(Theme Song of the Chapter: Drive By - Eric Bellinger)

Aiden◆Accardi

THE THING ABOUT business was ensuring your partners were also your consumers. Whether they consumed a stake in my operations or the drugs I moved, the key was simple: they needed to believe in the product.

One whiff—one taste—and they always believed.

The Elmage was my fortress, the heart of my dealings. In the private room of its most exclusive wing, I sat at the head of a table.

Across from me were two of my most VIP consumers, a politician who owed me many favors and his jittery comrade who happened to be a low ranked staff member for some foreign royal family I did not care to member.

"Say Accardi, you got any of that..." the politician muttered, motioning two fingers toward his nose like a child asking for candy.

I didn't respond. My eyes cut to Antonio who sat to my left, and with a subtle nod, he knew.

From his pocket, Antonio retrieved a small packet of white powder, sliding it across the table. The politician snatched it with trembling hands.

"So, this is the new formula?" He tilted the packet in the dim light before ripping it open, his face alight with anticipation. "I heard it tastes like gold."

I raised a bored brow. "You already know I don't provide anything else." 

He lined it out on the silver tray in front of him, carving precise lines with a credit card, and took a sharp inhale. His eyes rolled back as his body shivered. When they reopened, they glimmered, glassy and intoxicated.

His reaction was no surprise. My stuff was premium grade, yet I was not poisoning my body with that shit. I got rich off of fools who wanted to.

He leaned forward, desperate. "I'll take a kilo. Name your price."

I didn't hesitate. "Eighty-nine grand."

"Deal." His grin widened, his glazed-over eyes brimming with greed.

Deal.

A word I heard quite often. Deals were my third language after English and Italian. My world revolves around my ability to make deals. This was easy to me.

But even easier...was justice.

I leaned back in my chair and pulled my gun from my jacket. Before the politician's colleague could react, I fired.

The bullet punched through his skull, and his body slumped forward onto the table.

The politician froze, his high draining faster than the color from his face. His bloodshot eyes flicked to the corpse beside him, then to me.

I tucked the gun away calmly, leaning forward to meet his gaze. "Next time I hear you're buying shit from the Conti family," I said coldly, "the bullet will be for you instead."

His jaw quivered, but no words came.

I stood, motioning to the guards by the door. "Clean this up."

Without sparing the politician another glance, I strode out of the room, Antonio trailing behind.

"You scared him shitless," Antonio remarked as we moved through the marble hallway.

"I went soft on him." I muttered keeping my eyes ahead. "Serves him right for fraternizing with people he had no busy with."

The tension in the air was clear, my voice sharp as we turned into another hallway. I caught the low sound of Antonio exhaling, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Capo... I just saw the headlines from the last few days." His words faltered before he added, "About Sophie—I didn't know she was your girl. I would have never—"

"She's not my girl," I bit out, turning to glare at him. "She's a liability. And I don't need you getting involved with her."

Antonio hesitated, his voice careful. "With all due respect, Capo... she chose to dance with me."

The words lit something volatile inside me. In an instant, I had him by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

"Must I repeat myself?" I said, my tone razor-sharp. "I don't care what Sophie chooses to do. You answer to me. If I so much as see you two in the same room again, you'll regret it."

I didn't care about the women my men decided to involve themselves with but Sophie...Sophie was a forbidden vice.

Not only was she still a risky element in my life and untrustworthy to the Accardi crime family, little mouse turned into little fox was my person of interest.

No one else's.

"Deal." Antonio gasped.

I released him with a shove, watching as he stumbled to regain his composure.

"Good," I said, straightening my jacket as I continued down the hall.

Like I said, deals came easy to me.

◆◆◆

I learned to spot deception before I knew how to tie my own shoes. Papá surrounded himself with sycophants, all waiting for the perfect moment to betray him.

It wasn't the loud ones I watched out for—it was the quiet ones. The ones who moved with purpose, who hid their intentions behind charm or beauty. They were the most dangerous, and the most effective. My father never saw them coming. I did. And I swore I'd never let anyone pull the wool over my eyes the way they did his.

Sophie was a fox. Not merely because of her sultry looks, or the mere seductive way the curves of her body moved when she walked, but because she was sneaky.

And unlike a mouse, oblivious to the dangers ahead, Sophie was fully aware of the risks and consequences of testing a man like me... and yet, she did it anyway.

It was all intentional.

The question is why? I replayed the tape once again, the motion capture showing her rummaging through my office last night. She was searching for something.

What was Sophie the sweetheart looking for?

And why was she searching in the first place?

What I did know was that I could kill her before she even got close to finding what she was after.

Even now, as my powerful strikes slammed into the punching bag hanging from the ceiling of my newly renovated workout room, the thought lingered. Each punch landed with a sharp thud, the sound echoing in the room, but even through the rhythmic impact of my gloves, I could hear the faint pattern of footsteps at my side.

I whipped my head around, turning toward the woman who stood just inside the doorway, watching me with a hint of skepticism. Her chestnut-brown hair fell in soft waves, framing a heart-shaped face that might fool someone into thinking she was harmless. She wore a short sundress and sandals, her arms crossed tightly against the fabric as she observed me relentlessly pounding the punching bag.

"You summoned me..." Her feminine voice rang out in the room. "If it's about last night, I was looking for something of mine."

My eyes narrowed at her. "In my office?"

There she stood, the picture of naivety and innocence—a complete contradiction to the woman I saw last night.

My attentive eyes instantly captured the nervous shift of her legs. She was a horrible liar.

I smirked. "Whatever you were looking for, sweetheart, it's not in my office..."

She shifted again.

"The fact that you think your little self can just prance into my office is evidence to me that you don't know me very well." I said lowly. "But I know you fairly well..."

Sophie let out a sharp breath, her posture straightening as she raised her chin. "Can we speed this up? I have plans."

A humorless chuckle escaped me as I stepped away from the punching bag, letting my gloves fall to my sides. The amusement drained from my face, replaced with cold seriousness. From the way she stiffened, I knew she felt the shift in energy.

"Tell me about your past dropped charge. The one for destruction of private property."

Her eyes widened, her lips parting as her brows furrowed.

"H-How did you—"

"Just answer the question, Sophie."

She fumbled with her fingers. "It was a year ago. I got pissed off and for the first time in my life I..."

She lost her voice, her gaze flickering to the ground. I watched closely as her body began to surrender to the weight of whatever she was feeling in the moment.

"...lost control." She breathed out.

The room is silent for a moment.

"Why?"

She looked at me almost bewildered at my interrogation, before she ran a hand through her long locks and spoke. Her body language was even more tense and stiff.

"My ex-boyfriend," she began, her words coming out in broken pieces. "He cheated. It was his car. His tires I slashed." Her voice faltered, and she opened her mouth to continue. "He used to..."

But she silenced herself, shaking her head. I found myself leaning forward slightly, curiosity sparking in my mind. He used to what?

"So your little asshole of a boyfriend pissed you off, and you took it out on his car," I said, my tone steady and cutting. "And I'm assuming the detective who dropped the case must've taken a liking to you, huh?"

She hesitated, her shoulders tensing further. "He was close to my mom," she admitted, her voice shaking. "It was my first offense, so he convinced law enforcement not to put it on my record."

I hummed, brushing off my boxing gloves before throwing another round of punches into the bag. "And that detective... I'm sure he has detective friends. So, hypothetically, if any ballsy detective was trying to build a case against me, they'd have your contact through him. Correct?"

Sophie's gaze remained fixed on the wall, looking right past me.

"I..." she started softly, her voice strained, "I don't know."

But I had a feeling she did. She knew well enough to snoop through my office, at least.

I noticed her body stiffen again as her eyes tracked my movements while I continued striking the bag.

"Your form is off," she commented absentmindedly, almost to herself. "You're putting too much pressure on your injured arm."

Before I could respond, she approached me timidly, her trembling hands resting on my shoulder. I froze, the movement of the bag stalling as her fingers lightly pressed into my muscles.

Those strange feelings I always felt when her hands were on my body began to sprawl across every limb of me. My heart rate began to race but not from exertion, but at the sensation of her soft fingers tracing my muscles.

"I don't need your help," My words clipped, trying to shake off the feeling. "And what the fuck do you know about boxing?"

She smiled faintly, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment as her hands worked to relieve the tension in my shoulder. "My father was a boxer when he was younger," she said quietly.

Her words piqued my curiosity once more. When I had run an extensive background check on her, I found plenty about her mom and grandparents, but almost nothing about her father. In fact, he wasn't even listed on her birth certificate.

"And you do need my help," she insisted, her tone soft but firm. "I get it. Recovering from an injury can be debilitating. You push yourself because you want to feel just as strong as before."

The room grew silent as Sophie reached for my left arm. Her fingers were gentle but sure as she adjusted my stance, repositioning my form. "Try striking now," she said, stepping back slightly. "Less tension this time."

I gave the bag one firm hit. My movements felt noticeably lighter, and for a moment, I couldn't deny the difference.

"When did you start boxing?" She questioned. "You're pretty good."

Her question caught me off guard, pulling me out of the rhythm of my punches. I stopped mid-swing, letting the bag sway back and forth as I turned to face her.

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, I hesitated. I could feel my chest tighten in reaction. The memories I usually kept buried deep began to surface.

I glanced down at my gloved hands, flexing my fingers as if trying to shake off the weight of my thoughts. "I started when I was younger," I finally said, my voice a little rougher than I intended.

It's unsettling how her gaze never faltered, yet I caught the smallest flicker of concern in her eyes—something I wasn't prepared for. I hated it. That look. This woman should despise me, and I knew, behind those soft caramel eyes, she did. It was evident as I had every reason to believe she was plotting something to undermine me. Behind her sweetness, she was a misleading little actress. Yet, that look—so raw—temporarily disarmed me.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure as the familiar wave of the past engulfed my body.

I could still hear his voice booming at me. Father's temper was unmatched. I could still remember the sensation of each strike that met my skin.

Each strike that was meant for mamá.

The memories shifted, and I saw myself, still that frightened boy, sneaking into a run-down gym a few blocks away from one of papá's warehouses. The place smelled of sweat and old leather, and the sounds of fists hitting bags echoed through the air.

"I wanted to learn how to protect this little boy," I said, the words coming out slowly, carefully. "He...he needed someone to look out for him."

Sophie nodded, her expression softening as she took a step closer. "Did you? Protect him, I mean?"

I let out a long breath, a bitter grin tugging at my lips. "Yeah. Eventually, I did. But it took a long time."

Her eyes moved from mine down to my shoulder, and I could already tell by that small shift in her gaze that there was another question on the tip of her tongue. I resumed my hits on the punching bag, the rhythmic thud of each strike filling the silence between us.

"How did you really injure your shoulder?" Her question rang in my ear. I turn away from the boxing bag and met her light brown eyes that stared up at me.

I smirked. "I was shot, sweetheart. Shot by men far worse than me, if you could even fathom that."

Her body tensed, but we were so close now I could feel the shift in her posture. I angled myself so I was completely facing her, and I could feel her breath quicken, each inhale just a little sharper. Our eyes locked, neither of us looking away.

If it were possible to kill what I was feeling, I would have fired several shots into it already.

I swallowed the fervent build of lust building in me, to bend her over a surface in this room then make her life a living hell for testing me the other day.

Focus, Aiden.

Here she was, so assessable to me. The opportunity was flawless, the moment presenting itself like a gift wrapped in inevitability. Eliminating her now would resolve a problem before it had the chance to take root. It would be swift, clean—over before she even realized the danger.

But my gaze dropped to her pink, full lips—the same lips that had performed for me just a few days ago. Who would have known that the best head I'd ever gotten came from the very sweetheart blinking in front of me now?

And all I could do was stare into those beautiful eyes of hers. Those eyes I wanted to loathe so badly—so much that when they fluttered beneath those long lashes, I fought the urge to wipe that sweet, innocent look off her face... with a chaste kiss.

"How do you live knowing that you kill?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper. Her light brown eyes flickered around my face.

I let out a dark chuckle. "I'm already dead."

◆◆◆

The heat of Morocco settled over us as Enzo and I stepped out of the car and approached the entrance of David Mancini's hotel.

As we neared the grand doors, Enzo walked beside me, his usual pretentious demeanor in full effect. It grated on me, each second of his presence fueling the slow, simmering annoyance building in my chest.

"You're lucky I'm even allowing you in on this after the stunt you pulled a few days ago," I muttered, keeping my eyes straight ahead.

Enzo glanced at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I know, I know. But come on, you know I can make it right."

"Make it right by keeping your mouth shut and following my lead," I shot back, cutting off any further discussion. This deal was too important to let his attitude get in the way.

We stepped into the hotel, the cool air-conditioning washing over us. Stuck up idiots with suits decorated the lobby as I caught the nervous glance of the receptionist across the lobby who immediately dipped his head in a show of respect, a little too fast, like he owed me something he hoped I'd forgotten about.

Two of my Soldati trailed behind us, but as we approached the reception desk, a polished little gatekeeper in a deep blue tailored blazer materialized in front of us, his smile extremely practiced. (Italian| Soldiers)

"Your associates will have to wait outside, Mr. Accardi," he chirped, his voice smooth, almost apologetic. Almost.

I let my gaze drift over him, slow enough to make him sweat. His face twitched slightly as he seemingly struggled to maintain his smile, adjusting his tie with his left hand—the same one that bore a watch likely worth more than his yearly salary. I then ruled him the same as this damn hotel, all show with no substance.

What was it with Mancini and his habit of hiring idiots?

I could see Enzo tense up beside me, but I simply nodded. "It's fine," I said, waving the guys off. "They'll wait outside."

Enzo shot me a look, but I just shrugged. "Relax. I can handle myself, and besides, Mancini knows better than to try anything stupid."

With that, we were escorted through the hotel, winding our way past fancy decor and luxurious lounges until we reached a private area. My eyes automatically scanned the area, the atmosphere was intimate with thick curtains drawn to keep out the harsh sunlight.

A group of attractive women sat near a lounge area with their eyes glued on me. From the bite of their lips, the flutter of their eyes, and the point of their fingers they sought after my attention. But I wasn't a man who got to easily distracted.

The hallway leading to the private room was eerily quiet, the soft buzz of the air conditioning the only sound breaking the silence. Our long shadows prominent across the marble floors, and each step echoed as Enzo and I approached the door at the end.

"Aiden," Enzo murmured. "Did Mancini tell you why it was so imperative we meet him in Morocco?"

"He felt it was more secure here than in Italy," I answered. "I agreed. Their operation doesn't have the best protection over there, but this deal could change that for them."

When we reached it, our escort, a stone-faced balding man, gave a curt nod before pushing the door open. I glanced at Enzo, who gave me a quick expressionless look, though I could see the tension in his jaw. Ignoring it, I stepped inside first, feeling the plush carpet underfoot as I crossed the threshold.

The room was plastered with stupid decorations, just like the rest of the hotel—decorated with deep burgundy drapes, and a large chandelier that showered everything in a yellow, golden caste that was an insult to my eyes. A long table was set up in the center, with crystal glasses of amber champagne.

As soon as we were inside, the door swung shut behind us with a solid thud.

Something felt off. My instincts were all over the place and I found myself reaching for the concealed gun in my pocket.

Then I felt it—the cold, unmistakable sensation of metal pressing against my temple.

The cool barrel of a gun was now resting against my skin.

Shit.

◆◆◆

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