Leaning back, I rested a forearm on the table and focused my gaze on the cigarette I rolled between my fingers. The anger was strong enough I had to choke it down. It burned in my throat, in my chest, and marred my vision with a red mist.

My eyes skimmed up an inch to find Luca, my underboss and only reliable cousin, wiping a hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his amusement. My gaze darkened, conveying I might just go for shooting two cousins today. He sat back in his chair, his humor fading.

He’d just won a bet that we couldn’t get away without any altercations today. And won double because anything involving the Sweet Abelli had been a bonus. My family gambled on everything—everything. Any possible chance to gain a buck, they exploited it.

I owed him five fucking grand. And I was putting the blame on a little black-haired prima donna, because if I thought about her brother right now I’d end up putting a bullet in his goddamn head.

There are some relatives you don’t like—ones you might shoot on your own terms if given the chance. But being forced into it . . . that rubbed me the wrong way, like the lash of a horsewhip. My jaw tightened as venom crawled through my veins.

My papà had a fondness for kicking me in the ribs when I acted without thinking.

My mamma used to smoke at the kitchen table in her nightgown after she and my father would scream the house down.

With my ribs burning and the cigarette in my hand, it wasn’t lost on me that the apple really doesn’t fall that fucking far from the tree. And I’d guess that those who’d known Antonio Russo—even my own family—would be hesitant to think of that as anything but unfortunate.

I was a mold my father and the Cosa Nostra created. As bad a combo as a barrel of gunpowder and a little flame. Where my papà had lacked in my rearing, my mamma tried to fill in the cracks. She tried, through dilated pupils and frequent bloody noses. The late Caterina Russo did her best to teach her only child to respect women. Truthfully, it had never really stuck. It was hard to respect a mamma you had to pick up off the floor some nights. Not to mention, I’d had most things I’d wanted handed to me since I was old enough to ask for them. I didn’t need charm and respect to get women—my impending wealth and position had done that for me since I was thirteen years old.

Luca’s mamma was the first to man up and shoot me the tiniest scowl. My family could be as pissed as they wanted, but I’d appreciate at least one fucking thank-you for stopping a bloodbath from ruining a perfectly good Sunday.

Jesus. It was just Stefan anyway.

Nobody liked Stefan.

The truth was, not every man could handle being a Russo. My nonna used to say our blood ran hotter than most. Though maybe that had just been an excuse to justify why all of her male offspring were entitled, greedy, and possessive of things that weren’t theirs. A Russo wanted what he wanted, and once he did it was practically his. Most likely through a variety of illegal ventures. But maybe she was onto something, because it fucking felt hotter than it should.

I’ll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday filled the spacious backyard, the soft piano notes invading a tense atmosphere full of clearing throats and shifting gazes. I rolled the cigarette between my fingers, trying to quell the itch. I only smoked when I was too pissed off to see straight, or the rare occasion—unsettled.

Salvatore left the table to send the servants home. They all knew who employed them and were connected to the Cosa Nostra in some way—but it was a sure bet the dead man lying on the patio, his blood running through the divots in the bricks, was too much for some of them.

I’d only caught part of the conversation that set this in motion, but it was clear Tony had been gloating over killing Piero, another idiotic cousin of mine. I hadn’t known Tony was the one to do it, but I was hardly surprised. Hardly moved either. I’d addressed Piero’s death like I would a Zanetti’s: with two fingers of whiskey. You do stupid shit, you get killed. That’s how the world works, and my cousin had done more than enough.

In all honesty, I thought Stefan was going to put the gun down. But at that point I hadn’t cared. A flash of anger had pulsed in my chest from my cousin’s disrespect, and, oddly enough, burned even hotter at the fact he was threatening the Sweet Abelli. The annoying feeling rushed over me that only I could threaten her—so I fucking shot him and watched the blood splatter against Elena’s white dress.

Tony had had a hard-on for seeing me dead ever since his friend Joe Zanetti saw the end of my .45 enough years ago I thought it was irrelevant now. I’d assumed Tony and I would have some issues, but I’d underestimated what a fucking idiot he was and that he’d bring them to lunch. I guessed the idea that I’d be fucking his sister was chafing him a bit more than my usual presence would.

I tapped my cigarette on the table, and before I could stop myself I glanced to where the Sweet Abelli sat. My eyes narrowed. I’d only owe Luca twenty-five if it weren’t for her.

Blood dripped down her olive skin, yet she ate her dessert because her papà had told her to. I wasn’t usually a sadist, but Jesus, it was kind of hot. A reluctant rush of heat ran to my groin.

Talking about sadists, my gaze found my cousin Lorenzo a couple seats down. He was staring at the girl like it was his job. And not any job I’d given him—because he was good at turning those to shit—but like a vocation or something. You’d never know looking at the man nor talking to him, but the bastard had an inclination for S&M. Knowing that and watching him stare at Elena Abelli, a sliver of irritation ran through me.

She probably liked it sweet and vanilla.

Probably preferred the man to get on his knees and beg a bit.

Lorenzo would.

I’d rather shut my dick in a car door.

She’d glared at me at church today, and I’d wondered what the Sweet Abelli could have against me. I’d known the nickname before I even met the girl. It was an innocent pet name that became well-known—well, among men—because not only was she sweet, she had the sweetest body around.

I’d heard more about this girl’s ass in the past couple years than I ever needed to. And truthfully, I’d grown sick of it. When something was overhyped, it was always a letdown. I guessed the joke was on me because this was not one of those times.

I had always tuned out of conversation when she came up. I’d never seen her, but when my idiot cousins would waste time talking about the same pussy like it was what I paid them to do, it was an annoyance. Her name had become an irritation, like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning. So, when her papà had told me she was unfit for marriage, I hadn’t even asked why. I’d signed the contract for the other one.

Then I saw her at church.

Son of a bitch.

My cousins would check out any woman under fifty. Any woman if she had just one decent attribute, so of course I had never believed the hype.

Talk about a man’s wet dream.

Her body . . . fucking centerfold-worthy. Her hair was a weakness of mine: black, silky, and long enough I could wrap it around my fist twice. The thought had flitted through my mind unwillingly. And at church. Jesus.

It was the soft, innocent expression of hers, though, that seemed to burn through my skin and straight to my dick. It was so damn sweet, and I knew that’s where her little nickname had come from. Couldn’t be from Little Miss Glare’s personality.