All Chapters of The Mafia's Private Gigolo: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Rodrigo's POV Javier Morales.That was the name. The missing piece of this whole fucking puzzle. The source of the migraine that had been boring into my skull for weeks, a dull, persistent ache that no amount of whiskey or pussy could quiet.He had a family. They always did. A wife. A son. A neat little life tucked away in Mexico, far from the reach of my world. But distance was never an obstacle for consequences. I’ve crossed oceans for less.“Keep a close eye on the pest for me,” I said into the phone, my voice flat, measured. “I’ll be in Mexico soon. It’s time to nip this in the fucking bud.”I ended the call. The city sprawled beneath my window, a glittering grid of lights and shadows, of people who had no idea what moved in the dark spaces between their lives. For the first time in weeks, I felt it — that low thrum in my blood, the hunter’s pulse. The anticipation of getting closer. Closer to the truth. Closer to whoever thought they could compromise me, cost me millions, em

Rodrigo's POV The following day after the call, I made my way to Mexico.Right now I'm inside my Mercedes-Benz S-Class, moving through the rural roads of Tepito. The landscape outside is grey and waterlogged — cracked concrete, rusted iron gates, the kind of poverty that doesn't ask for your pity. It just exists.All that's on my mind is Javier.Getting those answers out of Javier.And for once, I have a good feeling about this. Because this one — this one has something to lose.A wife.A son.And yes, I will go that far. If he doesn't talk, they get it too. In this life, nobody has time for sentiments. You mess with my business, you pay for it. Hard. Simple as that.The car halts in front of what looks like an abandoned warehouse.My warehouse.The exterior is deliberate — designed to blend into the decay around it, to avoid any reason for suspicion. And in a place like Tepito? A slum law enforcement barely bothers to drive through? It was the perfect place to disappear. W

Rodrigo's POV A lot happened after Mexico. The moment I was done with Javier Morales, I was on the next flight back to California. Satisfied I’d cracked the mystery behind my failed consignment, yes. But the revelation itself sat like poison in my gut. Dante Gambino. The old bastard hadn’t sabotaged me for money. He hadn’t wanted my routes. He hadn’t considered me a threat. He did it because of my father. To men like Dante, I wasn’t Rodrigo Valdino. I was Hermes Valdino’s son. Collateral damage. A tool. A convenient weakness to exploit. That was what pissed me off. Not the lost money. Not the damaged routes. The disrespect. Everything I built belonged to me. The coastal routes. The partnerships across Europe. The business relationships stretching through Portugal, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Nigeria, and Colombia. California. All mine. Yet every time these old men looked at me, all they saw was my father’s son. Javier swore loyalty in exchange for relocat

Chris's POV I don’t even know when it escapes my lips. The words slip out before I can catch them, and the second they’re in the air, I’d sell what’s left of my dignity to stuff them back down. Ten different ways to die and I just picked the loudest, stupidest one.He stands.Rodrigo unfolds himself from that chair like a predator who’s been patient long enough, and fuck—I forgot how big he is. His frame swallows the room, his shadow literally enveloping mine on the bed, cutting off the lamplight, leaving me in the dark of him. He leans in. His hot breath hits me before his hands do, cigar and whiskey with a whiff of that cologne that probably costs more than my rent. His silver eyes pin me down, predatory, clinical, like I’m something he’s deciding whether to dissect or devour.His hand finds my chin. Grips. Hard. My jaw shifts under the pressure, and he tilts my face up, making me feel exactly like what I am right now. His. A slut he paid for. A toy. And somehow, somewhere deep in

Chris's POV I honestly don't know what he wants me to say.Who am I?Like — how the fuck does that even matter? We're both naked. We just finished having sex and now this man wants my life story like he's filling out a customs form.He finally turns away from the desk.Smoke curls lazily from the cigar between his fingers as he reaches for the robe draped over the chair. He slips it over those broad shoulders like royalty putting on a crown.Purple.Gold embroidery.Because apparently even psychopaths have fashion sense.He walks back to the chair across from the bed and sits down, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, unhurried, like he owns the air in the room and is only now deciding to charge me rent for breathing it.Those silver eyes settle on me again.Waiting."I..." I rub the back of my neck. "I don't even know where to start."Nothing.Not even a blink. The man could win a staring contest against a corpse and the corpse would concede first.Then —"I don't entertain daf