Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
And God help me, I do.
Because when he holds me like this, so possessive, so sure, I know he could ruin me a thousand times over, and I’d still come back to him.
He touches my cheek, suddenly, more seriously, holding my gaze like he’s at war with himself over something. Then he says, “I’m not a good man, Aemelia. But with you, I want to be. I want to deserve you. But even if I never do, it won’t matter because I’m keeping you, whether I’ve earned you or not.”
And even though there are many reasons for me to fear his confession, I pull him down to kiss me, wanting to be kept.
30
LUCA
HIS LAST MISTAKE
The elevator hums softly as I descend into the basement, the smooth motion doing nothing to settle the rage simmering beneath my skin. Antonio stands beside me, his knife already twirling between his fingers with effortless precision. He doesn’t need to speak; I already know his thoughts. Whoever took that shot at us outside our own building made a grave mistake.
When the doors slide open, we emerge into the hallway and access the concealed entrance to the basement. As we make our descent the scent of damp concrete, sweat, and old blood fills my nostrils. At the bottom of the stairs, the room is dimly lit, a single bulb flickering above the uomo di merda shackled to the chair in the center. Vito and Andre flank him, their faces expressionless, the unwavering stance of men who have done this a hundred times before. The bastard’s head is slumped forward, his breathing heavy and uneven. A trickle of sweat drips down his temple, his torn shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin.
I step forward, slow and deliberate, the echo of my shoes against the concrete like the gunshots he was so happy to rain down upon us today.
“You were sloppy,” I say, my voice calm, almost conversational. “Taking a shot at us in broad daylight? Missing?” I shake my head in disappointment. “It’s almost insulting.”
The man lifts his head just enough to glare at me through swollen eyes. I don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t make him any less of a threat. Blood crusts along his temple, his split lip barely able to form a sneer. “Va' fan culo.”
Fuck me? Me? This piece of shit has more than a death wish. He’s begging for pain.
Antonio exhales sharply, a dark chuckle slipping from his lips. “You first.”
I crouch before the man, resting my arms on my knees, watching him with the patience of a priest before a sinner. “Tell me who sent you.”
Silence. His jaw tightens.
Vito shifts behind him, but I hold up a hand. “You know how this goes. You talk, maybe I let you walk out of here with most of your fingers. You don’t…” I glance at Antonio, whose grip tightens on the knife. “Well, let’s just say my brother is very creative.”
The man spits at my feet. “I’m not telling you shit.”
Antonio doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, grabbing the man’s hand, and drives the knife straight through his palm, pinning it to the wooden arm of the chair. A strangled scream rips from his throat, his body jerking against the restraints. His back arches, muscles straining against the unbearable agony.
“Not the answer we were looking for,” Antonio murmurs, twisting the blade just enough to make the bastard’s agony double. “But maybe this will help you think.” His voice is almost soothing like a father patiently scolding a disobedient child.
I stand, rolling my shoulders, tugging at my shirt cuffs, letting the moment stretch. The slow burn of anticipation coils in my gut. “Let’s try again.”
His breathing is ragged now, his forehead slick with sweat. He groans, eyes squeezing shut against the pain. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse rasp. “Enzo… It was Enzo.”
Antonio and I exchange a glance. My stomach tightens.
“Enzo Lambretti?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He nods, biting down on another pained cry. “He sent us to kill the girl… take you all out.” He sucks in a sharp breath.
Antonio growls, twisting the knife deeper. The man howls in agony, thrashing in the chair, his free hand curling into a useless fist.
I step back, exhaling slowly, letting the rage simmer just beneath my skin. “That’s all I needed.”
The man sags against the restraints, his body trembling. Relief flickers across his face for a fleeting second before he looks at Antonio's emotionless mask and realizes his mistake.
I turn on my heel, cold with the ease at which the coglione Enzo sent to kill Aemelia could have succeeded in ending her life, or ours, and pause. No one takes what is mine. When I speak, my voice is smooth and cold. “Finish him.”
Antonio nods, wicked and deadly, as he pulls another blade from his pocket. The last thing I hear as I step into the hallway is the sound of another scream, then silence.