When He Takes: A Dark Mafia Romance (Fallen God Book 2)

I roll my eyes at the text on my phone.

What is this? The mob version of The Devil Wears Prada? Alessio Ferraro is a fucking diva. The coffee shop he sends me to is on the other side of town.

I get into my car and start driving.

My face is a patchwork of bruises. Same with my stomach and ribs. Alessio got me good, but I’ve had worse, and there’s something comforting about the pain. I know how to deal with pain.

What I don’t know how to deal with is my wife.

She insisted I take not one, but two days off work, and then she proceeded to ignore me for most of them, only checking in around mealtimes to make sure I ate what she made for me.

As if I wouldn’t.

For all her coldness, one thing is keeping my hope alive.

Blake could have escaped when I was unconscious. She could have taken my keys, wallet, and phone, ignored all my warnings, and been on her way to California by now.

But she stayed and took care of me.

And then she scolded Alessio Fucking Ferraro like he’s a kid in middle school instead of the biggest psychopath in New York City.

The memory of it still makes me chuckle. I’m going to remember that befuddled look on Alessio’s face for the rest of my life.

I pull up to the curb outside the coffee shop, get out of my car, and glance around. This neighborhood isn’t in Ferraro’s territory. Why the fuck does Alessio have a hard-on for this particular spot?

I walk inside. I’m expecting some gourmet hipster bullshit, but it’s nothing special. Behind the counter, the grumpy middle-aged woman with a polka-dot apron tied around her waist pours me two cups out of a stained coffee pot. “Five bucks.”

“You got any oat milk?”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No. Try the convenience store next door.”

I pay her and snap lids onto the steaming paper cups. As I walk out, two older men playing chess at one of the tables by the door shoot me dirty looks.

The fuck?

I don’t understand why Alessio sent me here. But I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on inside that guy’s head.

After I pick up a full fucking carton of oat milk, I get back into my car and drive to the warehouse.

My footsteps echo as I make my way underground.

In the torture room, Alessio’s sitting on a metal stool in front of a guy tied to a chair. He’s pulling off the guy’s nails one by one.

“Brought you your coffee,” I shout so that he’ll hear me over the man’s screams.

He glances over his shoulder and puts the pliers down on the tray beside him before getting to his feet. He walks over and takes one of the cups from me, leaving bloody prints on the white surface. “Thanks.”

I tip my head in the direction of his sobbing prisoner. “Who’s this?”

“A Bratva runner.” He takes a sip. “Junior, but we’ve heard he’s done errands directly for the pakhan. I’m trying to get the location of the safe house where the pakhan is hiding.”

“He’s in hiding?” He wasn’t when I left six months ago.

“Yeah. He’s a paranoid fuck. He’s giving his vors orders exclusively over the phone. They’ve got a lot on their plate managing all the men they’re shipping here by busload from Boston.”

So things have really heated up. “What’s their agenda?”

“Business conditions in Boston have become inhospitable. The new mayor has promised to crack down on organized crime, and he’s got the Bratva in his crosshairs. The writing’s on the wall. They’re trying to move into new territory.”

“And they chose New York? Don’t they know how crowded it’s gotten?”

Alessio shrugs. “The Bratva loves New York. They romanticize it. They think if they can rule here, they can rule anywhere. This whole thing is driven as much by emotion as it is by logic.”

“I take it you’re not negotiating?”

He adjusts his grip on his cup. “We’re exterminating. It’s taking some time, but I’ll find the pakhan eventually. Once he’s dead, there will be too much infighting for them to continue this campaign. They’ll retreat to where they came from, or they’ll pick a new place to try to invade.”

A crash sounds from behind a door.

“And that?”

“That’s my afternoon appointment.”

“Another runner?”

“No. One of pakhan’s vors.”

My brows rise. A vor is the equivalent of a capo. “How did you manage that?”

“Cosimo set a good trap. We’re not going to kill him. Just send a message.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m doubtful Alessio is capable of such restraint.

“Let me wrap up with this one, and then you can start the cleanup while I talk to the vor.”

I nod. “All right.”

The runner doesn’t know the pakhan’s location. That becomes obvious after Alessio starts sawing off his fingers. The man tells him other things, things that Alessio already knows. He’s got nothing that can save him. Nothing valuable to offer.

Around eleven, Alessio appears to get bored of him, and he snaps his neck with no warning.

“I want to talk to the vor,” he offers by way of explanation.

“What do you want me to do with the body?”

“Should be some bags in that file cabinet. Chop him up, put him in, and clean the floor. Then you can dump him in the Hudson.”

“Easy peasy, huh?”

“Yep,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks into the room with the vor.

I roll my eyes. That guy does not understand sarcasm.

Three hours later, I’m on my knees, wiping blood off the floor, when two Ferraro guys appear.

“What can I help you with, gents?” I call out.

The door to the room with the vor opens, and Alessio drags an older man out. The man’s hair looks like a bird’s nest, and he’s got bruises nastier than mine all over his face. His eyes meet mine, and a second later, there’s a flash of recognition.

Does he know who I am? Probably. After all, six months ago, everyone knew who I was.

Alessio rummages in a drawer, pulls out a cloth bag, and tosses it over the vor’s head. He shoves him toward the guys. “Take him back.”

The two men lead the vor out of the torture room.

“You get anything good out of him?” I ask, my eyes following the men.

Alessio walks over to a fridge in the corner of the room and takes out a shiny green apple. “No.”

I get to my feet and wash my hands at the sink. “Why let him go then?”

“I felt like it.”

I sigh. I guess he doesn’t owe me an explanation.

He bites into his apple with a loud crack. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

“Huh?”

“Your wedding ring. You didn’t wear it the first day or today. Cosimo was surprised to hear you’re married.”

Nerves prickle over my nape. Now that the Ferraros know about Blake, I’ve really got to figure out what the endgame is here. How long are they going to have me doing grunt work for Alessio? There are plenty of other guys who could do this shit instead of me, and while it’s nasty business, it’s far from the worst thing Gino could have put me on if all he wanted was to make me suffer.

“If I die, Blake will be under Rafaele’s protection,” I say firmly. “Whatever happens between us, you can’t touch her.”

Alessio takes another loud bite. “I won’t hurt her. I like her.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

“She wasn’t scared of me. Most girls are scared of me.”

That’s because she’s got no idea how fucking cuckoo you are.

I lean back against the stainless-steel counter. “What about your brothers? You better not have given them any ideas.”

He shrugs. “I don’t speak for them, but in general, we don’t target women unless they’ve really earned it. You should talk to my dad about Blake and make sure you’ve got an understanding.”

I nod. “I will.” I have no choice at this point.

“You can talk to him tonight. Mom wanted me to invite the two of you for dinner.”

Fuck me. I wanted to keep Blake far away from all the mob shit. She’s not gonna like it, and she’s definitely not gonna be happy that the first time I’m letting her leave the house is to sit down for dinner with my boss and his wife. But I’m not going to delude myself into thinking we have a choice about going.

I run my fingers through my hair. “Let me call Blake.”

Alessio pops the apple core into his mouth. What is he, a fucking horse? “Go ahead. You can take breaks, you know? Wouldn’t want your wife to yell at me again about the working conditions.”

Shaking my head, I walk out of the room and make my way outside.

It’s cold as fuck. January in New York is almost as miserable as February. Did Rafe’s private shopper get Blake a warm enough coat? I sure hope so, or I’ll have to take her shopping. Depending on how tonight goes, Blake’s house arrest might be over. If Ferraro promises he won’t touch her, my excuse for keeping her locked away will disappear, which makes my anxiety spike. It’s better when I know she’s safe and sound, but at the end of the day, I know I need to give her a bit of freedom if I want her to ever be happy in this city.

Alec picks up his cell phone immediately. “Mr. De Luca?”

“Can you bring the phone up to the penthouse? I need to talk to my wife.” I really need to figure out a better way for us to communicate. Maybe it’s time I give her a phone as well.

“Of course, sir.”

A minute later, Blake comes on the line. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sunshine. The Ferraros want to have dinner with the two of us.”

“Why?” Suspicion bleeds into her voice, but she hasn’t snapped at me for using her nickname. I’m going to take that as a good sign.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “The invitation came from Vita, Gino Ferraro’s wife.”

“Why can’t you go on your own?”

“The invitation is for both of us. I thought you were itching to get out of the penthouse.”

“Yeah, but breaking bread with a family of mobsters is not exactly what I had in mind,” she grumbles.

A grin tugs at the corner of my lips. She’s such a grump sometimes.

She sighs. “All right. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Can you be ready by six-thirty?”

“That’s two hours from now. Of course, I can be ready. Am I supposed to dress in a certain way?”

“No. Just wear whatever you feel comfortable in. And don’t forget your ring,” I add after a moment. That reminds me, I need to get her something better than that cheap band from the Vegas chapel. She doesn’t need a reminder of our less than stellar wedding on her finger.

She needs something sparkling and heavy, so that whenever she looks at it, she’ll think about what we can still become.