Mafia's African Rose

Alexio

"What is she doing here?" I asked Leon, barely masking my irritation. He knew as well as I did that bringing her to a mafia gathering was risky, especially with those German rascals still after her.

"Nora wanted her here," he replied simply.

"And you let her? Suddenly you've been pussy whipped?" I snapped, my tone dripping with frustration.

"They know better than to make a move here," Leon said calmly, ignoring my anger.

Beside me, Viktor cut in. "I'll keep an eye on her."

I shot him a warning look. "Thought you brought a date. Go look after her instead," I growled, clenching my jaw. Viktor chuckled in response, clearly enjoying my frustration.

Then my cousin, Stefan, opened his mouth with another one of his snide remarks. "Oh, didn't know she's yours," he smirked, hands up in a mocking surrender.

I leaned in, my voice low and dangerous. "Say one more dirty word about her, and I'll chop your d**k off."

Stefan shut his mouth, though not without a smirk. Leon looked over with an amused smirk of his own, and I clenched my fists. As much as I hated these events—with their annoying distant relatives and the pretentious show of power—I hated seeing her here even more. Blonde was clearly her color, and I despised the way every man in the room had their eyes on her. My urge to tear each one of them apart was only growing.

Just then, my uncle Bernardo approached, smiling that smug smile I'd grown up resenting. "Alexio Russo! What a pleasant surprise!" He extended his hand, and we shook, immediately drifting into business talk, discussing alliances and territories. But soon, he veered off-topic.

"So," he said, "have you spoken to your mother yet?"

"Bernardo," I said in a warning tone, my jaw set. He immediately stopped, sensing he'd pushed too far. My mother's presence here this year had only soured my mood further. I could see her from a distance, schmoozing with some of the other guests, her mere presence a reminder of things I'd rather forget.

Then, from across the room, I caught a glimpse of Angel. She was smiling, talking to Viktor, who was leaning in just a little too close for my liking. Every fiber of my being wanted to drag her away, to remind her who she belonged to—even if I couldn't admit it to myself. I hated that I had left her room without a word this morning. Her presence made me feel things, things that weakened me. And weakness was a liability.

Before I could dwell on it further, Cara approached, her face caked in heavy makeup. She was the exact opposite of Angel, who could effortlessly be the center of attention without a trace of makeup.

"What?" I asked, already irritated.

"Let's dance, Alexio," she purred, whining like a child.

"Say that again, and I'll blow your brains out," I said, smiling coldly as I walked past her, leaving her stunned.

As I returned to the main gathering, I forced my attention back to the men around me. These were the leaders of some of the most feared mafia organizations from around the world. There was Javier from Spain, a man who controlled a significant portion of Europe's black-market trade; Manuel, a ruthless Mexican cartel leader; and Hiroshi, the head of one of Japan's most powerful Yakuza families.

The tension at the table was thick. Each of us held our glass with calculated ease, exchanging measured looks that communicated far more than words ever could. This wasn't casual conversation. Every word, every gesture was a dance of dominance. Each man here had the power to topple governments, cripple economies, and they wore their authority like an unbreakable shield.