Page 31

The club is a writhing mess of bodies slick with sex and seduction, grime and liquor thick in the air. This is no place for a lady. Good thing I can be whoever the hell I want to, depending on the occasion. I cut through grimly. My grey jacket is tight against my skin and my hair is pulled back in a no nonsense style, not exactly club style. I’m here on a mission, not here to play.
The atmosphere in the club reminds me of my utter lack of shame with Enzo. All my life, I've prided myself on control, only allowing its lapse that one night in the bar, and it had been because of Enzo, too. And now, history is repeating itself. He's succeeded at reducing me to a desperate whore. And I'm allowing it.
I shove the thought down, focusing on the job at hand. We get to the middle where the mass of bodies part to reveal a narrow pathway. I almost don't see it, because my eyes are still scanning the crowd for Milano. But then, I see it, and sure enough, it's Enzo, my dear husband. I suck in a breath.
There he is, sprawled in a velvet booth like he owns the damn place. I narrow my eyes. What the hell is he doing here? Does he somehow know I'll be here and has come to sabotage my plans. Even as I think it, I know it's highly unlikely. But he's here, and he's real. Does he frequent here?
He's dressed in his signature attire, black tailored suit. His jacket is open to reveal his shirt that fits snugly to his pecs. The bastard's hot and he knows it. Two women are draped over him, their hands on his chest and thighs. That's my job. He's mine.
One of the women is whispering in his ear and her lips brush his skin in a provocative manner. My stomach twists, a hot, bitter spike of jealousy stabbing through me. And rage, white-hot and consuming. The other woman is giggling, her fingers tugging his collar. I clench my fists. I hate it, hate how the sight of him with other women makes my chest tight.
He’smyhusband, goddammit. I could gouge his eyes out. I'd specifically told him I want no scandal. This is him cheating out in public. I'd warned him to keep his whores out of my face.
But he isn't exactly in my face right now, is he? He doesn't know I'm here.
Or maybe he does, and he's just doing it to punish me because he knows I'll react. I shouldn't feel the overwhelming jealousy that clogs my throat, making it close up. He’s not mine, not really. Seeing him like this, shouldn't elicit such a strong response from me.
Damn him.
Before he can see me, I turn away and force my eyes to hunt for Milano. I'll deal with Enzo in good time. I spot my target at the bar, his loud laugh grating over the music. Aida was right. The man is frivolous. Even standing far from him, I can see agold ring glinting as he downs a shot. He’s surrounded by three goons, all muscle and definitely no brains. I nod to Vito and Paulo, my voice low. “That’s him. Let’s move.”
They fall in behind me, and I stride forward, my boots heavy. My heart pounds and I grit my teeth, shoving the image of Enzo with his whores out of my shoving head. I need to focus on Milano. He's my target tonight. He doesn't know it yet, but I don't intend to go easy on him.
I reach the bar and plant myself directly in front of Milano, blocking his view. His eyes snap up at the rude intervention. His eyes freezes on my face and the smile on his face slips the moment he sees me. Recognition lights up in his bloodshot eyes. “Milano,” I say, loud enough to cut through the chatter surrounding him. “We need to talk.”
He looks me up, then down, as if sizing me up. I plant my feet apart, my gaze unwavering on his face. He looks past me to the men at my back, and his smile fades. He’s stocky, with a face like a pitbull. While I’m not fazed because I’ve faced worse and walked away standing, I realize how this must look to him—me apprehending him with two huge men flanking me.
“Fina,” he says, his voice oily and it grates on my nerves. He's aiming for charm. “Didn’t expect you here. Drink?” He lifts his glass in a slight offering to me, but I don't miss the way his eyes flick to his goons. The fucking retard knows he's fucked and is already trying to escape. Clever, except it isn't.
“Cut the shit,” I snap through gritted teeth. “You’ve been stealing from Domenico's accounts, spending it like it’s yours. You think we wouldn’t notice?” I'd opted to call Papa the general name he's known as and not personalize his title.
His face hardens, but he laughs out loud, like the sound is forced from his mouth. It raises my ire. It’s like nails raking on my nerves. “You’re wrong, sweetheart,” he says, leaning back, his goons shifting closer to tower over me. It's a stupid move at intimidation, and even he must know. Paulo and Vito move to intercept them, and the four of them eye each other warily. “Just business, you know how it goes.”
Where does he think he gets the nerve to use that endearment on me? Does he think I'm here to play games? The earlier he knows who's running this whole thing, the better. Lord knows I'm already on edge from seeing Enzo frolicking with women.
“Business?” Is he shitting me? My eyes cold on his fat face, I lean towards him and in a completely unexpected move, I grab his wrist and twist hard. Vito grabs his other arm so he can't swing at me. His glass crashes to the bar, the sound piercing through the electric atmosphere. His goons move in a bid to grab me, and Paulo blocks their attempts. He's bigger than them and it'll be easy for him to overpower them.
I continue, ignoring his shrieks. His face is red from the pain of me twisting his wrist. There's also shock in his eyes at my strong grip. “Stealing from the Rossis is a death sentence, Milano. If you don't know it, then you're as stupid as you look.
He mumbles something and before I can catch it, his goons lunge at me. It all happens in a flash. Vito and Marco dive in, tackling one of them each as fists fly in the air. Grunts and curses cut through the music, and already, it has some of the crowd's attention.
Before I can make a move, Milano yanks his arm free and swings at me, but my sharp reflexes kick in and I duck and step to the side. Before he can recover, I slam my fist into his gut. It gets him good. He staggers and doubles over, gasping. If he weren't a much bigger man, the punch to the gut would have him writhing on the floor.
I move towards him to grab his neck in a chokehold, but in that instant, he grabs a bottle from the bar and swings it at my head. I quickly dodge it and the glass shatters against the counter. “Cazzo,” I swear as I pull my right leg back forcefully. I kick his knee hard, and this time, he loses his balance. The kick sends him stumbling and falling. He hits the ground hard.
The crowd’s pulling back, some cheering and whistling, some bolting, but I don't take note of it. I'm locked in, my rage blinding me to everything else but the scene before me. Milano’s men are holding their own against Vito and Marco, but if their weak attacks are anything to go by, they'll soon tire.
I approach Milano who's gripping his affected knee and yelling expletives in Italian. He shifts back when he sees me approaching, his eyes reflecting the fear he must feel. They all underestimate me until my fist is doing the work, then it's fear.
Papa had done one thing right. Given the kind of family I'm from, and given that I'm a Don's daughter, I'll forever be vulnerable to threats and attacks. So, he'd made sure I learned martial arts. All those years I spent travelling between Europe and North America, I'd accumulated certificates at the different martial arts.
I never show my hand, until it's completely necessary, and this is one of those times. I loom over Milano—how the mighty has fallen. I'm about to launch another kick to his sternum to completely destabilize him. Whoever said you don't kick a man when he's down obviously hasn’t faced situations like this.
But before I can make my move, a shadow moves behind me. I whip around, my fists raised, ready to pounce on whoever it is. My fists are caught in a vise-like grip and my body zings as it recognizes the newcomer. Enzo. My eyes widen in surprise, and my mouth drops open. Obviously, this whole scenario had caught his attention. I didn't think it would.
His jaw is clenched as if he's trying, but failing to control his anger. There's no hint of a smile on his face, or even seduction. I snap my gaze from him to look around. I see complete strangers standing, gaping at the chaos we've wreaked.
Just then, Enzo releases his grip on me and before I can blink my surprise, he grabs Milano’s arm, twists it back so hard he's yelping. He'd risen to his feet with Enzo's intervention. Not breaking a sweat, Enzo slams him face-first into the bar and the sound of bones crunching fills the air accompanied by gasps from the crowd.