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The Mafia Prince Series - Book One
Theodora Lane is one step away from achieving every designer's dream - Skye Maxwell. Thea is over the moon when she discovers the fashion icon herself has booked an appointment wit...
PLEASE RE-READ CHAPTER THREE AND CHAPTER EIGHT BEFORE CONTINUING.
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The day had been a whirlwind of meetings, negotiations, and strategic planning. My laptop rested precariously on my lap, papers strewn across the backseat like a chaotic tapestry of deals and promises. As I glanced at the mess, my mind drifted to a more personal chaos—Thea.
Her room was a delightful disaster. Her cheeks would flush a rosy hue whenever she was embarrassed, her bed shorts revealing long legs and soft skin. She looked effortlessly adorable making breakfast, her hair tied in a low knot as she moved gracefully around the kitchen. Those moments with her felt like stolen slices of serenity, compared to the relentless pace of my life.
And I loved it.
The peace and quiet with Thea provided a respite from the ever-present threats lurking in the shadows. Yet, it wasn't enough to make me abandon the life I'd chosen. The thrill, the adrenaline, the constant danger—it was a drug I couldn't quit. As the vehicle approached the estate, I shut my laptop with a decisive click. The gates opened, revealing a parade of Grand Cherokees and Land Rovers parked in a regimented line.
2:15 PM. I was late.
Leaving the scattered papers and laptop behind, I grabbed my gun and phone before stepping out of the car. Nate pulled up behind me in the custom-made Corvette I'd used to drop Thea off yesterday. I made my way inside, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces in the foyer. About ten men, all muscular and clad in fitting T-shirts and cargo pants, stood with military precision. Their boots and bearing betrayed their backgrounds in the force.
"There he is!" My father's voice boomed, cutting through the tension. I walked past the miniature army, my senses on high alert. Only the most crucial clients were ever invited to the estate, and none had brought so much security before. For my father to allow this breach of protocol, the guest had to be of utmost importance.
"So that's your boy, huh?" The voice preceded its owner—a towering figure, freshly tanned, twirling a pair of sunglasses. He wore black, matching his posse's attire, but his presence was unmistakably dominant. A Cabot guns big bang pistol set nestled in his belt, it's worth a staggering four and a half million.
He was underworld royalty, and he sat on the tallest throne of bones and blood.
"It's nice to put a face to the name," he said, extending a hand adorned with tattoos that snaked up to his neck. His gaze challenged me, daring me to disrespect him. The underworld knew him as the Baron. I'd never cared to learn his real name; the mystery added to his formidable aura. He was a retired soldier, an unflinching arms dealer, and an old ally of my father's. Double-crossing him was tantamount to signing one's death warrant.
With a firm grip and a small smile, I shook his hand, my gun discreetly concealed beneath my suit jacket. Respect was mutual, but trust was a luxury neither of us could afford.
