Mafia Ties Book 3: Sniper And His Captain

Rafael

“Maxwell Santos! The only man in this world I hate — no, I despise,” I murmur with my nose scrunched up in aggression, reading a file loaded with his personal information while lying on my bed mattress in my bedroom.

I get to my feet, toss the file onto the top of the drawer, and walk barefoot across the carpet to the light switch by the door, feeling the tension in my foot muscles stretch with every step, each one making soft, gritty noises.

The switch takes the heel of my palm as I slap the lights off, then I walk back toward the large curtain — heavy and slick — pulling it open just enough to let the moonlight spill into my bedroom through the window.

Once done, I toss my tensed and heavy body onto the bed with a soft groan slipping past my lips and roll to the other side.

"Ughh..."It’s going to be a hell of a fun working under that bastard...

I want to make him feel like he’s not that all-good, not that special, not that strict, since he likes bossing everyone around. I’ve heard.He’s not untouchable.

My eyes land on my naked body, bathed in the cold silver of the moon, as I remove my wristband.

_____________

I find Marcello making himself a smoothie, getting ready to visit the hangar.

Marcello’s studying to be a pilot, while I chose the military the moment I graduated high school — so I was barely around the house with him and our dads. But I know enough about him to know he loves his morning smoothies and that hangar, where Tori gives him flight practice on one of our dads’ jets.

“You’re awake! It’s good to see you back home, brother,” he says, sipping big from his smoothie. “We’ll hang when I get back.”

He brushes my head with his hand — thankfully, I’ve got my beanie on.

“It’s summer, Rafa. You’re wearing a beanie?”

“You know it’s my style. It’s never about the weather,” I mutter, voice rough and tired — because I am.

I just got back from the military base yesterday. I haven’t even seen my dads yet. I didn’t find anyone at home when I got in, and I crashed early.

“Where’s Dad and Papa?” I ask, grabbing a berry from the tiny bowl on the kitchen counter.

Papa always leaves different fruits out — his subtle way of forcing health into us.

“In the house. They got back late… later,” Marcello answers as he rushes out the door.

I was only allowed to come home once a year — from 19 to 25. I’m not 25 yet, but my birthday’s coming up in a month.

I curve around the counter to make myself something to eat. I’ve been missing Papa’s food like hell. In the military, they fed us half-ripe fruits and food so small it couldn’t even offend your hunger. I starved for a year before I adapted.

Becoming a soldier was always my dream. A protector — for the nation, for those I love. That’s always been me. So, dream achieved.

But becoming a sniper? That came later — two years ago — when I realized how damn good I was at it.

Papa taught us how to shoot. Uncle Carlo taught us how to use a knife.

I watched them wrestle more times than I can count, and now? I’m the best at both — wrestling, hand-to-hand, and being a deadly sniper.

What I didn’t expect was getting assigned to the Gotham Intelligence Agency.And under him.Maxwell.My enemy.

I reach for the cabinet — open it — just as I hear soft footsteps approaching.

“Son! You’re here,” says Dad — the man people say I look like.

“When did you arrive? Are you hungry?” Papa lights up the moment he sees me, already ready to feed me.

“Last night.”

These two never age. They dye the grey out of their beards and hair, but they still look fine — fresh, even.

I give Papa a hug, kiss his cheek. Dad just scans me while chewing a berry.“You got big.”

“Yeah, we trained a lot,” I reply, stepping away from the cabinet to make space for Papa.

“Where did they put you?” Dad asks, his black eyes — same as mine — locked on me.

I drop onto a stool beside him. “New York.”

Papa gasps — loud and expected. He loves having us in the house. We do too. But I’ve grown now.

“Under which agency?” Dad asks.

The bastard only cares about my work, not me. Can’t wait to have me out of the house so he can have his man all to himself.

They’re always glued together. Don’t know how they do it.

I can’t have anyone that close to me.

I can’t even keep a clingy friend, like the one in the military. I ended up avoiding him. I love my space. Need it. Cherish it.

I had two girlfriends in high school. First one? Gold digger — only interested in my dads’ wealth. Second one? Clingy, moody...Ugh. I couldn’t.

“Gotham Intelligence Agency,” I answer, eyes on him to watch his reaction.

I spot the visible bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Under who?” he croaks.

“Maxwell Santos.”

A hiccup nearly breaks out of him.

“Be careful… I know Maxwell. He’s a good man. But, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Most importantly, respect him as your boss,” Papa says, and Dad and I throw daggers at him with our eyes.

He shrugs. “I don’t care.”

Papa finishes making us breakfast — a feast. I devour it like I haven’t eaten since birth.

He doesn’t stop me anymore to tell me to eat slowly. He used to — but he’s used to my military hunger now.

Marcello’s the slow eater. Still is, I think. Takes forever in the bathroom too, just like Papa.

Marcello’s whiter than Papa, but got his eyes — dark, rich — and thick black hair. Can’t deny he’s handsome. Cute, even.

We were raised knowing who belonged to whom, thanks to DNA, but we’re one thing — brothers. Marcello is mine to protect. Papa is mine to respect, same as Dad.

Papa slides more food my way. I slow down for him.I match their pace.

“What are you doing today? Shopping? Do you have clothes that fit?” Papa asks, eating beside Dad — their shoulders brushing like magnets.

How do they do that?Be that close?I would die of suffocation.

“I want to visit the mansion,” I say, mouth full of egg and bacon. “I don’t have casual clothes. Nothing fits anymore.”

I’m in a white military tank, grey shorts, and slippers. All military hand-me-downs.

The mansion? It’s ours — mine and Marcello’s. I got the master bedroom — the one with two secret rooms we were never allowed into. Marcello got Papa’s old room, before his father — our grandfather — passed.

Shame we never met our grandparents. No blood uncles, aunts, or cousins either.

“I’m flying out tomorrow night. Need to be at work first thing Monday,” I say. “I’ll send you my sizes, Papa.”

“I’ll tell Tori to fly you,” Papa says.

“And don’t let Marcello operate it,” I add quickly. “I don’t want to die.”

Papa chuckles. “No, he’s not qualified yet.”

“We’re all gonna die someday,” Dad chimes in, kissing Papa on the lips. “Except me and my husband.”

That’s my cue to leave.

“I’ll be out in two hours,” I say, standing.

Still don’t get why they had to put me under him.Sure, I signed up for New York — but there are a lot of damn agencies in that city.

Maxwell

“Rafael Gotti! Why the hell was he assigned under my care? Why my agency? Why my country? Why not his damn country?”I furrow my brows, gritting my teeth as I scan his face in the file. He looks like a damn smug kid — a cocky prick with too many impressive credentials for someone his age.

I sigh. It’s late. I usually stay up into the early hours, but tonight, I overdid it. I should close this damn file and head home.

I skim through the file one last time. “Rafael Gotti. The most intelligent agent in his unit. Trained as a soldier for three years, then two more as a sniper. Holds five medals, multiple trophies and certificates for outstanding performance and dedication.”

A loud huff escapes my lips, echoing in the quiet of my office.“I have more than ten medals, trophies, and certificates. So what?” I murmur, slamming the file shut.This agency only accepts agents with more than five awards — it’s not that impressi