Page 24 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

I stand under the icy spray, letting it thunder on my shoulders and back.

The water's so cold it stings, but it's still not enough to drown out the image of Hazel collapsing against that boutique wall, eyes wide with terror.

Three days have passed since that day. She avoids me like I am the one she needs to be protected from.

Fuck. I slam my palm against the marble tile.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to care this much. Three years ago I walked away after a one-night stand without a backward glance. I'd had women before her, after her. None of them mattered.

So why does she?

I turn the temperature colder, gritting my teeth as my skin tingles with an exquisite burn. The shower in my apartment is state-of-the-art—Italian, of course—with enough pressure to strip paint. Right now, I wish it could strip away whatever this is that's crawling under my skin.

Hazel Taylor. No—Hazel Montgomery.

A married woman. A woman running from her husband.

I scrub my hands over my face, water streaming through my fingers. It doesn't matter how much I want her. It doesn't matter that I can still taste her on my tongue three years later. It doesn't matter that seeing those bruises on her body made me want to commit murder.

She's off-limits.

I should be focused on security for the casino. On a hundred other things that actually matter to the family business.

Instead I'm standing here like some lovesick teenager, thinking about the way she looked at me across the dinner table. The way she gasped when I walked in on her changing. The way her skin felt under my fingers in that Austin hotel kitchen.

Madonna mia.

I reach for the soap.

I scrub harder, as if I could wash away the want. It doesn't work.

The rage comes next, building in my chest like a gathering storm. I'm angry at her for walking out without a word that morning. For showing up here of all places. For getting married to that piece of shit who put his hands on her.

But mostly, I'm furious with myself. For caring. For wanting. For not being able to shut it off. What the hell is THIS feeling anyway?

I slam the water off and grab a towel, roughly drying myself. In the mirror my reflection stares back—eyes dark with anger, jaw clenched tight. I look like a man on the edge.

I scrub the towel over my hair, leaving it damp and tousled then wrap the towel around my waist and step into the bedroom.

The phone vibrates against the nightstand—again. The screen lights up with Daniel's name for what must be the fifth time in ten minutes. I ignore it, pulling on a pair of black boxer briefs instead.

Focus on what matters. The family. The business.

Not Hazel Taylor with her honey-blonde hair and eyes that haunt me. Not the way she looked in that emerald dress or how she trembled under my touch when I tried to calm her.

The phone buzzes again. Daniel. Persistent bastard.

"What?" I snap, finally answering.

"Where the hell have you been?" Daniel's voice comes through tight and controlled. "I've been calling for fifteen minutes."

"Taking a shower. What's so urgent?"

"Montgomery's in New York."

The words go through me like a bullet. My body goes rigid, every muscle tensing at once.

The Ducati roars to life beneath me and I weave through midday traffic like it's standing still. My mind races faster than the bike. Elliott Montgomery is here. The man who put those bruises on Hazel's body. The man who terrorized her into flinching at shadows.

I park the bike in the circular driveway of the Feretti estate and take the front steps two at a time. The door opens before I reach it—Giovanni, one of our security guys, must have seen me coming on the cameras.

"Where's Damiano?" I ask, not breaking stride.

"Nursery with the donna and baby."

I take the stairs, my footsteps echoing against marble. The west wing is quiet except for the faint sound of a lullaby playing in Sofia's room. I knock once, then push the door open.

Damiano stands by the window, Sofia cradled against his chest. Zoe sits in a rocking chair nearby, looking tired but content. The scene is so peaceful it feels wrong to disturb it with what I'm bringing.

"Montgomery's in town," I say without preamble.

Damiano's expression doesn't change but his eyes sharpen. "When?"

"Two hours ago. Private jet to JFK."

"He's looking for Hazel," Zoe says. It's not a question.

"Where is she?" I ask, scanning the room as if she might materialize from behind the changing table.

"At an art gallery with Lucrezia," Zoe says, rising from the chair. "Some new exhibition in Chelsea that Lucrezia was raving about."

The words are a punch to the gut. "What? She's out?" My voice rises and Sofia stirs against Damiano's shoulder. He gives me a warning look and I force myself to lower the volume. "She shouldn't be out in public. Not with him in the city."

"Lucrezia insisted," Zoe explains. "Said Hazel needed society after being cooped up."

"And no one thought to tell me?" Heat rises in my chest, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I'm supposed to be handling her security."

"Your job is handling family business security, not babysitting houseguests," Damiano says, his voice quiet but firm as he pats Sofia's back. "I sent Fabio with them. He's perfectly capable."

"Fabio?" I spit the name like a curse. "He couldn't protect a ham sandwich."

"He's one of our best," Damiano counters, giving me a curious look. "Unless there's another reason you're so invested in Mrs. Montgomery's whereabouts?"

I drag a hand down my face. Fuck. This moment has been coming since I first saw Hazel step off that plane.

"There is something," I admit, my voice lower than before. "I know her."

Zoe's eyebrows lift. Damiano's expression remains unchanged but his focus sharpens.

"Knew her how?" he asks.

"Austin. Three years ago." The words feel like gravel in my throat. "The business trip. I met her at the hotel bar where she worked."

Understanding dawns in Damiano's eyes. "You slept with her."

It's not a question. He knows me too well.

"One night," I confirm, pacing now, unable to stand still.

"And now she's here," Zoe says softly, "married to a monster."

"Did you know she was married when you saw her at dinner?" Damiano asks.

"No. Not until later." My jaw clenches. "I thought maybe she was working an angle. That it was too much of a coincidence."

Damiano shifts Sofia to his other shoulder, his movements gentle despite the gravity of our conversation. "And now?"

"Now I've seen what that bastard did to her." The memory of those bruises makes my blood boil all over again. "Purple and yellow marks everywhere. Fingerprints on her arms."

Zoe inhales sharply, her hand moving protectively to her stomach where their second child grows.

"And this Montgomery," Damiano says, "he's here in New York looking for her."

"Yes." I stop pacing and face him directly. "I need to handle this."

"By handle, you mean...?" Damiano lets the question hang unfinished.

"Whatever's necessary." I meet his gaze without flinching. "He won't stop. Men like him never do."

Damiano's eyes darken with an emotion I recognize all too well.

He places Sofia gently in her crib, tucking a blanket around her tiny form. When he straightens his face has hardened into the expression his enemies fear.

"After what happened to Lucrezia," he says quietly, "I made a promise. No one touches our family. No one hurts the women under our protection."

Zoe moves to stand beside her husband, her hand on his arm. "Evelyn brought her to us for help. We don't turn our backs on that."

Damiano nods, his decision made. "Handle Montgomery. Whatever means necessary."

Relief floods through me, though I try not to show it. "I'll take care of it."

"No loose ends," Damiano adds. "Nothing that comes back to the family."

"Clean and quiet," I agree. "He won't be a problem after today."

I pull out my phone and call Fabio as I head back down the stairs. He answers on the third ring.

"Yeah, Matteo?"

"Where are you?" I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Chelsea. A new art gallery on 24th Street. The one with all the weird shit hanging from the ceiling."

I can picture it. One of those pretentious places where people pay millions for splattered paint and call it genius.

"Are they still with you? Both of them?" My boots slap marble as I stride through the foyer.

"Yeah, yeah. Lucrezia's talking to some artist guy with blue hair. Mrs. Montgomery's looking at paintings on the far wall."

My jaw clenches at the name. Mrs. Montgomery. Like she belongs to that piece of shit.

"Listen to me very carefully," I say, my voice dropping. "I need you to stick to them like glue. Don't let either of them out of your sight. Not even to piss. You understand me?"

"Got it."

"I'm on my way. Twenty minutes, tops."

"Should we leave? Head back to the mansion?" Fabio asks.

I consider it for a moment. Moving targets are harder to hit but the mansion is secure. "No. Stay put. Too exposed during transport. Keep them inside until I get there."

"Copy that."

"And Fabio?" I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. "If anything—and I mean anything—feels off, you call me immediately. Someone looks at them wrong, someone follows them around the gallery... anything."

"I got it. Nothing's gonna happen on my watch."

"It better not." The threat in my voice is clear. "I'll be there soon."

I hang up and head for my bike.

The Ducati roars to life beneath me, the vibration traveling up my spine. I weave through traffic with single-minded focus, cutting between cars and running yellow lights.

Elliott fucking Montgomery is a dead man walking.