Page 29 of Sexted By a Stranger

Luca

The dim light of the Celestial cut through the haze, shadows twisting across the grimy floor. My eyes locked onto the figure shoved into the room, stumbling forward like a broken bird caught in a storm.

Sheila.

Her long, chestnut hair clung to her sweat-drenched forehead, matted against her swollen, bruised cheeks. A streak of blood stained the corner of her mouth, stark against her pale skin. My chest tightened, a raw, tearing pain threatening to rip me apart.

"Sheila…" Her name burned in my throat, but my voice wouldn't come.

Connor smirked, waving his goons back with a lazy flick of his hand.

He yanked Sheila into his grip, his left arm clamping around her neck like a vise.

His right hand pressed a heavy black pistol against her temple, forcing her head to tilt slightly.

She winced, her body trembling as he ground the barrel into her skin with malicious glee.

"Sheila," I whispered again, barely audible, my blood boiling. The cold, murderous rage surged, nearly drowning out every shred of reason.

"Boss." Ragnar's voice crackled through my earpiece, tense and urgent. "Sniper's in position, but Connor's got Miss Stella in a seventy percent overlap. It's too risky. Any move could hit her."

Lennox cut in, his voice tight. "Perimeter's clear, but Connor's got at least five or six guys still hiding out there. Positions unknown. Boss, stay cool. We need to wait."

I couldn't move. One wrong step, one twitch, and Connor's already frayed nerves might snap, taking Sheila with him. My grip tightened on my gun, forcing myself to stay grounded, to think.

"Connor," I said, my voice ice-cold, "let her go. This is your last chance."

"Chance?" Connor's laugh was a grating, unhinged cackle, like he'd heard the punchline of the century. "Luca Bellomo. Look who's got whose balls in a vice now."

He tightened his arm around Sheila's neck, making her gasp and tilt her head back in pain. Her body shook, but she didn't scream. My stellina—she didn't deserve this.

"How's my deal sound?" Connor's voice cracked with excitement, practically shrill. "Nod, and you get your precious stellina back. But…" He dragged out the word, savoring it. "I changed my mind. I want your territory and your life."

"You seem to forget who's beaten your ass before," I said, my voice low and venomous. "You Irish mutt who ran crying!"

His fat face turned purple, veins bulging. "What did you say?"

"Underground fight pit," I sneered. "Who was it crawling through the sewers like a rat?"

"Shut your fucking mouth." Spittle flew from his lips, some landing on Sheila's face. "The transfer papers. Sign them now, or I'll blow her pretty little head off right here."

My eyes flicked to the documents—Soprano's entire New York operation, handed over on a platter. Greedy bastard. He'd choke on it.

"Before I sign," I said, unmoving, "you might want to hear this."

I raised a small audio player, my thumb hitting play.

"…Listen, Oliver, swap out this shipment for Angelo with the junk from the bottom of the warehouse.

Lime, talc, whatever you can mix in. I want their turf a fucking graveyard in three days.

Then leak it to that idiot Malkovich—tell him Soprano's behind the bad batch. Let them tear each other apart."

"Connor, you sly son of a bitch! I'll make it clean. Angelo's done for, and Malkovich will want Luca's head on a spike…"

The rage on Connor's face drained to ash. He lunged for the device, his grip on Sheila loosening just a fraction. I twisted my wrist, keeping it out of reach.

"Enough." Connor snapped, jerking back to reality.

"You think this old dirt scares me?" he roared, his eyes wild. "You think this shit can touch me now?"

"Old dirt?" I mocked, my voice dripping with disdain.

"Connor, you know Angelo holds grudges like a religion.

Malkovich hates being played for a fool.

And the Direwolf Bratva, who you screwed over with that fake intel last time?

They nearly got wiped out." I paused, letting each name sink in, watching his pupils shrink with every word.

"If I send this recording—along with the fact that you're holed up in the Celestial, holding my woman hostage—what do you think they'll do to you?

Tear your little Irish hideout to the ground? String up your crew on streetlights?"

Connor's gun shook violently, his eyes darting between madness and terror. Then, with a snarl, he jammed the barrel harder into Sheila's temple.

"See this, sweetheart?" he spat at her. "To him, his turf and his family will always come first. He's still negotiating—how pathetic."

He turned to me, his eyes blazing with unhinged fury. "Fuck the territory. Fuck your evidence. I'm done playing. I'm gonna make you watch your little darling die right now."

"Boss." Ragnar's voice broke through, laced with panic. "I've got a thirty percent shot. It's too risky."

Thirty percent? I'd have better odds throwing myself at him.

Then I saw Sheila's eyes.

They locked onto mine, steady and fierce, the same stubborn fire I'd always known. My heart stopped.

"Connor," I said, my tone shifting, taunting. "I've always wondered—why do you hate me so much? Is it 'cause you're so damn ugly? Or 'cause I broke that leg of yours?"

He froze, caught off guard. "What?"

"Look at you," I scoffed, leaning forward slightly. "Big bad Frat boss, hiding behind a woman. You're nothing but a sewer rat with a gun. A lowlife piece of shit."

"Shut up!" he roared, his face twisting into a grotesque mask.

"Shoot her?" I pressed, relentless. "Then what? You gonna scurry back to your shithole hideout?"

"You—." His voice cracked, his arm loosening another inch around Sheila's neck.

"And your pathetic crew," I continued, my voice sharp as a blade. "Look at them, shaking like cowards. Following a loser like you? No wonder the Frat's going down with you today. Bunch of spineless nobodies."

"Shut up! I'll kill you, you fucking Italian bastard!"

Connor lost it, his eyes bloodshot, every ounce of his hatred zeroing in on me. His arm around Sheila's neck slackened, the gun barrel trembling as he leaned forward, no longer pressed against her temple.

In that split second, Sheila—my fierce, unbreakable stellina—moved. Her eyes blazed with a fire that could burn down the world. Her bound hands twitched, slipping free from the ropes, a glint of metal flashing from her sleeve.

With a feral cry, she drove her elbow into Connor's ribs, right below his chest.

"Ow!" Connor gasped, his hold on her collapsing. Sheila dropped low, dodging his desperate grab, and spun. Her right hand plunged a blade into his unprotected left side.

His scream was a guttural, broken howl, his massive body curling in on itself as blood poured from the wound.

"Bitch! I'll kill you!"

Bang. Bang.

Two shots rang out, my bullets tearing through Connor's knees with all the fury I'd held back. At the same moment, two of his goons dropped, Ragnar's sniper rounds finding their marks.

Connor's agonized wail echoed through the club as he collapsed, a writhing, pathetic heap on the cold floor.

"Clear the room!" I barked.

Gunfire and screams erupted around us as Sheila, drained from her strike, swayed and pitched forward.

"Sheila!"

I lunged, catching her just before she hit the ground, pulling her into my arms. Her body was cold, her face pale, the bruises and blood on her skin searing into me like a brand.

"It's okay, stellina. It's over," I said, my voice shaking, repeating the words like a prayer. I wanted to crush her against me, to shield her from every second of fear she'd endured.

"I'm here. I'm right here. Look at me, Sheila. Look at me."

"Lu-Luca." Her cracked lips moved, her voice a faint, kitten-like whimper.

"It's me," I said, nodding fiercely, my thumb gently brushing the blood from her mouth. "You did so good, Sheila. So damn good."

My voice broke, pride and fear tangling in my chest. She wasn't some fragile flower—she was a goddamn thorn, tearing through the dark.

"Hurts…" she whispered, her brows knitting together as she curled tighter in my arms, her hands clutching her stomach.

That small movement hit me like a freight train. A terrifying thought clawed at me—was she…?

"Sheila!" My voice cracked, panic flooding me as I stared at her hands pressed against her abdomen. "Where does it hurt? Tell me."

She didn't answer. Her long lashes fluttered, falling shut like broken wings. Her hand, still guarding her stomach, went limp, slipping to her side.

"Sheila—!"