Page 16 of The Mafia Assassin’s Redemption (Mafia Obsession #2)

A sleek black car waits outside the church, and for a moment, a terrible flashback of Bernardo and the alleyway assaults my mind. But I shove it into the dark corners, burying it, pretending I’m not shaken as Torin opens the back door and waves me inside.

I slide onto the cool leather, the air scented with citrus and rosemary. It’s oddly clean and fresh and soothing when it really should smell like sin and darkness.

“Mikey, this is Hazel, my wife. You’ll be her personal driver for the next few weeks, if you can spare the time.”

“My time is yours, Mr. Murphy.”

Torin sits back and pulls his buzzing phone from his pocket. “Don’t try my patience. It has an end, Harry, and you don’t want to reach that point.”

He raises the phone to his ear and listens for a minute. “Yeah, okay. Yes, tell him I’ve got a gun. Yes, I’ll be home soon. Five fucking minutes, Dec.”

He hangs up but the word I’m clinging to is gun.

If I can get that… soon… then I have a better chance of making it if I run. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to abandon the network. But I don’t want to be in this situation, either. I could shoot him again. I could do anything.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It’s not going to work. You need me to get through this. You need to stay home and stay safe. Got it?” he says, like he can read my mind.

“Got it.”

Asshole.

Last night was a repeat of the night before. I was stuck in the bedroom alone, refusing the dinner left outside. And damn, that was hard because the takeout smelled like Giorgio’s Pasta Joint, a beloved staple in Little Italy, and I was starving.

The only time I saw Torin was when he came back from whatever he went to do.

And his face…

It scared me.

I was ten again. Seeing him for the first time through the flames and smoke.

That exact dead expression. Steel and stone. A demon rising from hell.

He’s gone today, too. I venture out of the room at some point to explore the brownstone a little, picking up the mug of black coffee left outside the door. Though it’s still warm, the place is quiet and no one seems to be home.

That’s not completely true. The family’s out, but there are creatures here.

The dog and cat, who follow me around, and a big burly man at the door.

Shit. He’s got a guard?

Fucker.

The place, I come to quickly realize, is huge. It’s got a locked basement. There’s a back courtyard beyond the kitchen, but it’s part of the private one that leads out of his room. I didn’t even try the door there or here in the kitchen. Both are alarmed and I don’t want to set them off.

So I wander the floors and drift back downstairs, trying different doors as I go.

When one opens, I step into an office. It smells like smoke, whiskey, and a touch of roses. There’s a vase on a podium with red roses, gorgeous, expensive ones that are in need of an arrangement. My fingers itch for activity.

I start opening the drawers, and then a low whistle slips through my lips.

A Glock with a full magazine.

I slide it into the pocket of my oversize dress and then drift back to the flowers.

They’d be prettier with some greens, creams, a touch of pink. But…

This is a man’s office. It smells like a man, and the roses are fresh. Did he buy them, whichever brother’s office this is? If so, he probably didn’t get them for himself.

Then I see a picture, the red-gold hair, the smiling face of the woman at my horrifying wedding.

Oh God. It’s Callahan’s office, and these must be for?—

“Hi. I’m Lucie.”

I spin.

She’s definitely mafia. She’s got the mafia-born princess aura around her. It’s an air they can’t eradicate.

But her frank curiosity as she stares at me, along with her bright, welcoming smile is like nothing I’ve met before. And I’ve met plenty of mafia women.

She glances past me and nods at the roses. “What does the card say?”

For a moment I don’t move, and the German shepherd trots up to her, rubbing against her leg. The black cat follows and plops on the floor at her feet, exposing his belly. I assume for her to admire. I don’t really know animals.

I never had them.

But her eager air infects, and I fumble around until I find the white card. I stare at the words. “Um…”

“Give me that.” She steps over the cat and takes the card, before dropping a moment to scratch that belly. Then she laughs. “Joy.” She turns it. “Love, Frank.”

“I guess he got them this morning.” Lucie crosses back over and buries her nose in them. “Divine. God, Callahan, what am I going to do with you?”

I start to edge out of the room. I need to go. I don’t need to witness some weird love thing with a killer and his bride. I’ve got my own killer to contend with.

But Lucie is sharp, and she shoots me a look. “It’s not that bad, you know.”

“Being married to?—”

“Torin’s a good guy. They all are, and they’ll protect you.”

Until they get whatever they’re after from me.

I just smile and nod. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Hey, Hazel?” she asks as I reach the door. “I’m volunteering for a couple of hours, if you want to come. It’s uptown, and we can get cake and coffee afterward.”

Uptown. Something sparks in my head. Old friends of Mom’s—the Toscano family— live there. I know because I look them up regularly to keep tabs. I catch glimpses of their whereabouts on social media.

I know what each of them look like. The father, the wife, the girls.

The eldest girl, Sutton, was my friend when we were little. She has a baby sister, Londyn, who is a teen now. They don’t know I’m alive as I’ve never been desperate enough to reach out, but…

Maybe the mom will help me.

Maybe there’s another underground escape I can take.

Because one vivid memory I have of Mom is when we were in that house in Ireland and Dad was on the phone talking about being out, new names, passports. Those things I remember. But only as background to Mom’s words.

She took me aside and said if anything happens to call a number and ask for Isabella. And then she said one more thing.

“You can trust her. And back in New York, you can turn to Olivia… Sutton’s mom. Just her. If you’re in trouble, she can help.”

The memory pulps and disintegrates like waterlogged paper, but that part is clear as day.

Shit, it’s worth a try. Anything is.

The more I think, the more running seems, at least for a while, smart. I can still help with the network, just somewhere else in the chain. I can get away from New York. Away from Salvatore and his hit and… away from the man they made me marry.

Who scares the hell out of me.

I know I said I wouldn’t run, but… maybe I need to.

“I’d love that,” I say.

Now all I have to do is get away from Lucie.

A while later at the animal shelter, I realize getting away from her is easier than I thought.

All I do is tell her I need the restroom.

Guilt streaks through me at the thought because Lucie is so damn nice, it’s unbelievable.

But she’s also so knee-deep in dogs and cats that I doubt she’ll notice me gone for at least an hour.

I dart out the door and hustle down side streets, skirting our private car. When I make my way to West Seventy-Seventh and Amsterdam Avenue, my mistake smacks me in the face.

The Toscanos are rich, like socialite New York rich, but they live in an apartment complex. A triplex, I think. With a doorman.

Should I go up there? I hover at the corner when my breath stilts at the sight of a man I recognize. He saunters out of the Toscano’s building with a familiar-looking girl.

And girl is definitely the right word. She’s no more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in leather pants and a halter, showing off her pierced belly button.

She also has on a tiny, short coat.

Dear Lord, she must be freezing.

But I know her.

It’s Londyn.

My blood ices in my veins and I tremble, pulling my coat tighter around me.

But I also can’t pull myself away. I follow at a distance as they head down to Central Park.

I’m so caught up in following them, moving from pretzel cart to hot dog cart, my chest tight and head throbbing, that I don’t notice anything else.

She looks like Sutton. Like their mom. And she’s so young.

I want to throw up when he takes her hand. They enter the park and head down one of the winding paths, the wind scattering leaves from the trees. I keep moving until it’s only joggers who pass us by.

Then they sit on a park bench. In fucking broad daylight. He’s older than her. Disgustingly so. Sure, he’s handsome, but fuck that. She’s a child. He leans in, kissing her.

Bile rises in my throat.

That’s when I feel something hard against my side.

The gun in my pocket.

I slowly pull it out of my dress pocket and stare at it.

This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought of doing.

But I want to shoot him.

Too many girls are trapped this way, mafia born or adjacent, and then they’re kept, used, groomed by a man—or several men. And I have to smuggle them away to give them their freedom back.

How much easier would it be to kill him now and fix her life and mine.

I look at the gun, then at him, and finally, back at the gun. I’m not too close, but I could do it from here.

My fingers grip the handle tight, my hand inching upward. Then something hits me hard from behind, and the scream knots in my throat when I’m tackled down to the cold concrete.