arguing or butting heads or dealing with some sort of criminal crisis, that is. He’s easy to talk to when he isn’t ordering me around, but even that doesn’t bother me like it should. In fact, I kind of like it.
