CONTRACT WITH THE DON

THE RITUAL AND THE TRAP

​THE RITUAL AND THE TRAP

​At six ten in the morning, the encrypted phone on the nightstand vibrated against the wood. Three dry buzzes that rattled my nerves.

​I rested my back against the mahogany headboard, pulling the silk sheets over my bare chest. Next to me, Aaron didn't even blink upon hearing the phone.

​It was obvious he was awake—he likely had been for hours. I could tell by the rigidity in his shoulders and his furrowed brow. Something had him restless, and that frightened me.

​He lay on his back with his torso bare, his eyes fixed on the ceiling fresco where an archangel crushed a demon. The only proof he was alive was the rhythmic movement of his chest and the fingernail marks I had left on his right shoulder.

​I stretched my arm and swiped open the phone's screen. The message consisted of a single word sent from a phantom IP address on the Vatican's network:

Consummatum.

​A ice-cold smile played on my lips. At the port of Civitavecchia, the men of the Guardia di Finanza had just broken the lead seals on container Alpha-9.

​Forty million euros in pure Turkish heroin, frozen under the seal of the Italian state. As of this exact second, Maroni was a financial corpse walking the streets of Milan.

​"It has begun," I whispered, placing the phone face down.

​Aaron turned his head with the tense slowness of a predator evaluating its prey. His dark eyes, framed by shadows of exhaustion and caffeine, fixed on me. He reached out with his long, dark-tattooed arm and caught my chin with two fingers, forcing me to tilt my face toward him.

​"Congratulations, my queen," he whispered in a cavernous voice, cracked by early-morning tobacco smoke. "You've declared war on the northern clan before breakfast. Do you know what wolves do when they're cornered and left without food, Sofía?"

​"They stop hunting large prey and start cannibalizing each other," I replied, holding his gaze without blinking. "Which is exactly what I want them to do."

​Aaron let out a dry, almost sarcastic laugh. Then he released my chin with a soft shove and got out of bed with the natural grace of a man accustomed to the weight of weapons. The grayish light from the window outlined the scars on his back, each bearing the implicit name of a dead enemy.

​He headed to the shower in a silence that chilled my bones. Aaron was a man to be feared—more for his silence than his words. When he stepped out of the bathroom, he didn't look at me; he dressed in absolute silence.

​He put on a black silk shirt, a fitted dress vest, and the Italian leather holster harness that crossed his shoulders like war gear, giving me the distinct impression it had my name written on it. As he adjusted his armaments, he transformed back into the Don—the destructive machine that struck terror from Naples to Palermo.

​"Get ready," he said without looking at me, adjusting his silver skull-shaped cufflinks. "Lucchese has called a symbolic funeral at eleven at the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It's supposed to honor Dante Moretti's 'absence.' In reality, it's a blood tribunal. They're going to want to smell gunpowder in the air."

​"I'm not going to wear mourning clothes for Dante," I said, throwing back the sheets and standing up, letting the cold bedroom air leaking from the window Aaron had opened hit my skin.

​Aaron walked toward the door and paused for a second, his hand resting on the bronze knob. He turned to look me up and down, tracing every curve of my semi-naked body with a gaze so dense and hungry that I felt an immediate pang between my thighs.

​"Put on the red dress I bought you, Sofía. The one that makes me want to tear your throat out and kiss you at the same time until you're breathless. If you're going to step into the lions' den, do it smelling like the fresh meat they'll crave—but will never be able to touch."

​When he left the room, I sat down on the bed. My legs were shaking, but it wasn't out of fear. Aaron was a damn drug to me; I hated and loved him in equal measure.

​When we arrived at the Basilica of San Lorenzo, the place smelled of burnt incense, wax, and damp rain. The vaulted ceilings echoed with the muffled sound of the pipe organ playing a minor-key requiem. The central nave was empty of ordinary worshippers; instead, men in dark coats with faces etched by violence filled the wooden pews.

​When Aaron and I crossed the portico, flanked by eight of our men armed to the teeth, the glares cut through the air like razor blades.

​I had decided to wear a burgundy velvet dress with a high collar and long sleeves, fitted at the waist like a second skin, featuring a side slit that revealed my thigh with every step. The black diamond at my throat glittered under the dim candlelight.

​I walked with my chin held high, the high heels of my shoes clicking with the precision of a countdown clock. Aaron walked half a step behind me, his right hand casually resting inside his jacket, ready to turn the temple into a slaughterhouse in a fraction of a second, completely devoid of respect or fear for the place.

​At the main altar, there was no coffin. Only an oil portrait of Dante Moretti surrounded by white flowers, and the elderly Don Lucchese leaning on his gold-topped cane.

​Beside him, Maroni looked like a ghost. His usually flush, arrogant face was pale and tense, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands trembled slightly as he clutched a silver rosary.

It was obvious the news from the port had already reached him.

​"You're late, Don Aaron... and Mrs. D’Luca," Lucchese said as we stopped a few paces from the altar. His raspy voice echoed in the church's silence. "Though I suppose the new administration keeps flexible hours."

​"Rome's traffic is always unpredictable, Don Lucchese," I answered calmly, taking a step forward to stand face-to-face with the old man. "Especially when the customs police block the main access routes to perform routine inspections."

​A choked gasp escaped Maroni's throat. The man took a wild step toward me, pointing a trembling finger in my direction.

"You!" Maroni roared, his voice booming against the sacred frescoes on the ceiling.

"You manipulative w***e! You had something to do with this! It was forty million! Forty million from the northern family burned up in a government warehouse!"

​In less than half a second, the metallic click of ten handguns being c****d rang out through the basilica. Maroni's men drew their weapons; the D’Luca men responded instantly, aiming straight at the heads of the northern clan.

​Aaron didn't draw his gun. He simply took a step forward, placing himself at my side. His presence cast a gigantic shadow that seemed to suffocate the light in the room.

"Lower your finger, Maroni," Aaron said. His voice was a whisper from beyond the grave that made two of the younger capos in the back take a step back. "Or I promise you, on the memory of my mother, you won't walk out of this church with your hands still attached to your arms."

​Lucchese raised his cane and struck the marble floor twice. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

"Enough!" the old mobster ordered. "We are in a sacred place, not a Naples alleyway. Maroni, put your toy away. If you lost a shipment due to the incompetence of your men at the port, The Commission is not responsible."

​"It wasn't incompetence, Lucchese!" Maroni shrieked, desperate. "It was a leak!

Someone gave the authorities the exact container numbers! Only five people on this entire continent knew that route!"

​Maroni fixed his rage-filled eyes on mine. Panic was driving him mad, and a powerful man trapped in desperation is a very dangerous animal.

​"It was you. I'm sure of it," Maroni whispered, the realization dawning on his unhinged mind. "The diocese keys... the Vatican mirror network... you control the central maritime customs server. It was you, you damned viper!"

​I stepped toward him slowly. The armed guards hesitated, but no one dared get between Aaron D’Luca's wife and her target.

​I stopped mere inches from Maroni—close enough for him to smell my jasmine perfume and the faint trail of smoke lingering on my skin.

"That is a very serious accusation, Don Maroni," I said in a fierce whisper that only he, Lucchese, and Aaron could hear.

"Accusing the financial administrator without proof is an act of treason against The Commission. And treason, if I recall the laws my father wrote for all of you, is paid for with the asset forfeiture. Do you remember that, Don Maroni?"

​Maroni swallowed hard. Sweat ran down his sideburns.

​"If you can't pay your monthly quota to the Vatican Bank this month," I continued, brushing the tip of my gloved finger against the lapel of his jacket, "your northern routes will go bankrupt. And according to Article Four of The Commission's code, those routes will be auctioned off to the member with the highest liquidity at the table."

​I turned my head slightly to look at Aaron. He returned my look with a spark of dark, twisted devotion gleaming in his pupils. He understood the game perfectly. I hadn't destroyed Maroni's business to hand it over to the police; I had destroyed it to force him to sell it off to the House of D'Luca at rock-bottom prices.

​"You're a demon!" Maroni spat, backing away a step, his eyes wide with hatred. "Aaron... this woman is going to drag you to hell. She isn't a wife; she's a parasite that will devour your empire from the inside out."

​Aaron stepped forward, wrapping his right hand around Maroni's throat with blinding speed. The man squealed as the Don lifted him a few inches off the floor, squeezing his windpipe until the northern boss's face began to turn purple.

​Maroni's men made a move to raise their guns, but the D'Luca snipers stationed in the basilica's triforium switched on their red laser sights, painting dozens of bright dots across the foreheads of the northern clan.

​"She is my wife," Aaron said, his voice echoing through the sacred temple with the weight of a divine decree. "And if she decides to drag me to hell, I'll make sure you're the charcoal that keeps the fire burning."

​Aaron let go of Maroni, who collapsed onto his knees on the cold marble, coughing violently and clutching his throat. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. The silence in the basilica was thick, suffocating, heavy with the absolute certainty that the old order of the Roman mafia was dead.

​Lucchese took in the scene, licking his dry lips. The old fox knew when to retreat. He saw Maroni's political corpse, saw the untamed hunger in my eyes, and recognized the brutal force of Aaron covering my back. He understood that the alliance between the mind and the sword of the D’Lucas was an impenetrable fortress. For now, it was best to step back.

​"The memorial mass has ended," Lucchese declared in a tired tone, turning toward the altar. "Maroni... you have forty-eight hours to settle your debt with the Vatican or sign over your territories."

​Looking at us, he added, "Mrs. D’Luca... Don Aaron. Have a good day."

​The ride back in the armored limousine felt like being inside a vacuum chamber. It was raining hard over Rome, drops hammering against the tinted windows in a rhythmic beat.

​As soon as the car turned onto the private highway toward the mansion, I kicked off my high heels and leaned back against the black leather seat. The adrenaline of the confrontation was beginning to fade, leaving behind a wave of exhaustion and excitement.

​Aaron was sitting across from me. He had poured two glass tumblers of fourteen-year-old Scotch whisky. He handed me one without a word.

​I took the glass, feeling the warmth of the crystal between my cold fingers.

"Maroni will sign the transfer before noon tomorrow," I said, taking a slow sip of the liquor, feeling the pleasant burn of the alcohol down my throat. "He has no choice. Lucchese won't lend him a single euro."

​"I know," Aaron said, staring into the golden liquid in his glass. "You took the north from him without firing a single bullet. My father spent ten years and lost two brothers trying to gain control of Civitavecchia. You did it in one morning with a screen and a tight dress."

​I sat up straight, leaning toward him.

"And does that frighten you, Aaron, or does it excite you?"

​Aaron set his glass in the cupholder and, with a smooth, feline movement, slid over to sit beside me. His long hand slithered up the slit of my velvet dress, moving up my exposed leg with agonizing slowness, brushing the lace of my garter belt. His skin was burning hot.

​"It terrifies me, Sofía," he whispered, pressing his lips to the sensitive curve of my neck just beneath my jawline, biting me softly until a gasp caught in my throat. "It terrifies me because I know that the day you decide you don't need me anymore, you won't send an assassin. You'll destroy me from within—leaving my empire intact, but taking my soul."

​I turned my face to find his lips. Our mouths met in a dark, deep, desperate kiss, laced with the poison of power and the fatal attraction consuming us both. His hands pushed aside the soft velvet on my shoulder, seeking bare skin, claiming every inch of me while the armored car cut through the Roman rain.

​"You'll leave me... I know it," Aaron said against my lips.

​"I will never let you go, Aaron," I whispered back, tasting the whisky and the promise of danger on his tongue. "Not because I love you... but because hell is far too boring if I'm not burning there with you."

​He smiled against my mouth—a pleased demon's smile—as his fingers tangled in my hair and pulled me onto his lap. The board was no longer a game of survival. It was a conquest. And as the rain washed the invisible blood from the streets of Rome, I knew Aaron and I wouldn't just rule The Commission; we were going to watch the world burn beneath our feet before ever surrendering the crown.