Cruel Prince Read online

  But all I could do was keep on keeping on. At least, that’s what the doctors told me. It could’ve been worse. Luca and I could easily have been killed that night, through smoke inhalation, being crushed to death, or by being burned alive. Had the firefighters not discovered us when they did, I was sure one of those would’ve applied.

  Sometimes it wasn’t rolling over on my back that woke me. Sometimes nightmares did the honors.

  I’d relive being trapped beneath the chunk of ceiling that had fallen on me, the drywall and wood ablaze, the tendrils of each flame sizzling flicker by flicker into my skin. There’s nothing quite like having the knowledge of not only what it feels like, but also what your own skin smells like as it’s being scorched into the equivalent of charcoal.

  It’s knowledge no one should ever have.

  It had even affected my taste buds. For weeks afterwards, the taste of oily smoke had tainted every piece of food I’d tried to put in my mouth. Another reason for the weight loss.

  My worst dreams had left me panicked, sweating, my back searing, and my nostrils full of that odor I wished more than anything I could forget. Even though I’d now been through five skin graft surgeries—the first one on my left shoulder didn’t take—and the disgusting patchwork of scars had become somewhat easier to digest, I still remembered how it’d looked in the beginning.

  The charred dark brown leathery substance that used to be my skin. The redness and blisters underneath that never popped or came to the surface. The waxy yellowness at the center of some of the burns. The chemical stench of all the antiseptic gels they’d used on it. It made me feel inhuman. It made me feel like a monster.

  And no one seemed to understand this. Even Luca. His burns had been painful but much less severe. It’d taken about a month to heal his blistery mess, but it had healed. He had some scarring, but it was minor compared to mine. The skin of his legs appeared almost normal now, even if he did limp. But me?

  I was pretty certain I’d never look or feel normal again.

  Not that I regretted saving him. Luca was the patriarch of the Varasso clan, and as his second in command—not to mention his brother—it was my duty and responsibility to watch over him. For years we’d fought each other tooth and nail over nearly every aspect of our professional and personal lives. His decisions used to anger me more often than not.

  But that was all over now. He’d changed toward me, returned to the way we’d behaved with one another as children. Back then, I’d been quiet and docile, acquiescent.

  Then, when I was fifteen, I’d fallen in love for the first and only time. Yes, we were young. And yes, it might’ve been puppy love, but it had felt real.

  It had been real.

  And then, through no fault of hers or mine, it was over. We were forced apart. Separated forever because I’d been born a Varasso, a member of the Italian mafia.

  Having her taken away had hurt. And made me furious. Furious at the situation. Furious at my family for being who they were.

  Most of that fury I reserved for Angelo Varasso, my father. He was the one who’d raised us in this. In the goddamn mob. He’s the reason we were all forced to live this insanely perilous lifestyle. Up till my run-in with heartbreak, I’d accepted my life as it was, but afterwards I resented it.

  Deeply.

  The fact that our choices had been ripped from us based on who our dad was pissed me off to this day. Even though he’d been dead for nearly a year, I still hated my father. I would always hate him. He’d been cruel and demanding. Not to mention a liar. He’d cheated on our beloved mother, the kindest, gentlest woman to ever walk the planet.

  I loathed him for that alone.

  He’d twisted all four of us into cold ruthless killers. Required it of us. Thinking back on my childhood, I couldn’t believe I’d been so eager to please him. To kowtow to his wishes. The bastard.

  For a while, Luca—the family’s designated Crown Prince—had reminded me of him. Maybe that’s why I’d gone out of my way to make my eldest brother’s life more difficult. It hadn’t been completely intentional. Every time Luca would do something that Angelo would’ve done, it incensed me. And then, I’d bait him. Sometimes to the point where we came to blows.

  Yet deep down, I knew Luca wasn’t our father, any more than I was. When our mother had been killed in a car accident, Angelo had barely waited six months before he replaced her with a fucking mistress. Right there at our mother’s beloved oak dining room table, too.

  Christ, he’d been such an asshole.

  Luca would never have done that. My brother had loved two women in his life, both of them to absolute distraction. Alana, his daughter Anna’s mother, had died giving birth to her. Losing her had come close to destroying him. Way too close. For a year, I feared I’d find him with a bullet through his head. His own bullet. He’d been that despondent.

  But luckily, Molly had come along. She’d mended him, put him back together again. I hadn’t liked her presence at the beginning, hadn’t trusted her, but she proved herself trustworthy. She was also the smartest woman I’d ever met and tough as an old boot. She was good for Luca, better than good, and I’d always love her for that. For giving my brother back his humanity.

  For bringing him back to us.

  The dynamic between Luca and I had altered ever since I’d been hurt. I’d only recently been able to participate in the family business meetings again, and every time I’d disagreed with him, he’d reacted not with the shortened fuse he used to have, but with careful consideration. I thought of a conversation we’d had a few weeks ago.

  He’d mentioned expanding our drug trade operation up into Canada. It was something we’d discussed before that Roman lunatic had demolished our mansion. Luca had said he wanted to move forward with his plans and see who might be open to bribery when I objected.

  “This is different than Mexico,” I’d said. “This isn’t Central or South America. Canada isn’t some third world starving nation. We need to be more careful or their law enforcement will be all over us.”

  Honestly, I hadn’t intended to be a thorn in his side, I’d only meant to play devil’s advocate. I thought expansion would probably be a good thing instead of a bad one. I was mainly just urging caution. In the past, my brother would’ve either told me to shut up or that I was being an ass.

  If I pushed him past his limits—which I have to admit I used to enjoy doing—then he might even physically accost me. It’d happened more than once. But this time, he simply gazed over at me and answered with a calm patience he usually only reserved for his wife and children.

  “If that’s what you think is best, Marco, we can wait. Alessandro, let’s do more research before we go forward.”

  My little brother Sandro, the youngest and geekiest of us, had always been tasked with the more technical aspects of the business. He’d thrown me a long measuring glance, but then he’d nodded at Luca, not protesting or questioning anything. Both of my brothers, while not deferring to me, were allowing me to have my way to a certain extent.

  Which might’ve been great if I hadn’t known it was because of the fire. Because I’d been injured. It felt like they were attempting to avoid upsetting or agitating me.

  Like they thought I was too much of a pansy-ass weakling to handle anything.

  Even Molly, Luca’s wife, hadn’t offered her customary loud-mouthed dissent. The night I met her, she’d spat in my face and shown me nothing but contempt. We’d kidnapped her, to be fair. At Angelo’s behest, but still. The animosity we’d once shared had evolved into friendly banter a long time ago, but she wasn’t one to pull her punches.

  So when Queen Molly, so named because she headed up the entire drug line with expert efficiency, had simply nodded at me, it felt disingenuous. Off. Luca wasn’t the only one being careful with me, she was, too. Then, at their newborn son Antonio’s cry from the nursery next door, Molly had rushed off to breastfeed him and Luca had ended the meeting early.

  My half-brother, Ga
briel, had been the only one to stay behind and give it to me straight. “Sorry, bro,” he’d said.

  “Sorry about what?” I’d snapped back, and he frowned.

  “About how everyone’s acting. They’ve just been so worried about you, you know?”

  “You mean like how we used to all worry about Luca?”

  He shrugged. Of the four of us, Gabriel had always been the most empathetic, the one least like our father. “Well… yeah.”

  “Shit.”

  It’d been two and a half months since that night, and I still had difficulty sleeping on my back. The skin on the top of my shoulders and stretching above my shoulder blades was rough, weepy in places, and discolored—really, it was ugly as all hell—but I did my best to live with it.

  Alessandro had put some feelers out and discovered that while most Mounties were extremely law-abiding, a few of them had their price. The weakness of the Canadian dollar seemed to be at the heart of things, giving us an in. Marijuana was legal across the entire country there, but the distribution and sales were closely monitored. We planned to start small with online sales Sandro would disguise as legitimate. Then, we’d see how it went.

  One thing that we had an ever-increasing need for were new businesses we could launder money through. Molly, who I loved to call Queenie just to pester her, had increased sales to such a vast extent that this was becoming more and more of an issue.

  Washing too much through any one business’s books could become suspicious and problematic, so Luca had tasked me with buying another one to decrease the likelihood of being discovered. Early on, Alessandro had mentioned going to Las Vegas and purchasing chips which could then be cashed in without drawing any undue attention.

  Such a method was employed by many to launder money but traveling almost twenty-five hundred miles didn’t appeal to me. While my burns had improved, spending hours on a plane where my ability to redo my dressings or take off my shirt to let my wounded skin breathe would be impossible sounded like torture to me. Not to mention unnecessary.

  Cashing in poker chips might be quicker than funneling the excess funds through a restaurant, but I didn’t mind taking my time. I’d never been a particularly patient man but enduring the healing process had taught me that patience was an attribute which could be learned.

  Not that I’d had a choice in the matter.

  Nearly everything about dealing with these burns had been long, drawn-out and excruciating. Even though I’d wanted to scream or even lash out physically many times, I’d realized taking my frustrations out on those working to help me would be stupid. The only thing I could do was follow the doctor’s directions, get my treatments on time, and wait.

  Wait for the extenders to stretch some healthier pieces of my skin enough that it could be sliced off and used to cover the areas damaged beyond repair. Wait to be scheduled for each surgery. Wait to see if the grafts would take. Wait for the pain to diminish. Wait. Wait. Wait.

  So even though mixing our money with the legitimate take of the restaurant might not be the fastest of procedures, it made the most amount of sense for us.

  For me.

  The restaurant I’d chosen was near Rittenhouse Square, a very successful eatery that appealed to the millennial crowd and which had an owner who needed to sell it without too many questions asked. He had some emergency overseas he had to attend to, which made the whole transaction the perfect opportunity for us.

  As I strolled along the familiar Philadelphia streets, I took in the neighborhood. The Organic Eats bistro was in a nicer area of the city, located conveniently across from a pizza joint and down the block from the famous gabled roof of the G. Fred DiBona, Jr. building. The location sat about five blocks from the Varasso estate, which gave me easy access.

  This particular project would’ve made me nervous and uneasy when I’d been younger and anxious for Angelo’s approval. As it was now, it’d become important to me because I yearned for our family to succeed and stay safe. Part of that was ensuring that our business transactions stayed under the table and inconspicuous, which could be tricky.

  Still, it was vital to maintain the outward appearance of legitimacy.

  Parking was at a premium on this street, so I drove my nondescript Audi around the corner to find a space. As I made my way across the sidewalk, I noted that the façade was clean with immaculately kept windows and a couple of metal table and chair sets outside for patio dining.

  Right next to the door was a chalkboard with a message that said, “Overweight people are more difficult to kidnap! Eat here so you’re harder to grab!” The joke might be kind of lame, but it made me snicker to myself regardless. At least I’d go in with a smile on my face.

  When I entered, I found the place inviting. It showcased an eclectic mix of booths and tables, with nice lighting and an accent wall painted in a chocolate brown. On this wall were large letters that curved across the middle saying “Serving the neighborhood.” White birds had also been painted on it, birds that reminded me of seagulls. I liked overall effect.

  “Can I help you, sir?” a young woman with curly strawberry blond hair approached me. Her nametag said Chloe.

  “I’m here to speak to the owner, Ian Flood.”

  Chloe led me past a counter decorated with a globe, a plant I believed to be fresh rosemary, and a pot of red geraniums, just like my mother used to grow. It gave me a bit of a pang to see it. While we’d hired gardeners to maintain my mother’s once prolific flower garden, her original plants all burned up in the fire.

  They’d replanted everything, of course, but it’d never be the same.

  “Mr. Varasso?” a man in a blue suit stood quickly, his movements jerky as if in an immense hurry.

  “Marco, please.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m Ian. What do you think of the location so far?” The man’s blue eyes seemed almost cartoonish they were so wide, and though the temperature hovered near the upper seventies, sweat gleamed on his brow. I decided to cut to the chase.

  “I think it’ll do nicely.”

  “Really?” His smile took over half his face. “That’s wonderful. Are you ready to sign the paperwork?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Without any further ado, he pulled some papers from a briefcase and gave them to me. I looked over them. I’d been responsible for a portion of the laundering part of our business for years, but this was the first time Luca had asked me to run point. I was ready to show him that I felt more than capable of heading up that aspect of our business.

  Although my love of bodybuilding may have made me look like anything but an accountant, I’d always excelled at math, at the numbers game. Had the Varassos not been members of the Italian mafia, I probably would’ve endeavored to be something much more innocuous, like an investment banker or stockbroker.

  Unlike drug runners, growers, or delivery personnel, numbers stayed steady and reliable. Unlike people, numbers never lied.

  Once every I was dotted and every T crossed, I handed the man back his papers as well as a sizable wad of cash in a bank deposit bag, and he went to make some copies. He appeared to be anxious to jump ship, but at the last moment, he leaned in.

  “Listen, man, I know I’m not over this place anymore, but I have to ask. Are you going to be mixing up the staff? Like firing a lot of my people?”

  I glanced up and down at the various employees.

  There were two servers, a cook in the back I could see through the takeout window, and a hostess. A woman waltzed in just then, tying on a short black apron like the rest of the servers wore. She smiled and waved at the other two servers, popped into the back, and reappeared a minute later, already on the floor and taking orders.

  I felt impressed by such dedication, especially in a field where the workers made so little an hour. The redheaded server finished up with her table, went to the back—presumably to clock out—and then vanished.

  “Thank you, honey,” she said to the new server, hugging her on the way out.

>   “Have fun.”

  Apparently, Ian noticed me watching them. “All my servers are great, but Kelly’s the cream of the crop.” I caught his eye. “She’s the brunette who just walked in. The girl’s fast, accurate, and will work triple shifts if you ask her. I couldn’t keep the place going without her.”

  Though I knew she couldn’t possibly hear her name from across the room and in such a busy, noisy environment, Kelly chose that moment to glance at us. She continued to take her customer’s order, but I noticed that her expression became suddenly wary as she took me in. It was as if she knew I wasn’t just another benign businessman in a tailored suit.

  Clever girl.

  “I see no reason why I’d want to replace anyone for now. I may bring more employees onboard, however, since so many customers are coming in,” I told Ian, who seemed relieved.

  “Yeah, we stay swamped like this pretty much all the time. I think you’ll get plenty of return on your investment.”

  “Yes,” I nodded, my eyes falling on Kelly again. “I think so.”

  3

  Kelly

  I found myself staring at the man in the black suit. There was something about him, about the focused way he scrutinized his surroundings that made him stand out. His economical movements struck me as efficient, but also predatory, like a jaguar on the prowl. He scanned the place like it was his. I could see so much possessiveness in his gaze.

  He stood next to Ian, the owner of our bistro, which made me uneasy.

  What was going on?

  “Did you get my order?” the young bearded guy wearing flip flops who’d put his backpack on the booth next to him asked me, making me realize I hadn’t. I’d been so distracted by Intense Suit Guy I’d lost track.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. You said you wanted the Jack and Ginger and what else?” At least I remembered his drink.

  “The Jack and Ginger with the veggie wrap and organic potato wedges.”

  “Got it. Your order shouldn’t take long.”