Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FINA
“Settemo.”
I spit his name like a curse, the syllables weighted with every violent memory. Riley’s eyes flick to me, understanding in her gaze.
His fist crashes into the side of my skull, a brutal impact that sends me stumbling to my knees, the granite floor rattling my teeth. Pain blooms hot, but I ignore it, twisting my body to face him, my hand dipping beneath my waistband behind me toward my weapon.
I don’t dare look at Riley frozen a few feet away. I’ll do whatever I must to protect her.
“Who’s your friend?” His voice is low, taunting.
“A local girl,” I growl, locking onto him. Black clothes, shoes, and gloves. White gauze masking an eye. Whichever doctor treated him couldn’t produce black? I listen for his men, but the church is silent.
Just Emo and his arrogance?
God, please say it’s true.
He moves in on Riley, his shadow spilling over her. A gloved finger drags across her collarbone in a slow, deliberate line. “Pretty,” he murmurs, his words sour, with an unhinged edge. Riley doesn’t so much as flinch, but stares him down in a move Sandro would be proud of.
He sees the challenge, and is seconds from snapping.
“She speaks Italian, Emo. She doesn’t understand you.”
His gaze slices back to me. “What did you call me?”
“Emo. You know, emo—like when someone has too much emotion and not enough substance.”
He jabs two fingers into my wound, then clamps down on it.
Pain rips through me, almost blinding me, before he jerks me upright.
“Move. The van’s waiting.”
I give Riley the smallest shake of my head as he forces me further inside the church. We’re halfway across it when he stops short.
I stumble, horrified I nearly slammed into him.
“You,” he bellows. “Dai, andiamo!”
No. I silently plead. Run.
But Riley, eyes frantic and looking utterly terrified, races to follow us.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll keep you too.”
We descend into the belly of the church. The air grows colder, heavy with stone, dust, and something older, deader. Tombs line the granite floor, more ancient than anything sold at the antique fair. My stomach churns as my eyes register the duffel bag set on top of the tomb closest to the door.
He catches my horrified expression and laughs, the evil sound bouncing off the walls so loudly, God couldn’t silence it.
If we follow him outside, we’re done.
If we open the door, we’re done.
Psycho or not, he’s one man.
My arm aches. The scar tissue from his burn itches.
Every cut, every bruise, every time he’s called me bitch.
I’m done running. I’m done hiding. I’m done with arrogant men who get off on hurting women.
I wait for peace to wash over me. For light to shine down on this moment of clarity like I’m guided from above.
But peace isn’t what settles into my bones—rage does.
“You won’t believe this, Riley,” I begin, my grip tightening on my pistol. “But Emo gets a lot of drivers honking at him.”
“He does?”
His eyes flicker from her to me. “You said she doesn’t understand English.”
I continue, unflustered, mind made up. “I can hear them now. Honk, honk. Hey, Cunt Stud!”
Lord, his outrage is a beautiful sight.
I smirk. “I did it.”
The truth hits him before I even finish speaking.
“That’s right. I carved Cunt Stud into your precious Ferrari’s paint.”
He loses his mind, charging at me like a bull.
I free my pistol and aim, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Riley moving fast—but with his damaged eye and emotionally charged state, he misses it.
Until she’s right on him.
She jams a stun gun into his side, finger firmly pressed down.
His body jerks violently before hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
I kick him in his kidney, then bring a heel down on his hand, the crunch of breaking bone reverberating up my leg.
“Between the legs,” I order.
She obeys, pressing the stun gun into him again.
His scream rips through the air, raw and animal.
We freeze. But the walls are thick down here. No one is coming to his rescue.
I strip his gun from his waistband. “Bring me what’s inside the duffel.”
Eyes on Emo, I hear her gasp. “What the hell is this?”
She returns with the white catsuit between two fingers, revulsion twisting her mouth.
“This,” I say, my smile sharp, my tone ice-cold, “is sweet, sweet revenge.”
RENZO
Every move as a made man—and, if I’m honest, every choice since I could hold a gun—was driven by the need to prove myself.
But this right now is about me and my wife.
When this meeting with Massimo is over, I’m putting a ring on her finger and knocking her up, either order works.
Fina. I’m coming home, babe. You better be ready.
I’m eating pancakes, enjoying a rare moment of triumph, when the news breaks. Ambush. Guns. Chaos. Fina caught in the middle. Like distant thunder, I barely register at first what’s happened. Then it lands, sharp and heavy, and everything stills.
That sick motherfucker went after my girl?
Massimo secures a private helicopter to take us straight away to Sardinia.
Miles and minutes pass but the storm inside me doesn’t move; it gathers strength.
My heartbeat slows, cold and deliberate, while my mind catalogues every possibility: men, weapons, attack plans.
Patience. Precision. Pain reserved for the right moment.
I don’t say a word. Neither does Sandro, seated in the helicopter beside me. The tension between us is a living thing, thick and dangerous. Outside the window, Sardinia grows closer.
By the time we land, the streets around the ambush are frozen in a tableau of violence.
Black-clad bodies litter the pavement. Two of Sandro’s men lie broken, one slumped against an abandoned car, its doors wide open—Sandro’s car …
Fina’s car for the day. No sign of her. No sign of Riley. No sign of the dead man walking.
My hand closes around a wounded man in black, hauling him up by the throat until his feet leave the ground.
“Where are the women?” My voice rumbles low and sharp, a growl edged with fury.
He nods toward the church.
“And your boss?” Another nod.
I slam him down, smashing his skull into the pavement over and over until his brain stains the sidewalk.
“If they’re harmed, if they’re dead …” Sandro pauses, then grinds out a warning. “I’ll slaughter every Accardo breathing.”
He’ll have to beat me to them.
We storm the stairs, kick through the doors, and move through the foyer into the nave. Our men cluster protectively around us. Sandro barks orders, every syllable sharp, precise.
“You take one side, I’ll cover the other.”
I don’t argue. I charge forward, every muscle coiled, every sense razor-sharp, ready to tear through anyone who stands in my way.
On either side of the nave, the aisles stretch long and narrow, framed by towering arches built to make men feel small.
Light bleeds through stained glass, painting the stone in color.
Incense clings to the air, thick and cloying.
Alcoves draped with heavy curtains line the way, candles flickering inside, statues of saints staring down like cold judges on sinners rushing past. The aisles curve toward the back, funneling into shadowed corridors.
I pull aside curtain after curtain, kick open closed door after closed door.
No sign of them.
I return to the group and catch Sandro’s eyes, troubled and tense. He shakes his head, and I curse under my breath.
A man rushes forward, holding up a bag from the fair. “Found it near the bloodstain by the main door. It’s empty.”
A second man steps forward, ready to give up. “Maybe they’re gone? We’ve checked everywhere.”
I punch him square in the face, breaking his nose. “Look harder.”
We were just warming up, Fina and I. Just starting a future. I hadn’t even told her I loved her yet.
I arch my head back and roar, the sound bouncing off the stone and echoing through the shadows. “Fina!”
A runner approaches Sandro. “Boss, there’s an empty van around the backside of the church, and the door into the lower level’s locked.”
“Show me.”
They charge off as I still. I breathe deeply, calming my mind, panic clouding my thinking. I replay what I’ve seen, the alcoves, the back rooms, the corridors darkened by heavy curtains pulled tight.
I retrace my steps, this time yanking curtains aside until l find a stairwell leading below.
Fuck. How much time did I waste? How did I not find this sooner?
My footsteps echo off the stone steps as I descend into the church’s bowels. “Fina,” I call, throat hitching. I chant her name, push deeper into the room. “Fina. Fina.”
“Renzo?”
Relief slams into me. “You okay, babe?”
“Nope.”
My grip tightens on the gun.
Riley’s voice trembles from the dark. “We’re over here, Renzo. Is Sandro with you?”
I find them, shadows in a room filled with tombs. “Coming,” I tell her, my focus locked on Fina. “You hurt?”
“I’ve hurt much worse than a bullet nicking me.”
Something in her tone twists my gut, and I struggle not to lose my shit. “Where is he?”
“Emo?” she says calmly, like that motherfucker wasn’t hunting her down.
What the fuck am I missing?
“If he hurt you—”
“He’s right behind us. By the door.”
I surge forward, gun ready, shoving the women behind me.
Suddenly, the door crashes open and light erupts into the room, Sandro hot on its heels.
Riley flies by me and throws herself into his arms. “Sandro. Oh my God, Sandro,” she cries, then her tone pitches deeper. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m okay. I did exactly what you showed me …”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says.
My attention snaps to the man sprawled out on the church floor between us.
Emo lies there, bound in a cocoon of white latex, one eye gauzed, the other wide with terror. He looks like prey, wrapped up neat and packaged, and waiting to be killed.
I recognize the white catsuit, and slowly, ever so fucking slowly, realize what’s happened.
Pride surges through me like a shot of adrenaline. Fina stands there, calm as can be, every inch the heroine in her own story. She didn’t just survive—she put that bastard down. I fucking fall in love with her all over again. I want to grab her, crush her against me, tell her she did good.
Except she avoids eye contact.
“Holy fuck!” Sandro exclaims, his disbelief echoed in the expressions of every man entering the room.
But if Emo believes this delightful horror show is over, he’d better think again.
You should be afraid, motherfucker.
Your nightmare has just begun.