Mafia Tech Bro

Chapter three

CHRISTOF

People always assumed men like me were brooding psychopaths who skulked around in dim corners and growled threats.

Please.

I liked good food, good music, and good jokes.

I liked speedboats, bad action movies, and tequila with lime instead of salt.

My security teams liked to pretend I had no personality, but that was because they were too terrified to laugh when I said something funny. Dangerous didn’t have to mean joyless.

I just happened to be very competent at things most people preferred not to think about. Smuggling, distribution, weapons calibration, the sort of business that made politicians pretend not to know me while still asking for favors.

To most of the world, I was Christof Gustavo. CEO of Gustavo Technology, philanthropist, Manhattan’s favorite tech golden boy. The man who built an empire of innovation and wealth. Only a handful of people knew the truth. The tech company was real, the billions were real, the influence was real. And the blood on my hands was real too.

But I wasn’t some grim-faced tyrant. Hell, half the time, I was told by my second in command, Huncho, that I behaved more like a tech bro with too much money and not enough hobbies than a powerful mafia boss.

I met Pepa at Esteban Navarro’s compound last year. One stifling afternoon, all heat and cigar smoke and the metallic scent of weapons oil. I was there to finalize a shipment route with her father, Esteban. He was a middle man in my sort of business. Aiding discreet, high profile individuals who needed my contraband. One of the few men in this business who understood that respect was more valuable than fear.

I hadn’t been in a dark mood at all. After finalizing, I had been joking with Esteban about how his men kept missing the same spot on their perimeter sweep.

Then Pepa walked in.

She didn’t stiffen or stutter or avoid eye contact the way most people do when they know my background. Instead, she looked at me like she was already in on the joke. She was beautiful, sexy as hell with full lips, brown eyes, round hips, and big boobs.

“My father says you could dismantle a rifle blindfolded,” she said, arms folded, chin raised. “And also that you’re quite annoying.”

I snorted. “Both true.”

That made her laugh, and it was a sound I wasn’t expecting. Warm, bright, nothing like the cold-edged world her father and I lived in.

Esteban groaned. “Pepa, please. Don’t encourage him.”

“Why not?” she said, looking right at me. “He seems fun.”

Fun.

When people used words like terrifying, calculating, or Christof-will-end-you, she called me fun. I still don’t know why the words hit so precisely. Maybe because she meant them, maybe because she saw right through me.

I leaned back in my chair, smirked, and said, “Careful, Pepa. Call me fun again and I might start thinking you’re flirting.”

She smiled like she’d been waiting for that line all day.

“Maybe I am.”

And that was how my relationship with Pepa began. It wasn’t obsession, not fate. Just… chemistry. Easy, electric, obvious.

I claimed her because she made life lighter in a world where things could get heavy. She could stand next to the fire without shrinking back, she saw me, not the empire, not the reputation, me. And didn’t flinch.

Was I dangerous? Yes.

Did she care? Not even slightly.

And somehow, that made her the most dangerous one of all.

The girl, Tanisha…I had no idea what her surname was. She’d been working for me for months before I even learned her first name. HR sent me her file, and I skimmed it the same way I skimmed half the paperwork that crossed my desk. Efficiently, selectively, and only for what mattered.

Experience? Fine.

Competence? Solid.

Salary expectations? A measly sum, which I tripled after she proved to be effective.

I didn’t hire assistants to bond with them, I hired them to keep my life functioning with as little disruption as possible. A good assistant was like high-speed WiFi, essential, invisible, and only noticeable when something went wrong. I didn’t make a habit of studying the staff unless they gave me a reason.

Tanisha never did.

Well, except when Pepa got involved.

Pepa had this habit of treating her like a personal errand sprite, the kind you summon by snapping your fingers. Half the time I didn’t even know what Pepa had asked for until Tanisha showed up carrying it, sweaty, exhausted, looking like she’d sprinted across Manhattan and back.

Pepa found it entertaining, I found Pepa entertaining, which meant, by default, Tanisha became part of the entertainment. Not in a cruel way, just in the “this is absurd, and I can’t believe she actually did that” way. Every time Pepa sent her on some ridiculous mission, I’d get these little flashes of amusement watching Tanisha appear at the door, latte or face mist or limited-edition macaron box in hand, breathing like she’d escaped a hostage situation.

Sometimes I caught Tanisha stiffening when Pepa spoke to her, like she was fighting the urge to throw something. I’d hide a smirk behind my hand or turn away so she didn’t see it. She was so easy to rattle that it was almost… comedic.

Beyond that, Tanisha was invisible to me. If she walked into the room, I acknowledged the task she’d completed, not the person doing it. It wasn’t coldness, it was efficiency. The same way I didn’t thank my phone for ringing when I needed it to. She had no idea who I was outside the office, and that’s how it would remain.