Page 104 of Mercenary

But Kylie would bide her time, patiently wait until the bully’s guard is down. Then she’d strike. Just like she’d done with my three tormentors on the school playground oh-so many years ago.

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling like the air-conditioning has been replaced by the Ferrari’s heating system.

I catch his nod but ignore him.

We pass three more pair of armed guards, the last waving us through a thick wooden gate. Fortress is right. Hayden takes the horseshoe-curved driveway far too fast for comfort, then pulls to a screeching stop, sending pebbles flying. Could there have been a bolder announcement of our arrival? In a scratched-up red Ferrari, no less.

“Declan?” I ask, searching around for him.

“You won’t find him.”

But is he here? Somewhere nearby? Close enough to . . . protect me.

I grimace. Protect? Or use?

Hayden squeezes my arm. “If you call me anything other than Lorenzo, I’ll shoot you in the head.”

I jerk away, scramble out of the car, and hurry to follow his long strides up the marble stairway.

We’re led into a room full of about a dozen men. All wearing dark expensive suits, though not quite filling them out as nicely as the bastard beside me. “Lorenzo” doesn’t remove his shades. He doesn’t need to: they recognize him anyway. A few men jump to their feet and approach to shake his hand.

“Signor DiCapitano’s not present?” he asks in that far-too-casual way of his.

“He’s . . . tied up,” the largest man in the room replies, then snorts. He’s easily six feet five.

Laughter fills the room, and I swallow hard. Whatever’s going on isn’t good.

It doesn’t take us long to find out. A man stalks into the living room and I have to clasp my hand over my mouth so as not to gasp.

He’s in a tailored black suit like the rest of the men. Except the suit jacket’s gone, his crisp slacks are torn from his pant pocket down to his knee, and his starched white-collared dress shirt is ripped apart, missing a few buttons, and soaked with rich patches of . . . blood?

My eyes lift to his face.

Holy hell. Has he just lost some kind of boxing match? Both his eyes are swollen and bruised, one with a cut that is slowly dripping blood onto the Persian carpet.

“Signor,” Hayden—no, “Lorenzo”—greets him with an unintentionally hard thump on the back—unintentional, my ass. “You’re looking well.”

The Shelby mob boss winces. “Cogliona,” Franco DiCapitano grinds out, touching the bruise on his cheek. He turns to one of the men. “Get me a drink.”

The man does his biding, bringing him a scotch. Not offering us a drink? Or even cleaning up from whatever street fight he’s just come from before greeting us. A lowlife, tried and true.

“A real bitch, huh?” “Lorenzo” says.

I frown.

“She must have you quite upset?”

I freeze. She? Oh, no. No. It can’t be.

Blood drips from Franco’s nostril and into his drink. He tosses it back anyway. A broken nose . . . care of Kylie . . .?

“Why are you here, Lorenzo?”

“I’m here to make amends.”

“Amends.” Franco spits on the carpet then turns his full attention toward “Lorenzo.” “Novák not keeping you busy enough running his social-media campaign?”

“It’s tedious work.”