Malavita (Blood and Honor, Prequel) by Dana Delamar

Author:Dana Delamar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, romantic suspense, thriller, crime, suspense, sexy, mafia, italy, italian, mob, gritty, romantic thriller, organized crime, steamy, crime thriller, mob boss, ndrangheta, mafia boss, foreign country

After discussing his suspicions about Ripoli and Carlo with Dom, Enrico turned his sights on Leone Valentino. Valentino had been the right-hand to Bruno Macri, the probable architect of the massacre. Livio had told him that Macri hadn’t been seen since that night, so he was likely dead. But Leone Valentino was alive and well.

Enrico followed Valentino for six days, studying his routines. Every evening, around ten, the man had a cigarette in his car before going inside his flat in Milan and up to bed. His wife apparently didn’t want him smoking in the house. They had a new baby; maybe that was why. When Enrico had learned these details, he’d hesitated. He’d be leaving a child without a father, a wife without a husband.

But Valentino had dealt his own cards. He’d taken money to kill a defenseless woman and a young boy. Primo may have been fair game, but the ‘Ndrangheta codes were clear on this point: Mamma and Mario were not.

Men like Valentino didn’t deserve to live.

Dom had given Enrico a throwaway gun. Now all he needed to be ready was the disguise of his youth. He kept himself clean shaven, his hair cropped close, his clothes those of a simple boy, not those fitting the son of a Mafia capo.

On the corner opposite Valentino’s home, Enrico fiddled with the open pack of cigarettes in his left jacket pocket. He didn’t smoke, but Valentino didn’t know that. He checked his watch. Almost ten. His eyes glued to Valentino’s door, Enrico took a breath to quell his nerves. His right hand found the loaded revolver in his jacket pocket. He’d carefully cleaned and oiled the gun the night before. He was ready.

And yet when Valentino’s front door opened, Enrico nearly jumped out of his skin. This is it. His heart thumped in his chest. He pressed himself against the stone wall, trying to look casual as Valentino came down the walk, jingling the keys to his dark blue Alfa Romeo. He let himself inside and put down the window. Soon smoke drifted from the car.

Now, Enrico commanded himself. Yet his feet refused to move. Though the night was cool, sweat dripped down his back, his heart pounding as if he’d run a marathon. Move, damn you. Move!

He took a step, then another, his movements awkward, forced. Inhaling deeply, he conjured up the crime-scene photos—Mamma, Primo, and Mario covered in blood. This man was one of those responsible.

Fishing the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Enrico tapped one out as he crossed the street and approached Valentino’s car. When he was a few feet away, he said, “Scusi. Have a light?”

Valentino nodded and patted his jacket for his lighter. While the man was distracted, Enrico flicked the cigarette away with his left hand and pulled the revolver with his right and aimed it at the man’s temple. There was no going back. Yet his finger refused to pull the trigger. Everything slowed to a crawl—the frown on Valentino’s face,

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