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)
“We’re taking you somewhere safe. Come with me.”
She tightens her grip on her sister. “Why should I trust you? Where is my daughter?”
I crouch beside her, meeting her eyes. “Because my brother warned you that Enzo sent men to kill you. If we wanted you dead, you wouldn’t still be breathing.”
Her thin lips part as a shuddering breath escapes. She glances at her son, then at her sister, before nodding. “Okay.”
“Good. Let’s move.”
I help her stand, my hand firm but careful on her arm. Leo lifts the sickly woman, carrying her as gently as possible, while Nico steers Aemelia’s brother toward the waiting vehicles. He stumbles but keeps moving. His weakness disgusts me.
As we make our way back to the SUV, Carmella grips my wrist. “Aemelia?”
“She’s safe,” I assure her. “She’s the reason we’re here.”
That seems to ease some of the tension in her shoulders, but she doesn’t speak again.
We urge them into the vehicle, and I’m just about to slide in next to Carmella when a white van creeps to a stop across the street. Its engine ticks once, twice, then goes still. The windows are tinted, making it impossible to see who’s inside, but every hair on my body stands on end. A low, instinctual prickle of awareness scrapes down my spine.
Vito and Andre pull up at the curb, ready to follow us back to the penthouse. Vito’s half leaning out the window. “You okay, boss?”
“The van,” I hiss, voice low and sharp. The air thickens, heavy with the promise of violence.
He glances over, his eyes narrowing into slits. Then they widen. His hand is already slipping inside his jacket, fingers curling around the grip of his Glock.
“It’s him,” he hisses, his voice dripping with venom.
My grip tightens around the handle of my gun. “You’re sure. The one who bought the roses?”
Vito’s already sliding out of the vehicle, his knuckles white on the weapon, the fury in his eyes cold and raw. “That fucking cock-sucking piece of shit.”
“Keep talking,” I growl, pulling out my phone.
Without missing a beat, Vito straightens, squaring his shoulders, and launches into a bullshit story about how his wife wants him to take her on vacation to Florida and how she’s picked a five-star hotel that’s going to bleed him dry. His tone is casual, almost bored, his free hand gesticulating, but his other hand stays steady on the gun.
While he talks, I dial Matteo. The moment he picks up, I cut straight to the point.
“The white van. Box it in.”
I hang up and slam my hand against the side of the vehicle carrying Aemelia’s family.
“Drive. Up two blocks.”
Nico doesn’t hesitate. The car peels away from the curb, separating them from the imminent storm.
Engines roar as Matteo and Sandro’s SUVs screech onto the street. Tires scream against the pavement as they block the van in from both ends, cutting off any escape.
Before the van’s engine can so much as sputter, my men swarm it, yanking open the doors and dragging the lone hooded man out.
I move fast, crossing the street in long, furious strides, flanked by Vito and Andre, guns drawn. The pavement thuds beneath my feet, but it’s my pulse that thunders louder.
Matteo slams the man face-down onto the asphalt, planting a knee between his shoulder blades. The man lets out a wheezing grunt, his cheek scraping against the rough concrete. Matteo’s Glock presses into his skull, waiting for my command.
“Is it him?” I ask Vito, my voice a low growl.
Vito spits on the ground. His eyes are dark with certainty. “Yes.”
Matteo’s face is a mask of ice, unreadable as he pats the man down. He yanks a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, rifles through it, and shoves the ID into my hand.
Maryland license. Cohen Barker.
My breath stills for half a beat.
It’s him.
Aemelia’s stalker. The man who sent her roses and terror. The man who tried to make her feel small, afraid. The man who made her tremble in my brother’s arms.
Rage floods my veins, thick and sharp, and before I can think, I drive the toe of my boot into his gut.
He gags and curls in on himself, coughing and sputtering.
“I’m a florist,” he whimpers, voice reedy with panic. “I just deliver flowers.”
Matteo smashes his face into the asphalt again and presses the gun harder against his temple.
“Shut the fuck up.”
I crouch down, close enough that he can smell the blood already on my hands.
“You threatened someone I love,” I say, my voice low, lethal. “You made her live in fear for her life.”
I lean in until my lips almost brush his ear.
“What kind of man does that to a sweet, innocent girl?”
He whimpers something unintelligible, but Matteo cracks him across the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Cohen fucking Barker goes slack, blinking dazedly.
“Now, you piece of shit,” I say, flicking open my thin-bladed knife with a sinister click. I let him see it—the razor edge of the blade gleaming in the streetlights. “I’m going to take yours.”