Brooklyn:
After being forced to spend one summer in Italy with her grandma, Brooklyn always found her way back to the cobblestone streets but not for the feeling of a summer never ending, but for Valentino, a boy who radiates trouble and sees throu...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
POV: Valentino "Some of the most poisonous people come disguised as family."
Fuck my life.
Brick-shitting fuckers have been coming at me from left to right.
I look down at the boy lying on the concrete, bloody. His eyes are still open from the shock of seeing my gun pointed straight at his head.
Pacing, I run my hands through my hair for the millionth time, wondering when these goblin mobsters will stop.
"Clean this up," I order Nick, my right hand, as I walk out of the dark alley. Italy after 1 a.m. was a dangerous place.
This was another deal gone wrong. Pablo, my father's former cocaine supplier, was starting to get a little frisky with his prices and formula, creating a side business where he sold his best products to other mafias, leaving me with his scraps.
Yea, that's not happening. After my cousin, Ava, alerted me that she had found videos of him dealing with other carriers, I was practically boiling.
Killing everyone who screws me over is a dangerous game to play, but letting them get away with it is just as bad.
Once I got in my car, I sped off to my office. This business never rests, consuming whoever it can at every hour of the day, and sometimes I hate it.
I hate it more than freaking tomatoes.
I'm pulled out of my thoughts when I hear my phone ring, an unknown number presenting itself.
Furrowing my brows, I decline the call, but my senses are alerted when they call again.
"Who is this?" I say immediately.
"Oh, I think you know me," a dark, masculine voice drawled over the line.
Not impressed, I faked a gasp and brought my voice up a notch: "Oh no, please don't kill me."
"See you haven't changed, Valentino. I just wanted to check in, you know, after what happened to Pops—strange death, don't you think?" He questioned. I tensed; the way he said "pops" with a Russian accent made my skin crawl with disgust.
"Dima," I growl.
Dima was practically my brother. He was a scrawny little boy when my father found him living on the streets.
I didn't know why my father brought them, but after we turned teenagers, it was clear as day.
He was cold and ruthless—the son my father wanted. Dima worked hard for my father's approval, willing to do anything to be the heir, but after my father made the decision to make me the future don, Dima was outraged and went back to Russia, where he is known as one of the most ruthless mobsters around.
The question was: What did he want now?
He had the wealth, the power, and the women, but greed will always be the number one thing to kill a man. "I just wanted to say, Keep your treasures close, brother," Dima said, hanging up the phone before I could reply.
Furrowing my brows, I wondered what the hell he meant.
