Trapped (Sinners of Boston #5)

7. Santino

SEVEN

SANTINO

TWO MONTHS LATER

I wished Delilah were here.

Spending time with Delilah was more fun than holding court in Afterlife. My bodyguard waved a line of peasants forward, and a man stepped in front of me, clutching a Red Sox baseball hat.

“Good evening, Mr. Costa.”

I nodded. “Who are you?”

“Greg, sir. Greg Cafaro.” His voice was so low, I leaned closer to hear him. “I appreciate the opportunity to meet you.”

“What do you need?”

Greg swallowed. “To borrow some money. Six thousand. No, eight .”

“Is it six or eight?”

He grimaced, shaking off something. “Eight.”

“What’s it for?”

“My restaurant’s floor is wrecked. We had a fire next door, and water flooded in from upstairs. Completely ruined the hardwood.”

“So file a claim with your insurance.”

“I did, but it’s not enough. I’m dealing with damage from street gangs. Spray-painted doors. Smashed windows. The other week, they stole our point-of-sale systems. It’s addin’ up.”

I sighed, well aware of the street gangs infesting Boston. The Animals. 12 th Street Gang. Mayhem. Some of them sawed catalytic converters out of cars and sold them. Others broke into small businesses, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.

“You should’ve paid us for protection.”

He flushed. “I can’t afford it.”

“Then quit.”

“I can’t, Mr. Costa. The restaurant’s been in my family for generations.”

“How will you pay me back?”

“As soon as I’m open, I’ll make what I owe you in a month. We’ve just been unlucky,” he mumbled, rotating the cap in his hands. “It’s been delay after delay. It took weeks for everything to dry, then supply chain issues. Now I’m burning cash just to keep my staff?—”

“What’s your restaurant?”

“Vito’s.”

Ah, the swanky steakhouse with Godfather vibes. Black leather booths. Jazz singers crooning into microphones. An exclusive dining room called The Cougar Room because it featured a real stuffed cougar. I’d been there a couple times. The food was all right.

“And you’ve been closed for how long?”

“Six months,” he said, his voice catching fire again. “But we’re one of the best restaurants in Boston. We’ll get back on our feet. I still have my employees.”

“Go to the bank. I’m your worst option.”

“Can’t, sir. They won’t approve me for a loan because I’ve already taken a second mortgage on my house.”

Idiot . “Risk-taker, huh?”

“I’ve gotta save the family business.”

I smiled indulgently. Greg was the kind of desperate fool I thrived on. Normally, I’d set him up, but there was no way he’d make the money back, and I didn’t feel like sending Kill’s crew to mop up this guy. Lending him capital might as well be flushing it down the drain.

I did like the idea of owning his property. Its location on Newbury Street gave it an ideal mixture of high foot traffic, retail establishments, and homes. Perfect for a luxury residential development.

I pretended to think it over. “Here’s what I’ll do for you, Greg. I’ll lend you the eight thousand, but it’s going to be at two points a week. You’ve got three months. And I’ll need collateral—your restaurant.”

A spasm of panic crossed his face.

I shrugged, giving him a harmless smile. “If you can’t pay, I take over the property. But if you can, you keep your legacy. That’s the best I can offer, given the circumstances.”

He bit his lip. “Okay.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, Mr. Costa.”

He shook my hand.

I gestured to my bodyguard. “Hook him up.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Costa. This is gonna change my life.”

“I suggest you concentrate on making money.”

I waved him off, watching him slink away. Same story, different face. People like Greg—and even Delilah—were my bread and butter. Their desperation kept me thriving.

The next guy mumbled about protection, but all I could see was Delilah. Her laughter, her smirk, how her eyes lit up when she got what she wanted.

A text buzzed on my phone.

Principessa

Guess what came in the mail ;)

A photo of her in the lacy lingerie I bought two days ago popped under the message. Thought it’d look hot on her, and I was right, judging by the mouthwatering image she sent me.

She was bent over, the phone between her bare legs. Her head hung upside-down, and she wore a coquettish grin. The lingerie clung to her curves perfectly. A thin strip of fabric barely hid her pussy, and her free hand gripped her ass.

Damn .

Heat curled below my waist. I saved the photo to a private album and scrolled through the others, blood rushing to my cock. Only she could get me hard while men surrounded me.

Wear it tonight. I’ll pick you up at 8.

Principessa

OK.

Thank you. 3

I tightened my grip on the phone before shoving it back into my pocket and standing, signaling for my bodyguard to take over. The cool night air slapped me awake as I stepped out of Afterlife.

The day we’d met still blazed in my mind. Delilah was unforgettable. With the bold red lipstick and winged eyeliner, she was a walking advertisement for a gun moll.

Colpo di fulmine.

It meant getting struck—like a bolt of lightning. My Nonno used to talk about it, said it made him steal a capo’s woman. He’d called it a curse, even though he spent the rest of his life with her. He’d laugh about how he didn’t have a choice. The second he laid eyes on her, it was like a fire lit under his skin. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

I always figured it was his clogged arteries.

I never thought it would hit me .

Then she walked into Afterlife.

Struck .

She was too perfect to ignore, and she needed me.

I had no love for the Romanovs, but something about her made me hesitate. A Russian princess begging her enemy for help.

As I climbed into my car, I fantasized about Delilah. Her smile, her body, the way she made me feel. I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white against the leather.

I couldn’t afford to lose control.

Not with vengeance within my grasp.