His Mafia Prince
Chapter 253: Take It Slow

Chapter 253: Take It Slow

(SASHA)

There are so many possibilities in the contents of Father’s secret safe that I’m starting to think the note from Angelo might not even be the most important find. Tyler and I spread everything across the bed once we return home, puzzling over all of them.

Most of the photographs are self-explanatory: blackmail material.

Not all of the people are immediately known to me, but I can ask for help to identify some of them.

And one person in particular could be very useful. The photographs show a man known to me, high-ranked in the Italian branch of the Clemenza Family, but it’s the woman with him in whom I’m interested. Known only as "La Contessa," she is an enigmatic figure in Italy who has a lot of influence in many areas: political, social, and business.

And she happens to be the Italian stakeholder who objected to my buying up controlling stock of a particular company several months back. These photographs give me leverage.

I put the pictures aside for now. Other documents in the stash included letters of correspondence—Father’s equivalent of memorandums of understanding, agreements, and contracts that would never be upheld in a court of law. Looking through them, I can see there must have been many people relieved to hear of Father’s death.

I don’t like the kind of business some of these documents suggest. I’ve been at pains to move the family into more legitimate streams of moneymaking. But they are, undeniably, useful. I won’t destroy them—not right away.

But Tyler is impatient to get back to the main event. "I don’t understand what it means," he says, shoving his Angelo’s note at my face again.

I take it from him and reread it myself, if only to calm him.

T,

In another life, things might have been different.

Under his signature is a string of numbers. "What does it mean?" Tyler demands.

"I don’t know," I tell him, for the fifth or sixth time. "Baby, please—we’ll figure it out." I’ve never seen him so enraged at an inanimate object, although I understand it.

Tyler is a little wild-eyed, his hair standing up at odd angles, and as he prowls the room, his stomach growls. "Ugh," he says, pressing his middle. We both skipped lunch today.

"Let’s go down and have dinner," I suggest, "and after that, we’ll call Gloria."

His head snaps up. "Yes. That’s a great idea. Gloria might have some idea—" He’s already fumbling with his phone until I put my hand over it.

"Angel," I say as gently as I can, "let’s eat first. It’ll help us think."

He’s frustrated, but when we go down to get the spread of salads, cold meats, and a lemon meringue pie for dessert, Tyler is slightly mollified. He eats in big forkfuls, saying nothing, finishing before everyone else. But he stays there at the table, brooding and fidgeting, obviously thinking.

Giulio and Hudson have exchanged more than one glance but are keeping quiet after one ill-advised attempt from Hudson to ask how things went today got his head bitten off by Tyler’s response.

"Don’t worry about it; we’ll clear up," I say afterward when Hudson jumps up to start taking plates off the table.

Tyler just about murders me with his death glare, but as soon as Giulio and Hudson have scurried out of the room, I lean over and take his hand. "We’ll call Gloria, then we can clear the kitchen while we think about anything she’s able to tell us."

His glare softens. Back at the townhouse, we had a routine, Tyler and I, and part of it was cleaning up after dinner together. I’ve always enjoyed those moments because they’re among the most grounded in my day.

"Okay," he says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. But he hesitates. "Hang on. Let me go apologise to Hudson for being an asshole, first."

***

(TYLER)

After we get off the phone with Gloria, Sasha and I don’t say much to each other. We finish cleaning the kitchen, but without the banter and flirting we usually have, and then with silent agreement, we head upstairs for an early night. I look in to say goodnight to Giulio and Hudson before I do, they are already making up the sofa bed.

"You guys don’t want to use that spare room?" I ask. "The sofa bed can’t be much fun."

They exchange a glance. "We’re fine right here, Tyler," Giulio assures me with an almost smirk. "You need your privacy."

I’m halfway up the stairs before I wonder if Sasha and I have been a little loud during some of the fun we’ve had while we’ve been staying here. A fair chance is we have been having way too much fun that we lost control, and we entertained, or rather made them uncomfortable, that they finally felt the need to give us some privacy.

Not that I regret any bit of it though. I smother my snort of laughter and then run up the last half of the stairs.

"Hey, I think we might need to fuck more quietly while we’re here," I say as I enter the bedroom, and then I stop and stare at Sasha. "Hey," I say again and point at him. "Hold on, mister! You know you’re still not supposed to walk up any stairs on your own!"

"I know. But I was at the top before I even remembered. I’m getting much better." Sasha’s half-smile is so like his old self that I forgive him on the spot.

"You’re not achy or—"

"Angel," he sighs, but he’s still smiling, "I am perfectly well. Promise."

Knowing Sasha to not be one to show any sign of discomfort, however dire, I regard him for a bit. But then I am careful to not look too long, in a manner that he dislikes or which makes him feel like some damsel in distress.

"Alright," I say, sounding as dubious as I can, but it’s hard when I have real proof of him feeling better. There’s no hint of pain around his eyes, and his colour is as normal as usual—pale as fuck, sure, but that’s Sasha, and he’s nowhere near the translucent white he was in the hospital.