Kiss My Feet, Mr. Mafia

Episode 4

Luca's POV

I was born into a beautiful, loving family. My father married my mother when she became pregnant with me. They were fresh out of college and barely had a dime to their name, but they were in love. In their eyes, I saw what being in love truly meant. My father treated my mother like a princess. He raised me with love and care. I watched them cook together and dance around in the rain. I've known how beautiful and romantic love can be because of them.

... Scratch that! You see, my father was married to his liquor bottle more than he was to my mother. My mother was busy fooling around with my father's friends and brothers. The only 'raising me' my father did was when he put a pistol in my hand and made me shoot my bully in high school. Talk about an unconventional "take your kid to work" day. Everything I know, I've had to learn from my father's brothers, who were more present than he was. Because of his drinking, he made irrational decisions and nearly drove the syndicate to the ground until Uncle Slavi stepped in. I guess you could say our family business was always in high "spirits."

My parents entered into a marriage of convenience. Our mafia empire runs in the family. We once owned a small town on the outskirts of the city, but over the years, our influence has grown. When I finally took over the business, it wasn’t due to the guiding hand of my father; he was stuck suckling his liquor bottles. Uncle Slavi always said, 'My father loved my mother to madness.' The only true thing about my earlier story is this: My father married my mother when she became pregnant with me.

My mother's family and ours were enemies until the eldest son of the Falcone mafia clan fell in love and impregnated the youngest daughter of the Sinclairs. The only way to prevent bloodshed was marriage, but that doesn't mean blood didn’t spill elsewhere. You could say our family tree was watered with blood instead of water. Because of their marriage, several organizations felt betrayed by this union. The CIA and the FBI have monitored underground movements for years. The rules of engagement are simple: mafia clans must forever remain at war. The risk of either clan uniting would blindside them.

Imagine the chaos when the most powerful and chaotic mafia families united for battle. Since then, it's been difficult to keep the government in our pocket. I guess you could say we went from "made men" to "paid men" overnight.

"They're playing chess while you're playing checkers, brother," Zoran stated, taking a sip of wine. "I have to think ahead, Zoran. They were pissed about Mom and Dad marrying; imagine their faces when they discover I've married an FBI detective's daughter." It was almost impossible not to flash a smile. The thought itself drove me crazy. Who said you can't mix business with pleasure? Or, in this case, crime with law enforcement.

"Has Dad approved of this?" he raised a brow.

"Little Zoran, always thinking his father calls the shots." I teased him, hoping Uncle Slavi didn't hear us. "In our family, the only shots that matter come from a gun, not dear old Dad."

"I'm serious, brother; if this blows up in our faces, my dad will shoot us in the d**k!"

"Easy, Zoran!" I laid back, enjoying the fresh breeze. "It'll all work out." I could see the fear in Zoran's eyes at the thought of his father. It was unmistakable. But sometimes, every now and then, a kid's got to dump his training wheels. Zoran had walked under his father's shadow for far too long. Since I was the Mafia King now, I’d made him my right-hand man. I needed him to think for himself, but that wasn't so easy. It's like teaching a fish to climb a tree. "Have you thought about how you'll manage all of this? You'll need a house not so luxurious that the media picks up on it. If they do, Dad will rain hellfire on you for marrying without his blessing. You know how he'll get if he discovers she's an FBI's daughter. You need to keep this quiet, even from the inner circle!" Zoran had a point I couldn't deny. A shitstorm would brew if the status of my soon-to-be wife unraveled.

"Gather Minho and the guys. Only those who are loyal to me and not Slavi. I need to keep a tight lid on this, but I cannot do it alone.

"You got it, brother." Zoran got up, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Where are you going?"

"I need to pick something up. Make sure that Maria doesn't leave that room. Whatever she wants, give it to her. I don't care if it's a freaking pony or the Queen of England." I snuffed my cigarette into the tray and got up.

"You got it, Luca." Zoran disappeared through the corridors, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

"Dimitri, get the car ready. We leave in an hour," I shouted from the balcony, watching my men sprint into quick action. I sighed, feeling exhausted.

Maria’s POV

I'd spent an hour banging on the door until my fists hurt. After a while, it became clear that riling up the mafia king wasn't in my best interest. My FBI agent father had taught me better than to act impulsively. Instead, I chose to fight back. Strategically. To earn my escape.

When the doorknob turned, I hurried to the back of it. Once it opened, there was a slight pause, then the sound of a gun c*****g. The metallic click made me shiver. Screaming, I slammed the door again, but instead, the person pushed me back. I stumbled, falling to the ground.

"Don Falcone won't let anyone harm you," a middleman entered, clutching his broken hand. "If you want something, doll, simply ask. You have no idea how long. I've been waiting to finally catch you—the daughter of mighty FBI Director James Williams."

His tone was playful yet scary. He barely winced at his injured arm. What was he made of? How was he so unbothered? I'd seen my father come home with injuries, but this was different. This man seemed almost amused by his own wound.

"I want to leave," I demanded, looking up at him.

"Sorry, Puta, that isn't happening." The dismissive tone made my blood boil.

I didn't need to hear more. I ran for the gun on the floor before he could read my moves.

In a second, I was standing in front of the man, pointing his gun at his face. I tried to act like I’d done this before, like I could shoot. In reality, I’d barely ever held a gun.

"Okay, little girl, calm down."

"Little girl?" I breathed, feeling offended. At 23, I was far from a little girl.

"Give me the gun. A pretty girl like you shouldn't be holding a gun. That's for us, bad men who can protect you."

"Don't patronize me!" I screamed, remembering how my father would talk to me like I was a stupid child, years after I had grown up. "If you don't let me out, I swear I'll kill you."

I didn't mean it. I couldn't stomach the idea of hurting another. But if threats were what could save my life, I was prepared to bluff my way out of this predicament.

"Alright, easy there, darling."

Just as I thought I had the upper hand, a sound froze me solid. Another footstep. Not from the man in front of me. From somewhere else in the room.

I heard the click of another weapon. A voice I didn't recognize cut through.

"Drop it. Now."

But something was wrong. The voice wasn't coming from the man in front of me. It was closer. Much closer. So close I could feel warm breath against the back of my neck.

And then I realized—the gun pressed against my head wasn't theirs.

It was mine.