OWN HER: A Dark Mafia Romance(6)

Don tilted his head at Carla and put his hands on her shoulders. She would never have allowed any of the other men in the field office to put their hands on her with such familiarity—or the women in the office, either, for that matter.



But Don was different. He'd been one of her teachers at the academy, and she'd always thought of him as a father figure, especially since she'd never known her own father. They'd never discussed it, but she'd always been fairly certain that he'd requested her specifically when he'd been assigned to the Mancini case, and that level of trust meant a lot coming from him.



“I know it,” Don said, “because I know you. You lost your partner, and it hurts. I've been there, believe me. More'n once, even. You blame yourself for what happened to him, even though there wasn't a damn thing you could have done to stop it. An' you're havin' dark thoughts about payback, just like any of us would. But I ain't never had any reason to think you're a psycho, or that when the moment of truth came, you'd choose to flush your career an' your life down the crapper. Not over a worm like Gio. Not when you know there's a hundred worse than him you could go after next, as long as you've got that badge.”



Carla nodded. She wanted to believe in herself as much as Don believed in her. But all she could think of was making sure that when Handsome Gio breathed his last, his nickname would be as ironic as possible.



“Thank you,” she said. “I'll try not to let you down.”



Don lowered his hands, smiling. “Aw, shucks, hon… You could never let me down, no matter what. Now come on, freshen up an' meet me in IR-3 in ten minutes so we can squeeze Louie for more info.” IR-3 was office shorthand for interrogation room #3.



“I'll be there,” Carla assured him, taking off her safety glasses.



Don started to leave, then turned back with a sly grin. “Oh, an' Carla? Just in case it turns out I'm wrong 'bout that whole you-not-bein'-a-psycho' thing, at least try an' make the first shot look random? It'll be mighty hard to say it wasn't premeditated if the only bullets they find are in his eyes an' balls an' whatnot.”



“It'd probably still cost me my badge,” Carla pointed out.



“True. Could keep you outta prison, though.” Don closed the door behind him, and Carla heard him whistling as he strolled down the hall.





Chapter 3




Gio



Gio's hands still throbbed as he mingled among the party guests, clinking glasses and accepting congratulations. At a ceremony just an hour before, he'd officially become a “made guy”—a soldier in the Mancini crime organization.



He'd stood in the basement of a house he'd never been to before, the other made men standing around him in a solemn circle. Mario pricked Gio's trigger finger with the tip of an icepick, then let the blood drip onto a small picture of Saint Francis of Assisi. After that, Mario produced a Zippo, lit the picture on fire, and commanded Gio to hold out his hands.



Gio did as he was told and Mario placed the burning card in Gio's palms, staring into his eyes. “Remember always that as this card burns, so shall your immortal soul burn in the fires of Hell if you ever betray your family. You enter this life alive—from now on, the only way for you to leave it is death. Do you so swear?”



“I do,” Gio answered, desperately trying to ignore the heat blistering his palms.



Mario nodded and his large hands enveloped Gio's, snuffing the flames quickly. Then he embraced Gio as everyone in the room applauded.



“Before tonight, you were only my son,” Mario told Gio as he swabbed the burns with ointment and bandaged them. “But now, you are truly my heir. When my time has passed and it's your turn to lead this family, I know you will do great things.”



“Thank you, Papa,” Gio answered.



Mario smiled and kissed Gio on the cheek. “Now it's time to reward yourself. Go upstairs and have fun.”



Gio walked upstairs to the party that was waiting for him, remembering the first time his father had said those words to him: “Now it's time to reward yourself.”



He was seventeen years old then, and even though he'd never seen firsthand what his father did for a living, he'd heard enough whispers and euphemisms at family gatherings to get a vague idea.



But one day after school, while he was walking home, a van screeched to a halt next to him and two men wearing ski masks got out. One held him from behind while the other punched him repeatedly in the stomach until he puked, sagging to the sidewalk and crying.



“You tell your old man the truckers' union  s don't belong to him, understand?” one of them hissed at him. “You tell him if he tries to muscle in on them again, we'll come back with baseball bats and make you one sorry motherfucker.” Then they hopped into the van and drove off.