The Disguised Heiress And The Mafia Don

Damien POV

The leather of my armored Cadillac V-16 cradled me like a throne, Cuban cigar smoke curling lazy in the dim interior. Chicago's gray streets blurred past, but my mind dragged back to that rain-lashed night a month ago. Harrington's rickety Ford slamming into me-too precise for accident. That sissy kid, Alessandro, tumbling out like gutter trash, purple lips and blood. He cracked my jaw with a lucky swing, then vomited black bile all over my suit, stalling my rush to Uncle Clarence over my idiot cousin's fuck-up in Detroit.

Falcone scum had met him hours before. No coincidence. A pawn's gambit to test Cobb steel. I could've ended him then, Colt kissing his temple. But a real Don doesn't soil his hands on vermin. Vendetta simmers sweeter cold. That pale, defiant face? It'd cost him everything.

The tailor shop loomed. Luigi's-sanctuary for peacocks. Laughter leaked through the door crack. McIntosh's drawl: "Cobb's a sadistic bastard who enjoys the kill. Ran you down for sport, Harrington?"

My blood turned to naphtha. Whispers I'd planted? No. This was the boy's work-womanish backstabbing. I shoved the door open. Absolute zero descended.

Eyes flicked: trembling tailor, frozen like a corpse. McIntosh on the sofa, sweating rivers. Harrington stepped forward, shielding the fool. "The words were mine to entertain, Mr. Cobb. I request your judgment."

Silk over steel, I purred at McIntosh, "Head up, McIntosh. Prove I look the sadistic part." He quaked, bourbon spilling. "R-repeat it."

He choked it out, voice cracking. Pathetic.

I glided to Harrington, close enough to smell his clean wool and faint fear-sweat. Fingertips brushed his tie, straightening it with mock care. "Lies and disrespect in Chicago? Blood pays, boy." My whisper slithered low. "Kneel. Both of you. Apologize to your Don."

McIntosh hit the Persian rug first, blubbering. Harrington? Rigid, those almond eyes blazing mutiny. No tremble in that slender frame-not a shred of a man's grit. John Harrington's whelp? Bullshit. Too delicate, chin too soft.

Satisfaction coiled, dark and sweet. But playtime's pivot.

I stepped back, voice booming for the mirrors, the street. "Gentlemen. I'm here to atone for that unfortunate crash last month. My deepest regrets, Mr. Harrington."

Shock cracked his composure-wary flicker in those pretty eyes. Trap sprung. Accept, and his whispers were petty tantrums. Refuse? Insult a Don's grace. Uncle Clarence would hear of my magnanimity, paving my plea for that cousin's worthless hide.

I watched him squirm, pulse visible at his throat. Delicious.