Page 9 of Steal My Heart

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bullets spray the back windshield, and I dive to the floorboard, pulling my gun from my ankle holster. The glass is bullet-resistant, but there are only so many direct hits it can withstand.

“Fuck this.” I partially roll down my window and hang out my gun, unloading the clip at the SUV behind us.

“Boss, what are you doing? Get the fuck down!” Maks punches the gas as we drive with half the vehicle on the sidewalk to maneuver around the car in front of us. Tires screech and a horn blares as Maks runs the light, us missing being sideswiped by mere inches. There’s a pileup at the intersection as we drive out of sight.

I’m already on the phone, my hands shaking with rage. “Lock down the apartment and get Al in the panic room now,” I order her bodyguard, hanging up.

Scrolling through my contacts, I call my cousin Nic. “How much cash do you have on hand?”

“Who is this?” He says in an exaggerated Italian accent.

“Nic, you pain in the ass, this is serious!”

“Sorry, boss. How much you need?”

“Fifty thousand.” If someone doesn’t want this meeting to happen, I’m going to make damn sure it happens.

“Yeah, I can scrape together that much.”

“Good. Deliver it to my lawyer, Bennett.” I give him the address. “I’ll pay you back?—”

“Plus a ten percent delivery fee.”

“I could kill you.”

“But then who’d be your banker and delivery boy?” he points out.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Plus a ten percent delivery fee. Get moving.” I end the call.

“Where to, boss? Safe house?” Maks asks.

I shake my head. “The big house.”

“You shouldn’t have dressed up for me.” Fabien joins me in the visitation room, escorted by a prison guard.

Still wearing my tux from last night, I need a shower and a few hours of sleep, but this is more important. Waiting until the guard moves to his position by the door, I turn to my brother. “You wanted my attention. You’ve got it.”

“No clue what you’re talking about. But hey, can you get me a bag of chips?” He jerks his head to the vending machine.

“So you didn’t send me a message last night?” I press, watching him like a hawk.

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Out of phone credit for the month. Can you add some cash to my account?”

“I could.” I smirk, but internally, my mind’s reeling. While I pride myself on reading people, I can’t tell if Fabien’s lying. Then again, if I were so damn good at reading people, the little pickpocket wouldn’t have absconded with 50k and my watch.

Not to mention my fucking pride.

He sneers at me. “You get off on this, don’t you, little brother?”

“Tell me, Fabien, what are your plans when you’re released next month?” I change the subject.

It’s his turn to smirk. “I expect to be welcomed back with open arms, like I never left.”

“Here’s the problem,” I say with mock sympathy. “You’ll be a convicted felon on parole, and you won’t be able to associate with other felons. All the family operations you previously oversaw now have a felon manager, as I’m a big believer in ending recidivism. Part of my philanthropic mission.” And I’ve worked too damn hard to clean up the Calvani name for my brother to fuck it all up when he’s released.

Fabien leans forward and whisper-hisses, “I expect my seat at the table, you pretentious little shit.”