The Mafia Dons Pet (Masha and Luciano) novel Chapter 2

Luciano pov

I lifted my crystal tumbler of aged whiskey, performing the obligatory toast to family—a word that had long lost its warmth.

My father sat at the head of the table, moon-eyed over his new bride like a lovesick teenager.

My mother had been his queen, his anchor—until cancer stole her two years ago. Now this woman sat in her place, playing at being a mob wife.

But he was happy. Happier than I’d seen him since Mom’s death. And for that, I let it slide.

Beneath that thin veneer of calm, my mind still churned with tonight’s earlier business.

That Sicilian bastard who dared peddle heroin on my streets… he was lucky I didn’t skin him alive. His fingers now lay in a neat row on his wife’s doorstep.

I took another sip, savoring the burn like I’d savored his screams. Some problems demand subtlety. Others require a brutal reminder of who rules these streets.

My gaze slid to Masha. She sat stiff, turned deliberately away from me.

Still upset about our earlier… lesson.

I could still feel the soft curves of her body against mine, the recoil in her muscles when I’d pulled her close. She needed that lesson. She should count herself lucky it was only that. In my world, such disrespect could get you killed.

The whiskey swirled in my glass as I studied her profile.

Fifteen years my junior, yet she carried herself like she was ready for war. Admirable, if it weren’t so damned inconvenient.

I didn’t have time to deal with some rebellious child when real threats required my attention. The sooner I could pass her off in marriage, the better for everyone.

A smirk tugged at my lips, remembering her expression when I’d extended my hand. That flicker of revulsion—like I’d offered her something rotten.

Brave little thing. Foolish, but brave.

She had no idea what kind of monsters prowled my world—or what kind of monster I had to be. The disgust of a twenty-one-year-old girl meant nothing.

I drained my glass.

Let her cling to her illusions of moral superiority. Reality would strip them soon enough.

Emma’s voice cut through the chatter. “Will Glade come to the wedding?”

I nodded absently. “My cousin,” I added when Tiffney’s confusion flickered.

Glade would be there. His presence wasn’t a request—it was a requirement.

Masha rose from her seat, murmuring about the bathroom. She deliberately chose the long way around, avoiding my side of the table.

My eyes followed her—the sway of her hips, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way that black dress clung to her like sin.

She wasn’t like the polished socialites who usually surrounded me. There was something raw, untamed about her beauty.

My phone vibrated against the table, pulling me from thoughts I shouldn’t have. Antonio’s message lit the screen: The streets are quiet. They got the message.

A smile ghosted my lips. The Sicilian trash had learned their lesson in blood.

Few men had earned my absolute trust over the years, but Antonio had.

When Masha returned, I forced my gaze away. Watching her squirm would’ve been satisfying, but I couldn’t indulge.

Another text buzzed in: Wheels up in an hour for LA.

Right. The meeting.

Los Angeles, where we gathered like gods to carve up the world. Sean Collins would be there—cold as Irish steel, his knuckles tattooed with Celtic crosses, fresh from painting Dublin red.

Burak Yilmaz too, the blade-wielding butcher of Istanbul. Matteo Nostra would arrive late, cloaked in Roman arrogance. And Wassily Evanoff—the Moscow bear who treated oligarchs like chess pieces.

Together, we were the Priesthood. One meeting a year to maintain the balance. One rule: respect our territories, keep our families untouched. Beyond that, the world bled for our taking.

I checked my watch. Fifty minutes. Just enough time to remind Masha where she stood.

Emma’s voice tugged me back. “The bridesmaids will wear azure,” she announced, spreading swatches of blue fabric across the table. “Like the ocean at dawn.”

I pictured Masha in that shade. It would kiss her olive skin, make her defiant eyes burn brighter. But her lips curled ever so slightly downward, betraying her distaste.

“You disapprove?” My voice was soft, intimate—the same tone I used before ordering a man’s execution.

She tensed, trapped between honesty and whatever game she thought she was playing.

“I didn’t say anything,” she whispered, a tremor betraying the calm she tried to project.

“No,” I said, leaning closer, “but your face says plenty. I’m very good at reading people.”

She rolled her eyes. That tiny act of defiance sparked something sharp and hungry in me.

“Oh yes,” she muttered, “I’m sure you’re an expert at everything.”

“I am.” The words dropped like ice. “And right now, I’m reading someone looking for trouble.”

“You threaten me every chance you get,” she said, fingers tightening on the tablecloth.

I let my lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. “Threats are only needed when respect is missing. Remember our little lesson earlier?”

I turned my attention back to Emma with a charming smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her disapproving glance.

“…never see him again,” Masha muttered under her breath.

Poor, naive girl. She really thought this would end with our parents’ wedding. That she could slip away unnoticed once the vows were exchanged.

A low laugh escaped me—rich, dark, promising nothing good.

I stood slowly, adjusting my cuffs.

“I have a meeting to attend.” My gaze swept the table, landing on our parents. “Perhaps you can explain the post-wedding arrangements to Masha. To avoid any… misunderstandings.”

They nodded. I didn’t need to see her face to know confusion was already creeping in.

I almost wished I could stay to watch when the bomb dropped.