Twins for the Mafia Heir (The Warwicks #3)

1. Achilles

Chapter 1

Achilles

I can’t see it, but I know there’s a scope trained on me from the guard tower looming over the gates of the Warwick estate. As the heir of the Ashwood mafia family, I know better than most that one doesn’t casually walk up to a mafia boss’s house and buzz to be let in. But that’s exactly what I’ve just done.

Three figures approach me along the gravel drive, their steps steady and deliberate. Behind them, the stark, angular lines of an enormous modern house rise beyond the gates, cold and imposing. My hands clench around the handle of my briefcase as Fantasia’s words turn over in my head once again.

Make them pay, Achilles. In blood, if you have to.

My dear little sister always did have a way with dramatics, even before she became poisoned by our mum’s vitriol. Now that Fantasia is in charge of the Warwick-Ashwood empire, she’s sent me here alone to get people to sign on the dotted line, to make this estranged branch of the family start paying their proper tithe again. With any luck at all, nothing more exciting than that needs to happen.

My welcoming party stops just on the other side of the gate. They’re armed and armored. The woman standing in the middle is tall and imposing, her polished brown skin contrasting sharply with her stark white hair. Her intense black eyes scan me methodically, assessing every movement for potential danger. The sleek body armor she wears under her fitted jacket isn’t meant to be hidden, and neither is the gun strapped fashionably across her chest, like a statement piece.

The man at her side has his thumbs looped through the straps of his chest holster like they’re suspenders, displaying his handguns with casual menace. His craggy face is worn down by sorrow, but his blue eyes are bright and wary. I could make a microscopic move toward my own concealed weapon, and he’d probably catch it.

The second woman is the outlier. She’s on the tall woman’s other side, and much younger than her companions. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. Where the other woman is an amazon, this one is pretty in an elfin way, with platinum blonde hair cut in a bob around a square jaw, pale eyes, and willowy limbs. Her plain black sweater and grey jeans seem to be trying to distract from her natural beauty, but they only highlight it. She looks delicate as a glass flower, but her stance betrays her. She’s not just here to look pretty; she’s ready for a fight.

I dismiss all three of them instantly. None of them are Thomas Warwick, the head of the family and the man I’m actually here to see. I’m not leaving without his signature.

“Good morning,” I announce, trying not to give away too much of my irritation. “I am Achilles Warwick. You know who I am, yes?”

After several threat letters and even more blocked calls, they had fucking better.

The statuesque woman crosses her arms over her chest. “Indeed I do,” she says, yet her expression betrays nothing. “Mr. Warwick, I’m Iris Agostinelli, Thomas’s aide. I’m sorry you came so far to hear this, but Thomas is currently away from the estate on business.”

I stifle an outraged sigh. Curse Fantasia to the moon and back. What a waste of a transatlantic flight. Leaving my daughter for multiple days is bad enough, even when my trip isn’t this pointless.

More patient men than I might extend their stay and wait for Thomas to return. I’ve got a better idea.

There’s that old saying. Don’t shoot the messenger. But what if the messenger is the one firing shots?

“Then I suggest you summon him back,” I say. “Otherwise, I’ll be killing one member of this estate for every day I’m forced to wait.”

Iris’s eyes narrow. She’s looking at me through an iron gate, with me placed firmly on the outside of it. I can see the gears clicking in her head. I’m making a very big, very bold threat on territory that isn’t mine. And if I’ve come all this way to negotiate with Thomas directly after months of attempting contact, there’s potential that I have the means to back up that threat.

And because, like me, she’s the second in command, she errs on the side of caution.

“Let’s talk inside,” Iris says.

“To be perfectly frank, Mr. Warwick, I’m surprised you actually exist.”

Iris settles herself into the chair behind a desk I have to assume is Thomas’s. Filing cabinets line the wall behind her where other mafia kings might place trophies or weapons. The only piece of true decoration in the room is a small shelving unit holding what look like chess pieces of various makes.

I haven’t been offered the seat in front of the desk, but that’s fine. I prefer to remain on my feet during interrogations. Iris’s two companions, the weathered man and the pretty young woman, neither of whom have been introduced to me, stand behind Iris’s chair.

Now that we’re inside and the business talk has begun, I feel the young woman’s gaze on me more acutely. I shift my weight, and she shifts microscopically in response.

Interesting. I won’t dismiss her from my attention again.

I’ve already been searched for weapons and found wanting. My briefcase sits on the desk before Iris, open to reveal nothing but a neat stack of crisp white papers. To the people in this room, I am at their mercy.

“We were beginning to believe those letters were some elaborate hoax by the last of Morgan Speare’s people,” Iris continues. “And the calls… well, we don’t appreciate phone scams here.”

“Your misunderstanding of the situation is not my problem,” I say brusquely. “You’ve wasted months of my boss’s time already. I’m here to bring this waffling to an end.”

“We have no affiliation with anyone in London,” Iris says curtly. “And we never have. The Warwicks might have emigrated from that city, but whoever they left behind has nothing to do with us now. Sharing a last name doesn't mean my boss owes you a tithe.”

Funny. I said those exact same words to Fantasia months ago when she first came up with this little farce. She’s half a Warwick, and I’m an Ashwood, related only by the marriage of my mother to her father. If that truth were ever discovered by these people, we would lose what little bargaining power we have. But she was determined to bring anyone with the Warwick name to heel, so here I fucking am, wearing a name that isn’t mine for clout that is impressing no one.

“Do you believe that to be Thomas’s stance as well?” I ask.

Iris cocks her head, her black eyes sharp as a hawk’s. The man at her right tenses, just a little, at the threat in my voice. The young woman’s stance widens.

Will Iris speak for her boss without being certain what he’d say, or will she hesitate and cost the lives of people under her protection?

“And if I do?” she asks.

It’s a challenge. She’s calling my bluff from the gates. Now that I’m inside of them and alone, surrounded by enemies, will I still try to plant my flag as an aggressor?

I might be on dangerous ground, but I’ve got something to live for- and someone waiting at home who needs me. I lean forward, a reminder of that quiet fire in my eyes. “Then I suggest you understand what’s at stake,” I say, steady but firm.

I step forward and reach for the stack of papers in my briefcase. Toss them down on the desk in front of Iris. She doesn’t bat an eye, unimpressed.

But because she’s kept her eyes on me, she hasn’t seen what was revealed inside the briefcase, tucked into the foam lining.

The man by Iris’s side pulls a gun, but I pull mine faster. He grunts and staggers back into the filing cabinets with a dull metal clang. Blood blooms on his sleeve.

Thank god for my silencer, or firing a shot in this room would have summoned the entire estate.

“PAUL!”

Iris’s heavy chair tumbles over as she leaps to her feet, but it’s the young woman who’s cried out. Iris herself has to freeze in the middle of pulling her own weapon when I turn my gun on her.

Her black eyes are so wide I can see the whites in them.

Good. Now we might actually get somewhere.

“I don’t care if Thomas is in a meeting, or an active warzone, or a submarine at the bottom of the ocean,” I say coolly. “Get him on the phone, or this man dies first.”

“No!”

There’s a blur of pale skin and blonde hair as the young woman throws herself between Iris’s man and me. Her willowy arms are spread wide like a barricade. My aim doesn’t falter, but that means my barrel is pointed squarely at her forehead.

“Don’t- please-!”

I don’t appreciate dramatics like this. They always slow the entire process down.

“Since you’re so keen to volunteer-” I start, but she raises her voice over mine.

“My name is Raleigh!” she blurts out, while her comrades look on in baffled horror. “I’m Thomas’s sister. If you insist that he sign a contract with you then- use me as collateral for his signature until he gets home.”

“That is not your place,” Iris says, her voice low with warning.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, my impatience clipping every word. I look the young woman over, rediscovering her within this new context.

So this is Raleigh then. Mafia women tend to be kept off the grid as a rule, so I’ve never seen a photo of her. Even with all my research on this estate, I could only discover that she exists, and should be about a decade my junior- though she looks even younger than that. Everything else about her remained a mystery.

The woman before me is barely five feet tall, over a foot shorter than me. Her mother’s genes seem to have snuffed out the traditional Warwick huskiness, which happened in Fantasia’s case too. The features of her face are delicate and sharp, like a pixie. Her blonde hair, cut into a short bob around her jaw, is clearly a dye job, with auburn roots just beginning to show. Instead of being dressed in luxury, her simple black sweater and jeans help her blend in with the people around her and accentuate her lacking figure.

And her eyes. They’re huge and grey as the London sky.

It makes sense now that she would be accompanied by Thomas’s closest advisors into this meeting, but not speak herself until this outburst. Frankly, to be a voyeur in this room at all is more than most women would be allowed to do. Fantasia is the rare woman in our world who has managed to seize power over a family and not immediately be punished for it, and she has my unwavering support to thank for that.

Raleigh, though… to put herself directly into the path of danger to buy time for her brother to sign some paperwork is impressive to say the least.

“ Please ,” Raleigh begs. “Please-” She looks between the man, cradling his bleeding arm, and me. “Thomas really can’t be here. It’s- a family matter that can’t be interrupted.”

“I’ve come a very long way to be given vague excuses,” I warn.

“His son is being born!” Raleigh pleads.

Now that … That might just be the only excuse I’ll entertain.

Because no force on earth could come between me and my daughter the night she was born.

“Please,” Raleigh says again. “The pregnancy took a turn for the worse. She’s been in labor for twelve hours and we don’t know if-” Her voice chokes off. Her pale cheeks and neck are blotchy with red as she desperately tries not to cry in front of me.

I look over the three people in the room. The man, Paul, dripping red onto the polished floor. Iris, radiating fury but unable to move with a gun trained on her mistress.

And Raleigh, putting her life in my hands in order to quell further bloodshed.

They’re already waiting for bad news about their boss’s wife and a child that could be their heir. And now here I am like a bloody hurricane.

If I take this deal, then Fantasia will be forced to wait even longer for a resolution to this issue. But Raleigh is the perfect hostage. Aside from whatever woman Thomas has gotten with child and the baby they’re having, she’s Thomas’s only living family to my knowledge. And anyway, a resolution that avoids violence would be more conducive to a working relationship between our disparate groups.

This isn’t mercy, I tell myself. It’s not weakness. This might prolong the process, but ultimately, this will secure Fantasia’s victory.

“Come here,” I order.

Raleigh sucks in a sharp breath, but she does as I tell her, coming to stand within arm’s reach of me. I grip her by the shoulder and turn her to face Iris and Paul, resting the barrel of my gun against her temple.

“Now then. It’s only polite to escort us out,” I tell Iris.

At first, I think she’s too enraged to reply. But Iris keeps her head. Her jaw tight, her skin ashy, she steps around her desk toward me. Paul follows, still pressing a hand to his wound to staunch the bleeding. What a loyal dog.

The two of them walk ahead of me through the house and down the gravel drive. Anyone we meet along the way instantly moves to let us pass, bewildered and alarmed. At one look from Iris, though, they subside.

At the gates, I circle around them, keeping them in front of me and Raleigh between us. “Your princess will be returned to you once the tithe is paid,” I tell them as the gates whirr open behind me and I back through them. “Do not keep us waiting, or you’ll be paying with more than money.”