Page 85 of Wounded King

"Do you tellyourmen why?" He spits. "I was told to bring the blonde to Vegas."

Fuck!

They weren't after me; they're after fucking Violet. And he does have a point. I don't tell my men why. Neither would any other boss; that's not how things work.

"Are they only after Violet or her whole family?" I don't give a shit about Violet's family, but she does, which makes them my problem.

"I don't know."

"Lower him," I order.

"No, no, please."

Marco lowers the man skillfully. We've done this a few times, and we've learned where the sharks can reach and where they can't. Of course, there's always the element of surprise, like a second great white showing up, one so large, he could probably devour our victim in one bite.

"Hey, Scarface is here!" Luciano yells. He gets a kick out of naming them. At least this fucker has a better name than Bruce.

"Ah fuck. Fuck. No! Pull me up, pull me up, I'll tell you."

"Tell me now!"

"Il Macellaio wants all of them! But he wanted that girl first. I swear, that's all I know."

He screams as the great white makes a move on him, but manages to pull his body to the side, for now.

"Get me up!" The man screams.

I make a slicing motion with my hand, and Marco cuts the ropes. The man plunges into the churning water.

"That's still too fast a death for him," I mumble, my blood running hot with anger that this bastard dared lay a hand on my Violet. "Get Violet's family. It's time we had a meeting."

Luciano stays a few seconds longer on deck to relay my orders, while I retreat back below deck, pouring myself another healthy helping of Blue Label to warm my bones and to mull over this latest revelation.

"Fuck!" I run my hand through my hair. What in the hell is going on?

"Well, at least it wasn't Edoardo or Margarita," Luciano joins me, grabbing a glass too.

He chuckles at my irritated glare and chucks the drink down. Then he pulls up his phone and reads out loud, " Il Macellaio, aka Enzo Carbone. Former enforcer to the Vegas family, currently capo." He skims over the text, then whistles lowly and looks up at me. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What?" I hate it when he gets all dramatic on me. I grab the phone out of his hand and stare at a picture. A blonde, very pregnant woman, looking very much like Violet, stands next to a man, whom I suspect is Enzo, and two little girls flank them. One girl, maybe five, has the same hazel eyes as Violet.

"She left him," I skim over the article, which claims Enzo had been scrutinized for the disappearance of his wife and children.

"That explains why there is no trace of them before twenty years ago," Luciano looks over my shoulder, and I hand his phone back to him.

His hand lands on my shoulder, and he breaks out into loud laughter. Irritated, I jerk his hand off and step back. "It's not funny," I grumble.

"No," he agrees. "It's hilarious.I don't know who the fuck you are, man." He imitates and rephrases Shark Bait's words. "You got yourself in a pickle." He doubles over.

"A pickle?" I arch an eyebrow before I rub my chin. "This is more like thinking you're playing with matches, and then realizing you've been stoking the fires of hell—with the devil's daughter in your lap."

My lip twitches. It is kind of funny. At least now I don't have to worry about Edoardo or Margarita coming after Violet. This actually might play in my favor.

I sober and pull out my phone. Luciano stills too, watching me intently with a question on his face. I grin.

When the line is picked up, I bark, "Edoardo?"

Luciano's eyebrows raise, and an amused expression curls his lips. He knows where this is going. He shakes his head slightly and mumbles, "Fucking genius."