Page 4

Chapter 4

DANTE

There’s a distinct feeling that comes with being watched. Not just looked at but watched , followed, stalked. It’s that animal instinct that raises the hairs on the back of your neck and puts all of your senses on edge as you wait to spot the telltale flicker of a lion hiding in the underbrush or a crocodile disguising itself as a log to get close enough to drag you into the water and drown you. I rub the back of my neck and glance over my shoulder for the third time since leaving my apartment this morning.

Nothing looks out of the ordinary though. No mysterious cars driving too slowly behind me, no hint of anyone trying hard to blend into the crowd, nothing. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not there, just that they’re better at hiding in plain sight than I am at picking out someone suspicious. I curl my hands into fists and scan the bustling street one more time. My knuckles still ache days after the incident in the alley, but the slight twinge is a comfort, a reminder of what I’m capable of when someone thinks they can turn me into a victim. Maybe I am being paranoid this morning. Not that I don’t have reason to be, but he’s not supposed to be released for nearly a month still, so there’s no reason to waste my energy snapping at shadows in the meantime. I’m still not convinced that letter was anything more than his way of trying to gain the upper hand, with no real intent behind it other than to take some joy in scaring me when I can’t do a damn thing about it.

And if anyone is following me, it’s not like they’re going to attack me in broad daylight in the shopping district. I shake the tension out of my shoulders and step inside my favorite store, Ricco’s. I’m dressed perfectly respectably in a pair of black slacks and a plum blouse, but I get a few lingering looks anyway as the doors swing closed behind me, cutting off the hum of street noise and replacing it with soft piano music. Maybe it’s my few visible tattoos, or that the shirt I’m wearing was displayed on a female mannequin when I bought it and that’s somehow supposed to dictate who’s allowed to wear it. Small people putting themselves into even smaller boxes are not my problem though.

I ignore the glances and start to browse, gravitating towards a gorgeous white lace top with intricate pearl beading that I’m sure is out of my price range even without looking at the tag. I pick it up and hold it up to myself, imagining the way it would drape over my skin and make me look like a goddess in an oil painting. I flip the tag over and sigh. Maybe I’ll save up for a few weeks and buy it for myself as a birthday present.

It might be my last one, after all .

I immediately shake off the thought. He doesn’t have the balls. And if he does, I’ll happily separate them from his body and then show him what happens to people who fuck with me. Ideally, without landing my pretty ass back in prison. That’s the part I’m still working out. How to defend myself without ruining my own life. Strangers are one thing—there’s nothing tying me to any of them, even if they’re stupid enough to go to the police to complain about being attacked by someone they were attempting to victimize. But I’ve already seen how this one plays out. I did my time behind bars for it, and I’d rather not gamble my life on a murder charge if I can help it, even in self-defense.

“Hey, Dante.”

I nearly startle straight out of my skin, my heart leaping in my chest as I jump a foot in the air and spin around to face whoever managed to sneak up on me, my hands raised defensively. The fighting stance earns me a few more odd looks from the WASP-y customers who were already sure I didn’t belong in here and are now probably seconds from digging their phones out of their Gucci bags to call the police. I barely notice though, my attention focused on the grinning man behind me. He’s no taller than I am, but that’s where the similarity in our appearance ends. He’s pretty in a rugged kind of way, blond hair hanging messily over his forehead, his green eyes glinting with confidence and mischief.

“Jesus fuck, Sparrow, don’t scare me like that.” I put a hand over my chest and glare at him. “Are you stalking me or something?” I look him up and down. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with holes in both knees and the same ratty leather jacket he always seems to have on. He definitely didn’t come into a store like this one to shop.

He snorts and arches an eyebrow at me. “Paranoid?”

I bristle and deepen my glare. “Usually not without reason.”

He smiles wider, seemingly unbothered by my suspicion. I can’t think of a good reason for him to be following me, but I’m sure if I had a little time to get creative with it, I could come up with something. Like maybe Lorenzo hired him to keep an eye on me for some reason.

“Relax, I was just on my way to meet Xav for lunch down the street and spotted you in the window. I figured I’d pop in and say hi.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I like you, Dante. You’ve got sharp teeth and you aren’t afraid to use them. Because sometimes it gets fucking old hanging around with a bunch of mafiosos.”

I’m not sure that explanation puts me at ease at all. If anything, it raises my hackles a little more.

“I don’t need friends. Thanks though.”

I realize I’m still holding the shirt, and I put it back down with one last wistful look, promising myself I’ll come back and treat myself later. Then I walk past Sparrow and out of the store without a backward glance. Being out of my apartment has suddenly lost its appeal.

I hail a cab and tell the driver my address, keeping an eye out for any cars following on the way back, but just like earlier, I don’t spot anything out of place. The car rolls to a stop in front of my building and I hand him enough cash to cover the fare and a tip.

I climb the stairs to the second floor, considering how I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon. Maybe I’ll finish the needlepoint I’ve been working on—a cheeky drawing of a Molotov cocktail and the words ‘be the light you want to see in the world.’ My apartment comes into view, and I stop in my tracks, my pulse immediately skyrocketing.

I didn’t leave my door open. I would never be that careless. My hands shake and my muscles tense, readying my body for fight or flight. Maybe it didn’t catch for some reason and then the force of someone else closing their door nudged mine open? Did I lock it? I always do, but I can’t actually picture myself doing it. It’s one of those mindless, automatic actions that you do every day and isn’t important enough for your brain to actually hang on to once it’s over. I flex my hands and wish like hell I’d thought to keep a weapon with me.

I take a cautious step forward, taking measured breaths, my eyes fixed on the small crack in the door, watching for any sign of movement on the other side. As far as I can tell, everything is still and quiet. Once I’m close enough, I put my hand on the door and ease it open, standing to the side in case someone is right on the other side with a gun. But no one’s there. I hold my breath as I step over the threshold and still nothing, no sign of anyone inside, nothing out of place that I can see.

Okay, so maybe I was just careless. It’s not like me, but it’s not impossible either. My fingertips tingle with unspent adrenaline as I cautiously check the rest of the apartment, looking for any signs that anyone was here. My bedroom looks exactly the way I left it, with the bed messy and the drapes closed, and the bathroom is clear too. I loop back around to the main living space and my gaze finally lands on something that I’m sure wasn’t here when I left. There’s a large envelope right in the center of my coffee table, nothing written on it and no sign whatsoever of where or who it came from.

Fear and rage swirl in my chest, feeding each other in an endless cycle. I’m pissed that someone would dare to come into my apartment and try to scare me, and fucking terrified of what might be inside the envelope. I stare at it like it’s a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike, then turn to grab my laptop off the chair where I left it charging earlier.

I ease myself down into the chair, glancing at the envelope every few seconds while I navigate to the Department of Justice website and type a name into the search bar. Don Moreno. His profile loads in just a few seconds and next to his mugshot his status is listed as: Incarcerated, Awaiting Release. I let out a slow breath. So, he’s still where he belongs. For now, anyway.

I slam my laptop shut again and inch forward in my seat, glowering at the envelope.

“Fuck you,” I mutter. How dare some stupid tan paper make me feel small and vulnerable, even for a second. I snatch it off the table and crinkle it in my fist to test the contents. At least nothing is ticking, so I try my luck and tear into it.

I turn it over to dump the contents onto the table. A handful of photographs spill out. Photographs of me . They’re mostly boring, just pictures of me coming and going from the building, dressed for work or on my way out for a jog. Until the last one. The last photo is me, clear as day, just like all the others, dressed in dark, oversized clothing, my hands bloodied and hatred shining in my eyes as I glare down at the battered man at my feet.

That flash the other night… It wasn’t headlights, it was a camera.

“Fuck you,” I hiss again, tossing the pictures back onto the table. They’re clearly a threat. Maybe it’s a threat that they’ll go to the police about my ‘hobby,’ but more likely just wanting me to know I’m being followed, watched . And if Don is still behind bars, it’s either unrelated—unlikely—or he managed to make friends and convince them that helping him get his revenge will somehow benefit them too.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I grind out between clenched teeth, gathering up the photos and stuffing them back into the envelope so I won’t have to keep looking at them.

This is worse than I thought. He’s not going to settle for trying to spook me, not if he’s getting other people involved and having them stalk me. I need a plan, a real plan that doesn’t involve waiting around for his release date to see what he’s spent his time behind bars planning.

I swallow hard, an idea already forming. It’s fucking insane and could backfire on me in at least a dozen different ways, but that’s never stopped me before. Instead of giving myself time to talk myself out of it, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Don thinks he’s ready to play with the big boys? We’ll see about that.

SALVATORE

“This looks really good.” I finish looking over the spreadsheets my nephew, Luca, prepared and hand them back to him.

“You think Lorenzo will go for it?”

I nod and take a sip of the black coffee he offered me when I came by. “The numbers look solid. I’ll sit down with him next week and lay the groundwork, then we can bring you in to officially pitch it to him. How does that sound?”

Luca’s chest puffs up a little and I give him a fond smile. He’s not the knobby kneed, dirty faced kid tugging at the sleeve of my suit jacket anymore. I recognize that hungry look in his eyes, that burning desire to prove himself to the boss and earn his place in The Family for more than just his name.

“Thanks, Uncle Sal.” He gives me a crooked grin and I can’t resist the urge to lean over and ruffle his hair. Even if he is all grown up, it doesn’t hurt to remind him that he’s still a baby face with a long way to go before he’s earned the respect I know he wants.

“No problem, kid.” As I take another sip of my coffee, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold up a finger to tell him one second, then unbutton my jacket to reach for it.

Dante’s name lights up the screen and my stomach does a flip. We exchanged numbers months ago when he did some hacking work for us, and I had to spend a few days keeping an eye on him while we worked out a plan to take down a massive child trafficking ring trying to put down roots in our city. But he hasn’t called me since. As much as I’d like to hope that this is a social call, my gut tells me that’s about as likely as Elvis crawling out of the grave and belting out a lively rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“Angioletto,” I purr into the phone, just in case it is my lucky day. “Please tell me this wasn’t a misdial.”

Dante chuckles and I hear the slightest hint of a tremble in it. Something’s wrong. I sit forward in my seat, clutching my phone tighter and frowning. Luca raises his eyebrows in silent question, and I shake my head and stand up.

“Dante?” I say his actual name firmly, with an edge of authority that I’m dying to pour into every word I whisper into my angel’s ear as I pin him down and show him how good it feels to let himself go for a change, to trust and submit and feel .

He makes a breathy sound that strokes my cock to life then clears his throat.

“It wasn’t a misdial,” he says, his usual defiance and determination bleeding into his tone now. “Will you come over?”

I’m tempted to pull the phone away from my ear and double check that it really is Dante’s number on the display. He’s asking me to come over?

“Right now?” I ask, to gauge his reaction more than anything. Is he in danger and can’t tell me?

He hesitates for a second before responding. “No, later is better. Tonight? Is ten o’clock good?”

“Is this a booty call or a cry for help?”

He sputters a laugh, and the sound lights me up the same way the breathy one did before.

“Just…” He lets out another heavy breath into the phone. “Will you come?”

It doesn’t escape me that he doesn’t answer my question.

“Ten o’clock tonight?” I confirm.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there.”

His end of the call goes dead without a formal goodbye, and I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it for a few seconds. I don’t know what the hell that was, but my heart is thumping with curiosity to find out.

Ten o’clock can’t come soon enough.