Page 8 of Tossed into the Mob (The Wolves of La Luna Noir #4)

EIGHT

brOCK

I couldn’t take my eyes off the man in the photo.

My fingers traced over his nose, the same one that belonged to me.

His eyes were similar to mine, but they had that ancient appearance like Dad’s killer, and I assumed they must be related.

My heart sped up with a loud pounding in my ears, and I scrunched my eyes closed, thinking perhaps my now-dead alpha father had wanted Dad dead.

Treyton put his arms around me, and the familiar prickling sensation of his skin on mine slowed my heart rate. "I don't know him. But this picture was taken years ago, when I still lived with my parents and Madd.” He told me his parents had moved away when he was a toddler.

My biological father and the Durands appeared to be close. There was no one not named Durand other than him. They were his real family, while Dad and I were a secret that went with him to his grave, until now.

“Your cousins didn’t tell me they were close with my father,” I spat out the accusation as if Treyton was responsible for his family. And he wasn’t, but I was angry my father had been living the good life while Dad brought me up alone.

Treyton responded to my harsh words by releasing me, and his shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands. “I’ll get hold of Flint and tell him you need the truth.” He left the room with the phone tucked under his ear.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the photo. “I need answers, Father. Help me understand the silence around you, your work with La Luna Noir, and your death.” But there was another question. Why did he ignore me and Dad?

“Flint says he’ll be here this afternoon.”

I longed to be at peace with that, to sit with Treyton, drinking coffee and listening to stories of his childhood while waiting for the mafia don—is that what they were called?

—to solve my problems and put the world to right.

Except the world was shit and Dad was dead and no one could put my life back together.

But Dad had told me to find my father, and though neither man still had a beating heart, I needed information as to why Dad had been murdered and I was next on the kill list.

“We have to find out more about my father.” I spoke with a clear purpose, but inside, I was a wobbly blob of jello. “Where he lived and what his job entailed. Perhaps that will help us understand why someone wants me dead."

I strode over to Treyton. When we first met, I had the upper hand with my gun, unsteady hand and all. But he took over, looking after me and keeping me safe. Now he was downcast with sad puppy-dog eyes, as if I’d snatched away his bone. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t alienate him.

Taking his right hand in my left and enjoying the heat pulsing into my body, I said, “I don’t want to pit you against your family. They’re your forever, and I’m—”

“Like Grandpa said, you’re family now too.” Bright spots of pink dotted his cheeks, making him look younger than he was. Someone in the future would squeeze and kiss them. Perhaps lick them. They’d be lucky to have him.

Despite my heartache, knowing that someone cared gave me confidence that one day the clouds would part and I’d see the sun and rediscover the good things in life.

Treyton was quiet for a moment, saying Flint would tell us about my father’s work, but some of his belongings might have been stored at La Luna Noir headquarters.

“A man who worked for Ranger died, and my cousin didn’t want some of his stuff getting into the wrong hands.”

I wondered why they didn’t destroy them.

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

He put a finger to his lips, and my skin tingled with excitement. Again I was on the periphery of a mafia adventure, and I was pumped. It shouldn’t be like this, but my father’s blood ran in my veins. I’d figure out the downside of that at the end of this crazed ride.

I hovered around Treyton, circling him as if he was the center of my world, desperate for his soothing touch but not wanting to interrupt him.

He put the phone on speaker and called someone at La Luna Noir headquarters, spinning a story about his grandfather being sentimental about old pack members and wanting mementos.

The conversation was brief, and the guy on the other end mentioned a storage unit where they kept items of significance belonging to former members.

“I should check with Ranger or Hunter before I give you the code.”

“But I want it to be a surprise for Grandpa and my cousins. Please can you do this for me? Just this once. Grandpa isn’t getting any younger, and he doesn’t have much joy in his life.”

Wow. I understood why he was good with laboring omegas. He had the guy on the other end convinced he was thinking only of his beloved grandfather.

"Got it.” Treyton tapped a map on his phone “It’s an address in an industrial park belonging to the pa… the family… ummm, La Luna Noir.”

I side-eyed him stumbling over his words, but he wasn’t as used to mafia subterfuge as his cousins.

“Excellent detective work.”

He bowed. “I fibbed and will get a kick up the ass from Ranger, but it feels good to accomplish something.”

“How do we sneak out?”

He blinked. “What? No, we can’t.”

“Treyton, you’re part of a mafia organization. Have you never broken the rules?”

“Not really.” He stroked the back of my hand, and the tension in my belly eased. “You forget one thing, or maybe four things. The bodyguards. They’re not going to let us wander around the city, and if I know my cousin, he’ll have told them not to allow us to leave.”

I peered out the window. “It’s too high to tie sheets together and shimmy down the side.”

Treyton snorted. “I have a vision of you holding onto those sheets with your good hand and swaying in the wind while you pedal your legs in the air.”

It was ridiculous, and I laughed along with him. “Why would I be pedaling?”

“I don’t know. Visions don’t always make sense.”

Using my uninjured arm, I pulled him onto the sofa, lifted my legs, and began pedaling. He joined in, and the room was filled with friendship and laughter.

“Have you forgotten there’s a man wanting to kill you?”

“Nope.” I popped the P, putting an obvious period at the end of the word. I’d been so desperate for mafia protection, and now I was suggesting we escape it. But Flint’s response last night, or lack of it, gave me the courage to seek some of the answers myself.

“Your painkillers. I left them in the car.”

“You didn’t.” I pulled the bottle out of my pocket.

He told me to play along, and adrenaline flooded my veins. We were doing something we shouldn’t, and I was oh so ready for it.

He phoned the guard, even though he was just outside the door, and explained we’d forgotten the pills. He radioed through to the guys in the basement, but they said they couldn’t find anything.

Treyton opened the door and huffed about doing it himself as he sported a world-weary expression, but the guard refused and spoke into his walkie-talkie. He told Treyton to get inside and he’d be right back.

I grabbed my pack, and we slipped out of the apartment and headed for the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall. I thanked Flint for one thing and that was for the doctor who gave me the painkillers. And now we were taking control instead of hiding and waiting.

"There's a service exit on the second floor,” Treyton pointed out. We hurried down the stairs, and I was glad we were only on the fourth floor. “It leads to an alley behind the building. We can catch a cab from there."

“We’re really doing this. Running away from the mafia.” Too late I worried about the consequences for Treyton. Gods, would Flint execute him? “Wait, should we go back? What will Flint do to you for disobeying?”

“There’ll be blood. Not a lot, but some.”

Shit, that sounded painful, and it’d be my fault, but Treyton shrugged and led me toward the street with his pack slung over one shoulder.

“The gun.” I couldn’t recall where it was.

“In my pack.”

Maybe I needed to take a course in mafia methods, because I’d forgotten about it.

During the cab ride, I studied people on the street as they went about their lives and wondered how my world had become so complicated.

"You okay?" Treyton asked quietly.

“Trying to process everything, but I don’t know what everything is.”

The cab pulled up at a sprawling complex of buildings surrounded by a high fence. The facility was empty, suggesting it wasn’t open to the public, and I shivered. If I was murdered here, no one would ever find me.

We made our way through the maze of narrow corridors, and he held my hand, anchoring me to this life, until we found the right unit.

"Here we go," Treyton said, punching in the code. The metal door rolled up with a screech, and I took it as a warning of what I’d find.

The unit was filled with cardboard boxes, but everything was labeled with names and dates. Thank goodness for mafia efficiency.

"There," I said, pointing to a stack of boxes in the back corner. The name Santoro was written in black marker across each one, and I told Treyton that was my middle name. Brock Santoro Lucchesi.

“I’ve heard that name, Santoro, before but can’t recall where, but it’s a common enough name.”

I ignored Treyton’s ramblings as I opened the first box.

Inside were suits and dress shoes. The second one contained CDs and books.

We yanked open boxes until we came to personal items. Photo albums, letters, and a few pieces of jewelry.

I pulled out one of the albums and flipped it open.

All the photos were of my father with the Durands.

But at the back of the album, tucked into the lining, was another photo, crinkled either with age or from handling.

A photo of a man holding a baby who was wearing a blue onesie. He was looking at the little one with adoration. The man was my father, and the baby was me. On the back was my name and the date of the photo.

"Look. This was taken when I was a few days old."

Treyton leaned over my shoulder to look at the picture, and brushed against me, making me feel less alone. "He looks happy."

The letters were from my father to me, but never sent. He’d signed them with a squiggle so I still didn’t know his given name. I shoved them in my pack along with the photo.

“So, why did he abandon us?”

Before Treyton could answer, footsteps echoed on the concrete outside.

“Shit,” he muttered, zeroing in on them at the same time. He moved to the entrance of the unit. “We need to go.”

But it was too late. A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright fluorescent light. I’d seen him twice before, and like the second time, he was aiming a gun at me.

Treyton pushed me behind him, and I scrambled backward, almost falling over a metal chest.

“Brock Santoro or is it Lucchesi?” The man’s voice echoed around the storage unit. “Your father destroyed lives. His legacy ends with you. But before I put a bullet in your brain, you should know who killed your father.”

Killed? He was killed like my dad?

“Put the gun down.” Treyton pulled out my gun, and the man swiveled to face him. “Don’t make me shoot you, little boy, though you are dispensable to the organization, so no one will mourn you.”

Oh gods, there was nowhere to run. Treyton may be a Durand and technically mafia, but had he ever shot anyone? I looked around for something heavy to pitch at the guy.

“What do you want? Brock has nothing to do with his father.”

The guy adjusted his aim, and his jacket pulled up enough to reveal his wolf tattoo.

Treyton gasped. “You’re one of us. Flint will claw your eyes out.”

“Not if I get rid of the evidence.” He glanced at me. “Your father caused this mess. He wasn’t supposed to have a gun. Now I have to clean it up.”

Treyton fired off a shot that hit the guy’s shoulder before leaping into the air. He was Treyton when he jumped, but when he landed on the gunman, he wasn’t. He was… I slumped onto the floor. My destiny was to be shot a second time and die or be mauled by a… wolf.

I must have taken one too many painkillers, but I made the mistake of looking up.

There were not one wolf but two, and they were snarling as they dug their canines into the other.

Blood spurted, and I crawled over the floor, between boxes, destroyed clothing, and two guns.

The one dad had used to defend himself was closest to me.

But what did I do? Treyton and the killer had vanished and two wild beasts were fighting, maybe to the death.

Did I shoot? But which one? Was there a good wolf and a bad one?

I picked up the weapon, and just like when I aimed it at Treyton outside the hospital, my hands shook. I didn’t know if I could fire it.

“I’m going to shoot.” I aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The wolves fell apart, but one stared at me with eyes I’d seen before. They were the ones that had cast their gaze over me before putting a bullet in my arm.

Hoping there was another bullet in the chamber, I fired right into what I hoped was his heart.