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He clasped my shoulders, lowering his head, he gritted, “He. Is.”

A breath of relief swooshed through me, but his nearness was too overpowering. I had to back away.

He let go of me and crossed his arms, but he was waiting for me to do the talking.

“He was a typical jerk who didn’t take no for an answer.”

“He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“Agreed. But it happened. I took care of it.”

“You did.”

“Besides, Miller and Al were there.” I exhaled an annoyed sound. “I can’t believe they ratted me out after they promised they wouldn’t.”

Sandro uncrossed his arms and closed the distance between us. My back hit the dining table and he pressed his body against mine.

“One thing we need to get straight—you do not hide incidents like this from me. I will find out one way or another. Are we clear, baby?”

I huffed and lowered my head. He put his finger under my chin and forced me to look at him.

“Are we clear?” he repeated quietly, but the controlled feralness vibrating from his body came out loud and clear.

“You still haven’t told me how you found out.”

“I was there.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

With a heated look, he brushed my lower lip.

“I wasn’t in Atlantic City. I was on the third floor. I saw the entire thing.”

Oh my God. “But how did you get to the guy?—”

“Dom was with me. There was a basement in the club, and that’s where we took Zachary Hellman.”

Everything was overwhelming me. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted what Sera and Ivy had, didn’t I? The overprotective, unhinged husband who couldn’t bear to be away from me when I was having a girls’ night out. Give me all the red flags, and dear heaven, it was making me want to climb his body.

“And…how did you find out this information?”

“Trevor.”

I narrowed my eyes. “He played us. He knew all along what was happening.” But it was Trevor. He’d worked covert ops and mastered the poker face.

I crossed my arms. “So, what happened in there? You say he’s alive. Is he breathing through a tube now, or is his jaw broken?”

“I gave him a choice. One game of Russian roulette, I take his finger or another part of his body, or…my fists.”

Goose bumps dotted my skin with the matter-of-fact way Sandro delivered the statement. It was his job. He’d gone through this scenario so many times and frequently it didn’t end with his targets breathing. But I also recalled Sandro’s words from my captivity.

My bullets, my blades, and my fists are meant for everyone else. Never you.

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“He’s got a few bruised ribs, maybe broken, I don’t know.” His eyes gleamed. “He probably couldn’t see clearly from an eye. I broke the fingers on his left hand.”

“What if he goes to the cops?” I whispered. “Sandro, you can’t just beat up people this way. I took care of it.”