His Mafia Prince
Chapter 254: Italian Connections

Chapter 254: Italian Connections

(SASHA)

Earlier...

The study is quiet, save for the low hum of the computer monitor. I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and stare at the screen. My fingers drum against the armrest, a restless rhythm that matches the unease churning in my gut.

Across from me, Tyler is seated with his arms crossed, his usual calm replaced by a tense frown.

The safe we’d cracked open earlier sat in the corner, its contents—documents, photographs, and a single key—spread across the desk. We’d uncovered secrets, sure, but they were fragments, pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

And the gaps? Those are what keep me awake at night.

The screen flickers and Gloria’s face appears. Her eyes scan the room briefly before settling on me. She looks as composed as ever, her silver hair pulled back in a bun, her crimson lips curved in a faint smile.

But I know her well enough to see the tension in her expression. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation.

"Sasha," she greets, her voice smooth but with urgency. "Tyler. I assume this isn’t a social call."

"You assume correctly," I reply, my tone clipped. "But we need your expertise. Angelo’s safe was a treasure trove of secrets, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg. We think he was working with the Irish mafia, but we can’t understand the full picture. Something is missing."

Gloria’s expression darkens at the mention of Angelo. She’d known him, known us, for years. She’d watched our feud escalate into something deadly.

"Angelo was always ambitious," she says carefully. "And reckless. If he was working with the Irish, it wasn’t out of loyalty. He would have been playing both sides, looking for a way to come out on top."

Tyler leans forward, his voice steady but frustrated. "We found photos of meetings, coded messages, and a key that doesn’t fit any lock we know of. But there’s no clear trail. No names, no locations. Just fragments."

Gloria’s gaze shifts to the documents scattered on the desk. "Show me."

I pick up a photograph and hold it up to the camera. It is a grainy image of Angelo standing with a group of men in an alley. The faces of the other men are blurred, but the setting is unmistakably urban.

"This was taken six months before he died," I explain. "We think these are Irish mafia members, but we can’t confirm."

Gloria studies the image, her sharp eyes narrowing. "The background," she says suddenly. "That sign in the corner. It’s in Italian."

Tyler and I exchange a glance. "Italian?" he repeats. "Why would Angelo be meeting with the Irish in Italy?"

"That’s the question, isn’t it?" Gloria murmurs. She leans back, her fingers steepled in thought.

"Angelo was always one step ahead. If he was working with the Irish, he would have kept a failsafe. Something to ensure they couldn’t double-cross him. And if he was meeting them in Italy, it’s because he had something—or someone—there that he trusted."

My jaw tightens. "You think he was hiding something in Italy?"

"I think," Gloria says slowly, "that Angelo was playing a much bigger game than any of us realized. And if you want to uncover the rest of his secrets, you’ll need to follow the trail to Italy."

Tyler frowns. "Italy’s a big place. Where do we even start?"

Gloria’s lips curve into a faint smile. "You start with me. I have a contact in Naples—an old friend who specializes in uncovering secrets. If anyone can help you piece together Angelo’s dealings, it’s him."

"Who is this contact?" I ask.

"Her name is La Contessa," Gloria replied. "She’s a historian by trade, but her real expertise lies in the underworld. She knows everyone and everything. If Angelo was hiding something in Italy, she would know about it."

Tyler leans back, his expression sceptical. "And you trust this guy?"

"Implicitly," Gloria says without hesitation. "Contessa and I go way back. She owes me a favour, and she’s the only person I’d trust with something this delicate."

I am silent for a moment, my mind racing. The idea of leaving the city, of stepping into unfamiliar territory, was risky. But the thought of leaving Angelo’s secrets buried was even riskier. I glance at Tyler, who gives a slight nod.

"Alright," I said finally. "But I want to meet this La Contessa in person. No intermediaries."

Gloria nods. "I’ll arrange it. But be careful, Sasha. Angelo’s secrets are dangerous, and you’re not the only one looking for them. The Irish mafia won’t take kindly to you poking around."

"Let them try," I said coldly. "Angelo’s dead, but his mess is still alive. And I’m not letting it fester any longer."

Gloria’s expression softens, just for a moment. "Keep me updated."

The screen goes dark, leaving Tyler and me in silence.

***

Now...

(TYLER)

I break the silence first. "Italy, huh? Never thought I’d see the day. You must have a plan by now"

It’s my preference to plan out loud, to talk through shit and bounce ideas off other people. But Sasha is not the same. He needs thinking time, a quiet and solitary pursuit for him.

"Mm," he says, which is not an answer.

"I mean, we’re going to Italy, right? Gloria said she will plan the whole thing, so—"

"There’s too much we don’t know." Sasha is starting to undress for bed, as though anyone could actually sleep right now after what we just figured out.

"We know enough," I say. "And I know you didn’t want to leave the country, but that was before Castillo and Alvarado witnessed you wandering around, apparently hale and hearty. You’ve made your point to them, and Luigi keeping the Family in line. So why shouldn’t we take a vacation if we want? That’s how we can spin it."

He glances over at me as he unbuttons his shirt. "Italy...could be difficult for someone in my position."

He does have a point. He’s the head of a notorious crime Family. They won’t be waiting with open arms at the airport. More like handcuffs and guns. And that’s just law enforcement. I don’t know as much as I’d like to about the spiderweb of associations, enemies, friends, and frenemies of the Adonis Family and the various organizations of Italy. But even with the knowledge I’ve gleaned from whispered conversations and the odd internet search, I know getting to Italy and moving around freely could be, as Sasha said, difficult.

But difficult is not impossible. And the truth is, Sasha goes where he likes and does what he wants—he’s like me in that way. "If you wanted to get there, you’d get there," I point out. "That’s not an excuse."

"No," he agrees, sitting down on the bed to unlace his shoes. He can bend over without a hint of discomfort now. "But it is a factor in my decision."

I cross my arms. "Come again?" He glances up at me.

"Your decision?" I clarify. "That’s not the way this works, Sasha."

He pulls off his shoes and socks and is standing again before he replies. "In this matter, baby bird, it is my decision." He holds up a hand. "Please," he says, and I can hear in his voice that he’s tired. "Please don’t fight me on this, Tyler. Just this once. At least for tonight? I’m still thinking things through."

"That’s the problem, husband," I say softly, but he gives me a sharp look.

"You might be thinking things through. I have already made up my mind."

He nods, as though this is not new information to him, and I’m about to keep pushing when he pushes down his boxer briefs. "I understand, angel. I really do. Let’s discuss it further in the morning."

On the one hand, this is some straight-up bullshit that I’m not going to let him get away with. Sure, he can make unilateral decisions about his own damn Family, but when it comes to me? He doesn’t get to make the call.

But on the other hand, he’s standing there naked, and he’s just so damn beautiful.

"Tomorrow morning," I say, "we are talking about this again."

There’s always time for arguing tomorrow. Tonight, though, I just want to love him.

***

"My concern is not only about travelling in a foreign country under assumed names or getting picked up by Interpol, or running into friends of the Irish," Sasha yawns the next morning. "It’s simply that it’s a lot of risk for something we don’t know will be a reward."

I renewed our "discussion" right after I woke up. Sasha wasn’t quite awake yet, but I tossed and turned until he was, and then I started in on him. I preempted all possible problems as far as I could see them and suggested solutions for all. But this risk-reward shit is vague enough that I need to ask him what he means.

He turns on his side to face me and puts an arm around me. I do the same, the bandages he still wears at night are fuzzy under the skin of my forearm. I’ll be so happy when all these bandages are gone completely, forever, no matter what scars are left behind. Sasha’s flesh is beautiful to me no matter what external forces might come to bear on it.

Just as long as there are no parts of him that are covered up or hidden away from me.

"What I mean is," he mumbles sleepily, "there’s no guaranteed return on investment in any of this. We don’t know if this said lady will agree to meet. If she will, we don’t know if she will give us the information that we need. If she agrees, we don’t know if it’s even what we’re looking for. If it is what we’re looking for, we still don’t know if it will be any more meaningful than it is now. And if—"

"Alright, alright," I snap. "Damn it, Sasha. I fucking get it. But do you have to be so negative about it?"

His palm slides around my back and he pulls me closer. "I’m not being negative, or at least, if I am, I’m sorry about that. I’m just trying to consider all the options. Because the truth is, angel, even if we get the information that we want—it might not amount to a hill of beans. If it’s money, it might have been spent, or hacked, or stolen."

"It might not be money," I point out. "It might be..."

He brushes his thumb across my lips. "Tell me what you’re hoping for."

I swallow. The fact is, I know exactly what I want, and I also know I’ll never get it.

I want something to make his death make sense to me. To make me feel avenged. To put an end to this bullshit once and for all. But it never will. It never could. Death isn’t something that makes any kind of sense, no matter who’s it is.

Sasha falls silent again and I know I should start talking, rather than risk giving him space to come up with more reasons why we shouldn’t go, but words just aren’t coming to my lips as easily as they usually do.

"Alright," Sasha says after a long pause. I raise my eyes to his. "Alright?"

"We’ll go."

"Sasha!" I throw myself at him, rolling on top of him before I remember the scars and his recovery, and try to scramble back off. "Oh, shit, sorry—"

"You stay right where you are," he tells me sternly, only tightening his grip. I grin into his face and run my fingers through his hair.

"You really mean it?"

"I really do."

"We’ll have to get you a haircut before you go. And new clothes.Definitely new clothes."

"Why not shop when we’re there?" He grins back at me. "Why not make a vacation of it? A second honeymoon?"

"Third,"

"Perhaps this could be our first pleasant honeymoon," he amends. "Our priority is Naples," Sasha says.

Of course, he would, with his bent for all that ancient philosophy bullshit. "We can go everywhere and do everything. As long as we see the lady as soon as we can."

Sasha smiles at my enthusiasm, but I can tell he still thinks this whole thing could be a waste of time. That’s okay.

I can be hopeful enough for both of us.