CHAPTER 4• THE MAFIA GOD.

~Nero.

“And you’re telling me Milo really believed he’d managed to escape from here just because the latch on the cell he was locked in just happened to be rusty?”

I drawled, mildly surprised, and Marco, my Consigliere, scoffed.

“Yes. We found the fool trying to leave the country in the cargo hold of a plane. How the fool really believed he had escaped us beats me.”

I hooked a cigarette between my lips and lit it with my flip lighter. I took a deep puff and blew out smoke rings. I flipped the lighter on and off repeatedly, distractedly attracted to the orange flicker of the flame.

The Skyes weren’t exactly known for their cleverness in the underworld.

“And did he make contact with anyone? Anyone that could point us in the right direction?”

Marco huffed, his black eyes trained on me.

“No… not even a coded message. I believe he doesn’t know the whereabouts of his adopted daughter.”

I said nothing because I knew it was the truth, but either way, I still held on to the hope that he’d eventually cough up some useful information—and my sources told me his family were desperately looking for her too to secure Milo’s release.

“Besides, Nero,” Marco was saying, “his continued incarceration at our hands could spark a gang war.”

He was right. Nico could instigate a rise against me for holding his Consigliere, which was against the Mafia code, but there was a reason he hadn’t made a move yet.

I wasn’t called the Mafia God for nothing.

I turned to face Marco. “Where is he now?”

“In the holding cells.”

Puffing out smoke rings, I made my way up to the roof. Marco followed.

“And what of the De Vittorio drive, any leads?”

“We have reasons to believe that one of his children has it. Though we still can’t find a trace of them.”

“If you say you’ve got information then mio dio, at least give me one that I’m not privy to.”

I let out a string of Italian curses. I needed the Vittorio secret drive very badly to get an edge over Nico in the weapons and drugs business. I needed safe hidden routes in and out of the country and all over the world.

I suddenly noticed some form of commotion at the outer gates of my property. I squinted to get a clearer view.

“Is it a woman that just threw Philippe over?”

Marco asked in amazement.

“It seems so.”

I was intrigued watching her; she had beaten her way up to my inner gates now. I suddenly frowned when she took out Balthazar, the hugest man in my outfit.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Probably one of the most insane women you’ve been bedding these days.”

I slid him a cold stare and he faltered.

“My deepest apologies, El-capo.”

I grunted, stubbing out the butt of my cigarette.

“Should I take her out? She’s obviously a feisty one.”

And to my surprise, I said, “No. Let her be.”

Marco shot me a weird glance. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t exactly in the ‘give them a chance’ department. Marco shook his head and the wind picked his blonde hair.

“We need to—”

My hand shot up in a sharp command for him to keep shut. I listened. The voice came again.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!” the woman snapped and drove a knee into his groin.

Marco was already eating up the stairs with his long legs, his gun cocked at the ready. I followed at a leisure pace, my mind backtracking on just how and why the voice sounded so damn familiar.

“I just need to see Nero De Santoro! Where is he?”

My brow quirked. This bitch had to be downright audacious to yell my name like that.

If it eventually turned out to be one of my whores, I’d waste no time in giving her a bullet to the head for her audacity.

I reached the landing and my eyes wrapped around her.

“Amara.”

It was really her in the flesh. After two years of searching, she had really come to me herself. She looked a lot different than she did that night. She had put on weight in all the right places, her hips flared out now from a tiny waist, and I discerned the outline of her breasts as they spilled over her bra cup to form a tasteful cleavage.

Her hair had tumbled out wildly from her struggle with the guards, just like it had that night as I pulled her hair, driving my dick into her from behind. My palms moistened with my arousal.

God, I was being turned on by just the sight of her, which was strange because I never desired a woman twice—but what wasn’t strange about me when it came to Amara?

I, Nero De Santoro, had spent the last fucking months looking for a woman.

“Oh good. There you are!” she breathed when her eyes fell on me. She presently had a guard by the hair. Seeing me, she pulled harder then slammed his head into a pillar. He collapsed unconscious. She spat on him.

The guards tightened a barricade around her and cocked their guns.

I raised a forefinger and they immediately put down their guns.

“Leave us.”

I growled and they immediately bowed and exited the landing.

I looked at Amara again. She stared back at me, unflinching, and flipped her sweat-moist hair behind her ears.

“Sorry about your guards but they’re a bunch of sissies.”

I ignored her, concentrating on her bleeding split lip. I imagined sucking on those lips, biting them, and wrapping her hair around my fingers.

I swallowed and tucked my hands into my pockets.

“Follow me.”

I ordered and turned to go inside. She hadn’t moved from where she stood.

“My kids are sick,” she stated without preamble, her lips trembled.

“I have no idea—”

“Our kids are sick, Nero.”

She wrung her fingers, clearly nervous.

My eyes narrowed into slits. I didn’t think for a second that she could be lying; all I could think of was the fact that she was the only woman I had ever bedded without protection.

I snarled, stalking toward her only to stop in my tracks at the sight of her teary eyes.

“Where are they?” I demanded harshly.

“In the ICU in New York. They have leukemia—early stage—and I don’t—” Her voice broke, and she pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “I can’t lose them, Nero.”

My entire expression changed. Gone was my initial fury. What replaced it was something raw and terrifying.

A deadly protectiveness swept through me.

“Get the jet ready, Marco, and get my best doctor on the line. Tell him the Mafia God needs his skills.”

I ordered and swept into action.

In minutes, we were in the air to New York and I was talking to Dr. Gregory House, the leading practicing oncologist in the world. Thankfully, he was in New York already for a prior consultation and agreed to meet us in the hospital before we landed.

Amara sat beside me shuddering at intervals, her hands tightly clasped on her thighs. I struggled to contain my anger as the sudden urge to pummel something rose in me.

Angry didn’t even cut my mood right now. I had kids—plural—that I knew nothing about. And still wouldn’t have if not for her desperation.

If their DNA results came out positive, I’d really lose it on her.

“I had no choice,” she said out of the blue.

I ignored her and Amara’s face fell, going silent.

We got to the hospital soon enough and, true to his word, Dr. Greg was waiting.

He limped toward me on a cane as I deboarded the jet. Chaos broke out. There were screams as people crowded, their phones out to catch a glimpse and recording of me and my entourage of suited, armed men. I was more than used to the attention. I blamed my mother for my extraordinarily dark good looks; my reputation did the rest.

“Nero De Santoro,” a doctor hurried toward us, “any problem?”

Gregory stepped up on cue. “We’re having two patients transferred back to Italy now.”

Amara broke off from us then, darting into a hallway. I followed suit into a ward.

The sight that met my eyes was one that made my heart fill to exploding.

Twins.

No questions asked, they were mine. Apart from the red color of their hair, they were spitting images of me and Amara.

Without another word, I scooped the girl into my arms. She was so small and beautiful I almost teared up.

At a loss, Amara followed my lead and soon we were on a return flight to Italy. House ran batteries of tests on them while Amara, the mother hen, watched with wide eyes.

My earlier elation was now replaced with rage. I fought to control my rage.

The jet landed on one of my hospital’s helipads and the children were whisked into the hospital.

Dr. Greg ushered us into his office to wait. Amara paced every length of the room, setting my teeth on edge, while I repeatedly flipped my lighter to calm myself.

When she finally sat down, I sprang up. She flinched away.

“You hid them from me,” I snarled out, my voice lethal. “You hid my children from me.”

“I was trying to protect them,” she said unapologetically.

Mio dio, if she kept up this fearless act of hers—

“From me?”

“From your life. This world of yours.”

For a moment, I almost lost it.

“They are my kids too. You didn’t think I was capable of protecting my own children?”

I growled and her spine straightened as she faced me squarely.

“I want my children to have the most normal life any kid could have rather than to have the life I—” she caught herself “—you have.”

My hands balled into fists when she went on,

“Besides, stop trying to kid me about accepting them if I’d told you anyway.”

I grabbed a figurine on the desk and flung it against the wall inches from where she sat.

Amara screamed and burst into nerve-racking sobs.

Tears streamed down her face in rivulets that disarmed me. She had evidently been holding on to her emotions by the fingertips and a single violent act from me had sent her spiraling.

“Damn it! Will you just quit that snivelling of yours?” I swore.

When she calmed, she wiped her tears.

“I’m sorry… I’m not always this emotional.”

I sat down, suddenly at a loss.

“What are their names?” I asked, my voice rough.

“Luca,” she whispered. “And Lucia.”

My chest rose sharply, a near-silent inhale.

I closed my eyes.

“When’s their birthday?”

“What do you want to do with the information?”

Amara countered defensively. A cold glance from me had her stammering.

“M… May the tenth.”

My throat tightened.

Since I killed my father when I was fifteen and my mother had committed suicide, I had come into the position of Mafia Don.

My father had mercilessly instilled in me the consequences of an emotional attachment; hence I never had a family. Hated the thought of it even, because love was an emotion considered a taboo in my world. It was the worst weakness any El-capo could have, but now without even thinking or planning, I was a father of two.

Thinking of them now, I made a resolve. My kids weren’t going to be raised the way I was. As a weapon.

And that determination to care for them started now.

“Why did you get all defensive as soon as I wanted their birthday dates?”

I asked coolly. Amara averted her gaze to the wall behind me.

I smirked.

“Scared I’ll take your children from you?”

I watched the fire enter her eyes.

“Will you?” she shot back.

I crossed my ankles and leaned on the wall to look at her.

“I think you’ve done a good job. I’ll be taking it from here.”

She shot from her seat, her green eyes shooting sparks. “Don’t even think about it. They are mine! You have a problem with that? Sue for child custody.”

“Oh, I have…” I drawled.

Stunned, she froze. She knew just how powerful I am in Italy. The children were mine for the taking.

“No,” she gasped. “You can’t do that—”

“Unfortunately, I can and I will.”

Amara had started crying again. “They’re everything to me. I can’t live without them.”

I arched a brow. “Really?”

Amara nodded, her sobbing slowing. I pushed myself off the wall to stand closer to her.

“Fine then. I won’t take them from you on one condition.” I grinned. “Marry me, Amara.”

She scoffed incredulously and stepped away from me.

“My life is in New York. I can’t just up and leave—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” I cut in with heavy finality. “I’m ordering you, Amara.”