Mila: The Godfather (Unholy Trinity Book 7)
Mila: The Godfather: Part 1 – Chapter 3

RIAGAN

“I’m not playing. I don’t have time for games.” – R

Slap.

A hit to the face.

Crack.

A punch to my left rib.

Motherfucker.

I hiss in pain, yet I smile when I taste copper in my mouth. Blood.

“You fight like a bitch, Cap.” Byrne, the clan’s warlord, grins as he successfully ducks a punch. I wait and when he comes up, I raise my leg and hit him on the head, causing him to stumble. There are no rules in my ring.

None.

I smile wider, teeth stained red as the crowd around us roars in excitement at the brutality they pay so much to participate in, even as watchers.

It never ceases to surprise me how chaos thrills even the most moral of men.

Women, too.

Shit.

Most that frequent this joint are women looking for two types of entertainment.

The fights and the fighters to fuck.

“Since you love talking shit so much, Byrne. You should eat it, too.” With that, I land a blow to his mouth that makes my strongest man fall to the bloody floor with a loud thud as the crowd around the ring screams and shouts, enjoying the fight.

Not many men have the balls to get in the ring with me.

Most, out of respect, choose not to fight their boss, and others out of the knowledge that they won’t be stepping out of my ring as the same men they were when they climbed into it. The clan’s enforcer is a different story altogether.

The fucker not only has a daily death wish, but he is also one of my best fighters. He is a tank. A long-blond-haired solid mass of muscle. He might not have been the wiriest of my men, but what he lacked in speed, he made up for in brute strength and thirst for blood.

Callan Byrne is one vicious fucker when fighting, that is why many come to see him fight, but I am better.

I never leave doubt about that in the ring.

There is a reason why I am the boss of the O’Sullivan clan, and it has nothing to do with blood lineage. The title of captain and Godfather goes to the most ruthless of the soldiers, and like the two bosses before me, I proved to be the savage worthy of the title.

Worthy of this city.

I prove it every day when I take a life in the name of the clan.

I am proving it now.

With my enforcer down on the ground, covered in bruises and blood. If he were any other person, I would have ended him right here, and given the crowd the show most of them come here for.

Savagery.

A death-match, but not tonight.

Not Callan.

Maybe one day, if he keeps running his mouth.

Instead, I wipe the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand and retreat with a smile on my face towards the crowd.

I am not only this city’s Godfather, but they gave me another name.

The Joker.

They never expect my kind of savage brutality. Never from a man who smiles and jokes the way I do.

If they only saw the filth my soul is covered in.

The mayhem my hands have caused.

All the lives I’ve collected all for the sake of this city.

They only see the charming smile and good looks.

It’s all for show.

What hides beneath is much darker.

More depraved.

But tonight, I don’t show them that side. Instead, I climb off the ring and head towards my office, wanting– no needing a moment to myself after the day I had.

After all the blood I spilled.

Callan was not the only one.

Entering my office, I walk toward my desk and take a seat, noticing the stack of bills next to my untouched glass of Irish whiskey. I rake a hand down the scruff on my face, tapping the stack of bills together and putting them into the safe under the desk. Another day, another ten-thousand dollars’ worth of fighting.

It was a good night.

Most of them were these days. If there was one thing you could count on people paying for, it was brutality and savagery. You could say I’m a piece of shit for capitalizing on the bloodthirsty fights, and you would be correct.

Business was business.

And I took care of my men.

If they wanted to put their bodies on the line in the ring to make some extra cash, why should I care? We lined both our pockets. Win or lose, we all made bank.

The fights brought in as much money as the gun trade and dirty businesses of the clan did.

Dirty business as in drugs.

My men and I have been dealing all fucking night with a shipment of guns that left for Detroit and a cargo container full of drugs that will arrive late tonight. Once my little brother Lucan stepped down as boss of the Volpe boss of Detroit, he handed me a piece of Detroit, much to the dismay of the other two remaining families of that filthy city.

The only reason why the other two families, Nicolasi and Parisi, still stand and I haven’t taken them out as I should have is because a piece of my mum’s heart is now married to that fuck Lorenzo Nicolasi who also happens to be Lucan’s wife brother.

I’m too entangled with those fuckers.

Then there is the Parisi family.

The three women have proven to be thorns in my side.

But one?

The youngest.

That one is different.

That one consumes my thoughts in a way she shouldn’t.

Ways that a man my age shouldn’t allow.

A good man. A man with honor would leave the girl in the memories of the past.

But I am not a good man, and I know what I want.

Fuck logic.

Fuck age.

Goddamn it, fuck everything that isn’t her.

Throwing back what’s left of the whiskey, I serve myself some more. After only two hours of sleep, this won’t be my last dose of alcohol for the night.

A buzzing sound comes from my desk’s drawer. Taking my phone out, I unlock the screen and notice an app notification. The app I forced myself to download because she asked me to. Well, the man who she once exchanged so many letters with.

I scroll through her page more than twice a day like a fucking creep.

Today she posted a photo of a jean jacket. Hers?

It’s no ordinary jacket, either. No.

Nothing about her is ordinary.

It’s a piece of clothing that she customized.

She painted a wave with the sun peeking from behind and tiny little seashells around it. I smile, ignoring the pain from my split lip, when I notice the peace signs all over the design

Fuck…this girl.

What is it about you?

I tap on the photo, and a heart pops up, letting her know my profile likes it.

“Yo, Cap,” Kelly shouts, stepping into the doorway of the office. Putting the phone back down on the desk, I glance up.

Taking a sip of my whiskey, I say. “Yeah?”

He steps inside and shuts the door. “There’s something you should know.”

A deep sigh escapes me. “What is it?” There’s never a peaceful night. Not for men like us.

“There’s word running around that the hit on President Kenton is linked to the Parisi family. The shooter was aiming for the girl.”

Parisi.

My body instantly becomes hyper-aware. Putting the glass down, I stare at my clan chief. “Did Kenton take care of it?”

“They’re keeping it on the low, but yes. The shooter was handled. There’s just not a face to the fucker calling the shots.”

I don’t believe in coincidences.

My brother’s sister, Cara, was threatened and almost killed by a lunatic claiming to be the Nicolasi rightful heir not long ago, and now this?

The capo of Detroit failed when he let the threat escape with his life.

The fucker is not done.

I won’t be making Nicolasi’s same mistake. If I replace the fucker, he won’t escape death. “Anything else?”

“Nah, Cap. Just thought you should know.” Kelly shrugs before continuing. “I’m heading out.”

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “If you hear anything else, let me know,” I add as he turned away. “Cianne?” Rarely do I call him by his birth-given name.

My second in command looks back.“Yeah?”

“Not a word about this to anyone.” The threat is there. He knows that anything concerning the youngest Parisi stays between us.

He nods once, and with that, he disappears, turning in for the night.

Reaching for my phone again, I unlock it and call one of the few people I trust with the secret of the youngest Parisi, Maeve. The organization’s secretary by day and genius hacker by night.

Mila Parisi is a secret well kept. Only a few people know of her existence, and that is the three families of Detroit.

And now, me and my team.

This will keep her safe for now.

She was made to believe that as long as she remained in the shadows of her sisters, she’d be alright, and for a while, that worked, but now she needs more than just the shadows.

After a few seconds, the person I need answers the phone. “Morning, Riagan.” A too-chirpy voice sounds from the other end of the line.

Only three people know my birth name.

My father, the clever little sneak, Maeve, and her brother, Conor.

“Maeve.”

“What’s wrong?” She picks up my bad mood instantly.

“I need you to do something for me.” I clear my throat.

“Name it, and it’s done.” I hear movement on her end, and I know she’s moving around at her desk, ready for a challenge.

“I need you to track someone for me. I want to know where they go. Whom they talk to, and all the information on her money transactions. I want to know all their moves and put a man on her, too.”

“The name?”

“Kadra Parisi.”

“Huh.” There’s a moment of silence on her end before she speaks up again. “Detroit’s Consigliere.”

Looking down at my bloody and busted-up knuckles, I ask. “What is it?”

“Didn’t think femme fatale was your type. Although, thinking about it, perhaps someone like you needs a tough woman.”

Maeve… God-help-her-soul has no filter.

“Why is that?” I dare ask.

“You’re one scary dude, boss. I don’t think you would know what to do with a sweet little thing.” She says with a serious tone. Maeve speaks the truth. I wouldn’t know what to do with a soft heart. “But… some say ruthless men love the hardest,” Maeve adds.

Rubbing my temple, I already feel a headache rising. “Maeve…”

“Yes?”

“Go to bed. The lack of sleep is making you lose brain cells.” I tell her truthfully.

“Sleep is overrated, my friend. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” She says seriously.

“With that mouth of yours, that day is not that far away.”

Maeve laughs. “I love you, too, Riagan.”

“Get the job done, Maeve.” I snap.

She scoffs. “When have I not?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Byeeee.” She exclaims happily before I end the call.

Leaning back on the leather chair, I breathe out as the image of a sweet little thing flashes through my mind. Golden curls and a soft voice come to mind after years of the memory being locked tight in the back of my mind.

Mila Areya Parisi.

The kid with one soft-spoken word made the rage inside of me calm.

She’s no longer a kid, but she is still a princess hidden away as if she’s a dirty little secret.

Fury overtakes my senses as I think about the kind of life she has lived. If you can even call it that.

Even with her scum of a father gone, her sister has kept her trapped inside that prison she calls home.

Maeve’s words come to mind.

I don’t think you would know what to do with a sweet little thing.

She is right.

I’ve never been soft.

Never cared to be soft, either.

But for that girl, I am willing to try.

An hour and two glasses of whiskey later, after contemplating how I’m going to handle this shit with the loose cannon who’s gunning for the women in the three families of Detroit. I get up, grab my empty glass of whiskey, and deposit it on the rack under the office’s bar before making my rounds.

The crowd is gone.

There’s no noise.

Nothing.

Just me.

This place is my pride and joy.

It’s one of the places that belongs solely to me and not the clan.

My name and my father have given me so much, but this and my many businesses, legit and dirty are mine.

Mayhem had taken a lot of work, it, after all, being the basement to an old, abandoned government facility with cinderblock walls, cement floors, and a perpetually musty smell. Black walls went up, hardwood floors went down, a long dark-lit bar was brought in toward one end with a fully stocked back bar, and taps, tables, and seating areas were set up as well.

I flick off the lights, opening the heavy metal doors that lead to a staircase that goes up into the abandoned government offices or out into the parking lot.

The building is nothing to be desired but having a thriving, illegal business in the basement that gets rowdy at all hours seemed to limit my options for the space. I would figure it out eventually. The lot is empty save for my lone, sleek blue Bugatti Centodieci. I beeped the locks, climbed in, and turned on the engine which comes to life with a powerful roar.

Unfocused bright blue eyes come to mind as I replace myself speeding through the busy streets of my city, with a feeling of dread in my gut alerting me that something is wrong.

Something was indeed wrong, and it took me two days to replace out exactly what it was.

My father always says that obsessions are dangerous addictions.

And I’m afraid I just found mine.