Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 10

When Tommy and I first arrived in Sicily, we were forced to sleep in my uncle’s barn for an entire month. If you’re picturing a cozy hay loft inside a sturdy red building used to store tractors and equipment, try again. This time, think rotting wood, dirt floor, and six huge pigs for roommates.

Uncle Lazaro owns an enormous estate—technically, he’s a distant cousin, but I use the term uncle out of respect. And I do respect him despite what he put us through. He could have welcomed us into his home from day one, but no matter how bitter and furious I was at the time about our accommodations, I needed that month in the barn and everything that came after to shift my perspective. I respect Uncle Lazaro because of what he put us through. I wouldn’t be who I am now without his unorthodox teachings.

According to Lazaro, you can’t truly appreciate what you have unless you know what it’s like to have nothing. He was right.

I’d been dealt a shit hand when it came to my father, but that was only one facet of my life. It was also in the past. At the time, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to see anything besides what I’d lost and the ways I’d failed. I was stuck in a negative feedback loop. But when I lay awake at night on the cold ground, I found myself wishing for the creature comforts of home, which morphed into imagining how I wanted my life to look. I thought about the ways I’d be different from my father and the things I wanted to change about myself. I started to get excited about the opportunity to redeem myself. About the future. I realized that I wasn’t a passenger in my life. I was the fucking pilot. If I wanted things to be different, I had to get off my ass and make it happen.

From that point on, I honed my ability to get what I wanted out of life. I refused to ever feel as inept and clueless as I felt when I learned my father had killed my mother and tried to do the same to my sister, all right under my nose.

My growth was a process. I had setbacks, and the Sicilian way of life wasn’t forgiving, but it made me stronger. One of the most important lessons I learned was to listen to my intuition. Uncle Lazaro’s zero-tolerance governing style gave me a wealth of opportunities to practice—identifying, interpreting, and honing my ability to read a situation so that I could anticipate potential consequences of my actions. Once I figured out that intuition was life’s little cheat sheet, I made that skill my top priority.

At twenty-two, I’d say my ability to pick up on the subtle nuances in people’s demeanor is exceptional for someone my age. My radar is always on.

Therefore, when something strikes me as odd, such as Amelie not calling the cops, I pay attention.

My alarm sounding doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem. The reason behind her unexpected reaction could be totally benign—her brother-in-law is Irish mafia, after all. Maybe they’ve told her to steer clear of the cops. But until I sort out why, I can’t know if the ping on my intuition radar is relevant or not. That makes it a new priority.

I take out my phone and press the first name on my favorites list. There are only three names on the list. Tommy, Uncle Lazaro, and the third is a number I haven’t dialed in ages but can’t seem to remove. The instant Amelie reaches out, and I know she will, hers will be the fourth.

“I thought you said tonight was for show,” Tommy barks at me in lieu of a greeting.

“It was.”

“Then there was no need to put your full strength in that punch. You could have broken my jaw, asshole.”

I bite back a grin, glad we’re not having this conversation face-to-face. “I had to make it convincing. And besides, you can take a hit better than anyone I know.”

“Just because I can doesn’t mean I should have to.” His tone is even, but I hear it for the pout that it is and I smirk.

“Told you I’d owe you.”

A heavy sigh crosses the line. “I don’t understand why any of it’s needed in the first place. Why all the smoke and mirrors? She’s just a woman like any of the others who fall at your feet.”

Tommy’s lucky I have more patience for him than anyone else in this world. Implying Amelie is anything less than exceptional has my muscles coiling in outrage.

“Amelie is different.” My tone is clipped, but that means little to him. Tommy doesn’t pick up on inflection and nuance like most people do. His intuition never fully matured, so I have to have enough for us both. The flip side of that coin means that no one will ever be as honest and loyal as my cousin Tommy. Those qualities are worth their weight in gold.

“Different how?” he asks.

“She’s mine.” Or she will be soon enough.

I give him a minute to process.

“We aren’t going back, are we?”

“You’re free to do what you want, Tommy. Always have been.” Which is why it was so fascinating to me that he chose to follow me to Sicily in the first place. I’d been sent away, but he didn’t have to go. He valued our friendship enough that he’d rather suffer with me than let me go it alone.

How many people do you know would do that sort of thing for you? Not fucking many.

Tommy wasn’t big on the idea of coming back to the city. To be honest, I wasn’t either. I liked the new life I’d forged for myself. I liked that the only version of myself anyone in Sicily knew was the new version. Everyone except Uncle Lazaro, but he was the one behind my transformation, so he doesn’t count.

I’d rather not upend Tommy’s life again for me, but Amelie isn’t up for debate. That means I’m staying in Manhattan for the foreseeable future, which means so is Tommy.

“You know that’s bullshit, right? That I’m not going to abandon ship after all we’ve been through.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say with a grin. “I love you for it, if it’s any consolation.”

“Fuck you,” he grumbles.

I fight back a laugh, not wanting to truly piss him off. “Give me the latest rundown on the Irish relationship with the cops. They have a falling out?” I asked Tommy to do some recon on the local crime climate when I decided to come back. We had a basic idea of the atmosphere from Lazaro, who always keeps up with the goings-on in New York even though it’s an ocean away. In his words, trouble can come from anywhere. But if we were going to be on these streets, I wanted details.

“The Irish and the cops are as strong as ever. Aside from being related to half the force, the Irish handpicked the current commissioner years ago.”

Interesting. So Amelie probably wasn’t steering clear of the cops for that reason. I cross it off my mental list of possibilities.

“Why do you ask?”

“Amelie was pretty adamant against filing a report with the cops, and I was trying to suss out why.”

“Why the hell would you try to get her to report me?”

“I wasn’t trying so much as curious why she didn’t. Not like it would have mattered if she did. She has zero information to give them.”

“That could be the answer to your question, then. Or it could have something to do with the botched investigation when she went missing. Maybe she simply doesn’t trust them.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Renzo told me back when they found her that the hospital filed an assault report for a Jane Doe amnesiac, but it was never cross-checked with missing persons. Amelie’s sister had to do the legwork to hunt down Amelie herself.”

“Just because she had a shit investigator then doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.” I don’t like decisions based on fear or other emotions. I replace it beyond frustrating to watch people rationalize bad decisions because it makes them feel better. That shit comes back to bite you every time.

“You’re arguing your point to the wrong person,” Tommy says flatly.

“You’re right.” I sigh. “Thanks for the info. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

“You do realize that’s a broad fucking statement, considering who you’re talking to.”

I huff out a laugh. “Good. I’d hate for you to get bored.”

Tommy grunts before the line goes dead. I toss my phone on the kitchen counter and open a bottle of Masseto Merlot. That was another thing I learned from Uncle Lazaro—appreciation for a fine wine. He’d have a few choice words if he saw that I wasn’t using a proper decanter or aerating. The mental image of his tirade brings a small smile to my lips as I take that first sip. This is exactly what I need after executing today’s production.

Looks like Amelie isn’t the only one interested in theater.

I sit on the sofa facing the TV, but I don’t watch the TV. I watch the wall because that’s the wall this apartment shares with Amelie’s. As I stare at the cream-colored wall texture, I envision her place and what she might be doing. Did she wash my writing off her arm yet? Or is she reluctant to see it fade along with the memory of my skin touching hers?

She was so entranced watching my every movement that I’m not sure she realized her entire body shivered from my touch. So fucking responsive. And when she was giving me attitude, pressing her haughty finger into my chest, a simple touch from me instantly melted her hard edges. I’ve never felt such overwhelming satisfaction over something so simple.

A full gambit of emotions pummeled me during those few short minutes, especially when I thought she’d recognized me for a split second. I was certain I hadn’t wanted her to remember me, yet when I realized what I took for recognition was a misunderstanding, I couldn’t deny the stabbing disappointment.

Even now, I want to go next door and show her exactly who I am and how she’s owned me since the minute we met. Four years of frustration and longing—clambering to the surface, threatening a total loss of control. The urge is maddening, seething under my skin.

That was why I had to walk away.

If I had followed her into that apartment, I wasn’t sure what I’d have done or might have said. That sort of emotional instability is unacceptable. It leads to unintended consequences, and this campaign I’m conducting is nothing if not calculated. I will not fuck it up by losing my cool.

My phone vibrates with a call on the kitchen counter. It’s Lazaro. I answer in Italian because that’s the only language we use between us. He speaks English, but made it clear from the beginning that I was responsible for learning his language if I wanted to survive in his territory.

It’s amazing how quickly someone can learn a language when properly motivated.

“Sante, it’s been weeks, and I’ve heard nothing from you. You forget your uncle Lazaro so quickly?”

“Forgive me, Uncle. I meant no disrespect. I simply had no news to share,” I assure him. He’s not genuinely hurt—his comment is more of a reminder. We share blood relations, but our family businesses are not one and the same. I’m straddling the line between two worlds. He’s granted me the permission to do so for now, but that won’t last forever.

“Nothing? You can’t tell me you haven’t at least paid respects to your cousin Donati—he’ll be your boss if you stay there.”

“I didn’t see any point in announcing myself if there was a chance I wasn’t sticking around.”

Lazaro makes a tsking sound. “I taught you better than to lie to yourself. You can’t stop others from lying to you, but if you lie to yourself—”

“I’m the only one to blame,” I finish for him. It’s a sentiment I’ve heard him make time and time again. I absolutely believe it, but catching the lie can be tricky.

“You think I’ve avoided Donati for other reasons.” Even as I say the words, I feel their truth.

“You’re avoiding your family. Call it what it is.”

I lean my elbows on the granite counter, my body deflating. He’s absolutely right.

Fucking hell.

“I hear you.” The words are heavy beneath the weight of my conscience.

“Good, good. For Americans, they’re not such bad family,” he admits. It’s as glowing a compliment coming from him and brings a weary smile to my lips.

“You’re right, and I appreciate the role they’ve played in my life.”

“That’s a good boy. Always good to appreciate what you have. I’d hate to see you back with the pigs.” His light tone makes me smile even broader because we both know it’s not entirely a joke. If he thinks I’ve lost perspective, he’d have my ass back in that barn in a heartbeat. Sure, I’m a grown man now, but that’s how things work in the old country. If Uncle Lazaro orders you to the barn, you take your ass to the barn.

“Glad you called, Uncle. I’ll do better to keep in touch.”

“Eh, you’re busy. I understand.” He brushes off my comment, but only because he knows the message has been received.

“Talk to you soon. Give my love to Aunt Giulia.”

“Ciao, Sante.”

What a fucking day. I swirl the tart wine in my glass before taking a long drink. I’m past the point of savoring and ready to feel the potent liquid soothe my racing mind.

Once a pinkish residue is all that’s left in the glass, I grab my keys and head out. I’m not sure where I’m going except away from temptation. I take a drive, expecting to use the time to cool off, but replace myself parked outside a familiar building. A place I haven’t been since the day I watched my father die and learned the extent of his treachery. Some thirty floors up, my sister Noemi and her husband live with their three kids—all born after I left the country.

In four years, she hasn’t failed to inform me via email of their every milestone, even in recent months after the birth of her twin boys. She has to be exhausted keeping up with them, yet she never quits writing. I’ve refused her offers to visit. I’ve been slow to respond when I write. I’ve generally failed her in every way possible.

She is the one person I’ve struggled most to face.

Renzo isn’t an issue. The problem is, if I talk to him, I’ll have to talk to her, too. I’ve told myself every story under the sun about why there’s no need to rush into it. Most prominently, I’ve relied on my desire for anonymity where Amelie is concerned. She can’t get to know me without bias once our families are involved.

It’s an excuse like all the others.

I could accomplish my goals with Amelie if she knew the truth about who I am. I simply don’t want to. I don’t want to mess with any of it, so I haven’t.

It’s been four years of avoidance, dickhead. Time to grow a pair.

I will.

I’m not a coward like my father. I will face the things I’ve done … just not today. But soon.