Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 4

4

A FATHER’S INSTINCT

Ivory

“Yes. Uh-huh. That makes sense. Okay, then. Thank you so much for your help. You, too.” Killing the call with the insurance company, I fall back onto my bed with an overwhelmed huff and stare up at the cream ceiling. It’s been a few days since the fire, and saying I’m exhausted would be the understatement of the year.

Not only have I had to deal with everything on the insurance front in hopes of filing a claim, which seems unlikely—because hello, arson—but I’ve turned my family’s home kitchen into a makeshift bakery. Just until I find another place. I refuse to let down clients who booked with us for their events because of my diabolical ex.

And yes, Xena is still waking up in the middle of the night for potty breaks.

Like I said, exhausted .

The sudden vibe of my phone turns my attention to the now illuminated screen in my palm.

Papa New Guinea

Come downstairs, please.

Wonderful.

My dad’s been in an absolute shit mood since everything happened—rightfully so ‘cause it’s been a bitch to deal with—but I’ve been avoiding him to some extent. Mostly because I failed to mention Rio’s presence the night of, and I’m afraid of what might come out of my mouth as a result, being that I’m literally the worst liar on planet Earth. Comical considering I went to fucking law school.

Ratting him out wasn’t an option, though. The consequences even uttering his name would have, not just for me but for my family as a whole, isn’t worth it.

The Beluccis and the Guerras might be rivals, a turf war spanning back decades, but it’s been quiet for many years now since my father and Tommaso Guerra came to an agreement for the sake of their families. Something their forefathers weren’t interested in doing.

In short, the Beluccis own the port, for both import and export, leaving the highways for the Guerras. Everything involving counterfeit currency, loans, and money laundering falls under Belucci territory, while the Guerras delve into all things dealing with narcotics and weapons.

And then, of course, there’s the cardinal rule, the most important of all…but we’ll circle back around to that later .

Leaving the safety of my bedroom, Xena and Katana immediately book it past me, scampering down the stairs like a stampede of wild animals. Draco, on the other hand, hangs back at my side, not at all in the mood for their antics. My well-behaved old man. He’s really not that old, but he sure as hell acts like it sometimes.

“It was Guerra; I have no doubts!” Dad’s voice rings out through the foyer and carries up the grand staircase, shooting my shoulders up to my ears.

“With what proof, Pa?” my older brother’s baritone follows. “We can’t just aim and shoot without something concrete to go off of!”

“Who else would it be then? Hmm? That fire was a direct result of arson!”

I stop dead in my tracks as my foot hits the last step. Not only is he blaming this on Rio, but how does he know about the arson already? I only just got confirmation from the insurance company two fucking seconds ago.

Santo sighs dramatically, or rather, growls in frustration. “I know, but you’re asking me to send the dogs out out on a possible suicide mission. They might make it back in one piece but you know damn well Tommaso will return fire without hesitation, especially if we’re accusing his son of something we’re not even sure he did! Lucia’s about to give birth, Dad. I don’t have time for an active war right now! Why would he go after Ivory, anyway? Soho is neutral territory!”

The silence that ensues instantly prickles my skin, raising every last hair on my body at attention. I’m not surprised my father’s first thought is Rio after everything he put me through before we fell in love. He’s none the wiser to that part, I should add. No one is.

We kept it on the hush for a reason.

Regardless, that was so many years ago, and Rio was long gone by the time my dad made it onto the scene. There’s no way he saw him.

I burst into my father’s office with the pups on my tail, and both his and my brother’s heads snap my way in tandem at my abrupt entrance. “What makes you think it was Rio?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” my dad questions simply, the top three buttons of his white dress shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. At my lack of a reply, he continues. “I’ll ask you the same question I asked your brother…who else would it be if not him?”

I hitch a shoulder and drop onto the sable leather couch beside Santo. “I don’t know, but how did you know it was arson?”

“Because I went to take a look at it myself while you were playing phone tag with the insurance company. It’s obvious, Principessa. There were multiple sites of ignition, none that came from an actual heating source or the electrical outlets. Not to mention the lines of accelerant residue. That’s why the majority of the burning took place on the floor before going upward.”

“Oh.” That’s all I offer. I already knew all of this, but for some reason, hearing it come from my father is like I hadn’t heard a word previously at all.

Rio really gave absolutely no fucks when he went in there, huh?

“But why would it be Guerra, Pa?” Santo presses. “ Think about this rationally for a moment. Think about the cardi?—”

“I am thinking rationally!” Dad roars, cutting off my brother’s plea in a second flat.

“You’re not,” Santo continues after a beat. “For all you know, it could be some gang initiation or just a group of rowdy kids looking for trouble.”

My father falls into one of the matching leather seats across from us and drops his graying head into his hands. He rubs the balls of his palms deep into his eyes, sighing in a half-defeated state.

“It’s Rio. I can feel it in my bones,” he stresses. “He made your sister’s life a living hell once upon a time. Now she’s got her own business, making a name for herself. Why wouldn’t he want to sabotage that?”

Santo looks at me then, exhaustion firmly settled across every feature as if they’ve been talking about this on a loop for the last four days. There’s bags under his eyes, his dark five o’clock shadow somehow darker. And don’t get me started on his clothes… His sky blue dress shirt actually has wrinkles, which is so, so unlike him and his type-A personality.

He’d be even more drained if I actually outed Rio. Both of them would.

Raking my fingers through the unruly dark brown strands of his hair, I push them out of his face. “Go home and shower, Santorini,” I whisper, his lips quirking at the the sound of his nickname. “You should be with Lucia. I’ll handle Dad.”

“I can’t leave him like this,” he argues softly. A strong arm snakes around my shoulders and pulls us back into soft cushions of the couch.

“She’s right,” our father agrees, muffled yet somehow clear from behind his hands. “Go home, son.”

“Not until you get this notion of Rio Guerra out of your head. He’s got bigger fish to fry than worrying about what Ivory is doing these days.”

No, he doesn’t.

“I’ll put out some feelers and see if we can find anything, but seriously, Pa, you have to?—”

“Amadeo, you’re still going on about this?” my mom’s gentle lilt sounds from the doorway, interjecting Santo’s concession and effectively capturing everyone’s attention. Floor-length robe tied around her slim waist, a don’t fuck with me look dons her beautiful face, the mid-length caramel strands of her hair wild and loose. With a glass of bourbon in one hand and a rolled joint in the other, she’s here for one reason and one reason only.

To drag my dad out of his office.

The man in question rights himself at the sight of her and reclines in his seat.

With lithe grace, she ambles over to him and takes residence on his lap, leaning in to claim a kiss. “I told you to leave it alone. Even if it were Rio, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m allowing you to go there.”

My father hums in concession, barely withholding a grin as they share another kiss.

“Ugh, you guys are gross,” Santo mutters, rising to his feet so quickly I fall sideways and almost face plant onto the couch. “I’m out of here.”

“Good. Go attend to your wife. Draw her a bath, rub her feet. Do whatever she asks without hesitation,” Mama calls out behind him as he slings his suit jacket over his shoulder and all but hightails it out of the room.

Dad’s already plucking the joint from her grasp and reaching for the lighter on the small side table beside them. He sparks it as she sets a palm to his taut chest and takes a long pull.

That’s my cue to leave, too— thankfully. My mom’s always been the voice of reason, so I’m relying on her knocking some sense into the man—despite the fact he’s spot on—while I handle this mess myself.

I just have to figure out how to hit Rio Lorenzo Guerra where it’ll hurt most.