When I glanced at the men surrounding me, they nodded, not making eye contact, but aware that I was looking.
It made me proud. It had taken a lot of blood, sweat, and no tears to make sure that they, and everyone else, knew that I was the Boss. I may be pretty, I may be young, but I was a Giovanni. Giovannis were—and always would be—beautiful, but lethal when crossed.
Nodding, I leaned back in my seat, finishing my wine as we descended. I was the head of the Giovanni Empire now, a fact that no one other than my men and my father were aware of. The world still believed he was Boss, but since the age of eighteen, everything—the drugs, the hits, the money—had been run through me because my father was dying. The great Orlando “Iron Hands” Giovanni was dying of stage four colon cancer. Ninety percent of everything out there had a cure, if you had the right credit card. Cancer, however, was a self-righteous bitch that fell into the ten percent that couldn’t be bought.
The irony was, most people in our world thought that sons were the only way to keep our underground empire growing. My father didn’t. He felt he was blessed. The men in our family all seemed to die of the same cancer, but the women were made of tougher stuff. My grandmother lived until she was one hundred and four before she passed away, in her sleep, with a gun under her pillow. The reason my mother died was because of a plane crash.
I was six when I figured out what my family was. I was brighter than most kids my age, and at seven years old, I was learning to shoot my first gun. By eleven, I was being homeschooled in college algebra, drug cartels, and at my father’s insistence, hand-to-hand combat. By seventeen, I knew the business like the back of my hand. Fedel was right. I would put a bullet in his head in a blink of an eye if he gave me a reason, and I liked Fedel.
“Ms. Giovanni, we are now in Chicago,” the pilot informed me as I rose from my seat.
Monte, my body guard and third in command opened the plane door, stepping out first, followed by two other men carrying my things. The moron, Nelson, stood at the front of the plane trying his best not to make eye contact with any of us as we reached him.
“Ha-ave a g-good day, Ms. Gio-van-ni.”
Handing him my jacket, he stared at me wide eyed. “Take it to your sister and let her know how close you came to dying today, and while you are at it, go find your balls before I see you again.”
With that I walked out and found a shiny black limo waiting for me. Stopping next to Monte, I tried not to roll my eyes.
Where am I going, prom?
“Monte, see if you can get me a car, in white . . . and soon.” I sighed. I did not want to be driven. I wanted to drive. I needed to drive. It was one of my four S’s. Swimming, shooting, sex, and speed were the only four things that could help clear my mind.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling out his phone, already speaking to someone. If Fedel was my right hand, then Monte was my left. He was never taken by surprise. He didn’t need to be acknowledged or even seen, and only spoke when necessary. Unlike Fedel and me, he was the only half-Italian. His blond hair made him stick out like Donatella Versace at a Walmart. His fix? He just shaved most of it all off.
Fedel stood beside me and handed me my personal phone. There was only one person who had the number.
“Ciao, padre, calling to make sure I got on the plane?” I asked, while Monte and Fedel arranged for a new car.
He laughed before coughing. “Il mia bambina dolce.2 I would never doubt you. After all, you were the one who renewed the contract.”
The contract stated I would willingly marry Liam Alec Callahan and would merge our families. Orlando and Sedric had signed the contract fifteen years ago when they first created it. Then it needed to be signed by Liam and me on our eighteenth birthdays, and one last time during the first year of the marriage.
“I did. Has he?” I asked, just as a white Aston Martin pulled up in front of me. Smirking, I turned toward Monte and Fedel and nodded, that was much better.
“No, not yet. But he, his father, and brothers will be arriving any moment to do so.” He practically coughed up a lung, but I was used to it.
Taking the keys from Monte, I slid in and pointed for him to get in, too. He’d done well. He could ride alongside me.
“So I am guessing that means he hasn’t seen the change yet.” This was going to be interesting.
“You mean, where you demand to be kept informed and in agreement with his future decisions involving the business?” Orlando laughed. “It will be quite interesting to see his reaction. This isn’t the normal position wives play.”
I snorted, pressing my foot on the gas, a row of black sedans followed behind me as I pulled out of the airport.
“It’s nonnegotiable. If he wants a stake in my empire, then I need to make sure he doesn’t destroy it. His brother hacked our records this morning. They are aware of how much we are worth. He’s going sign, and he is going accept that I’m not normal. I don’t expect normal,” I said, flying down the back roads that would lead to our Chicago home, despite the fact that we never spent time in Chicago. Now I was stuck here.
“You allowed them to hack into our records.” I smiled.
Monte looked at me while shaking his head, but chuckled as well. He knew what I was talking about even if he couldn’t hear the whole conversation.
Declan was good—great, even. He was one of three people who could crack my level one firewalls—the second was dead—and the third was me. If Callahan didn’t accept, which would make him an idiot, then I would have Declan buried right next to number two. I hated hackers who were against me.
“My dear, if you were not my daughter, I would fear you.” I could hear the smile in his voice over the phone.
“It’s because I am your daughter that you should fear me.” In his day, Orlando could make grown men cry and beg for a bullet. If Orlando got his hands on them, pain was guaranteed.
“You are one of the best who has ever been. But don’t count Liam Callahan out. It may surprise you, but he is just as, if not more, ruthless than you are.” He was right. Liam Callahan was a name many feared. He was known as the “Boogeyman of the East,” and I was the unknown “Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Ma’am.” Monte cleared his throat, holding my work phone.
“I will see you soon. Addio,”3 I said to my father before hanging up.
Monte placed the phone on Bluetooth.
“Make my motherfucking day,” I said, breaking the speed limit as I turned the corner.
“With pleasure, ma’am,” Fedel replied. “Ryan Ross, Amory Valero’s right-hand man, fucked up big and drove drunk. Guess who picked him up?”
“Fedel . . .” I said, my tone laced with anger. He knew better than to ever play guess-who with me.
“As luck would have it, Brooks was the one who pulled him over and brought him to us. He’s waiting in the room under the house, so drugged up he can’t see straight . . . but he’s still not talking.”
“Goodbye, Fedel,” I said as Monte ended the call.
“Motherfucking day made, ma’am?”
I just nodded, driving closer and closer to my future husband, my empire, and some new intel. “Yes, Monte, motherfucking day made.”
THREE
“Murder is born of love,
and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.”
~ Octave Mirbeau