Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King (Possessive Mafia Kings #29)

31. Ren

31

Ren

I have stops to make. People to visit. Old enemies to see. I think I’ll start with Marlow. Grant Nadia one last wish.

Dellucci, that’ll be a death trap. Atlas, I don’t know enough about him yet to hunt him down, and I only have a week to do it. I’ll take my satisfaction where I can get it.

Marco brings the car around like always. I open the back door. The barrel of a pistol greets me, gripped by a stranger’s hand. I hadn’t thought to check. Goddamn blacked-out windows.

There are a few places that are sacred to a man, and his own car is supposed to be one of them.

My pockets are turned out. My phone goes to the sidewalk, and then my gun. I am patted down a second time, then once they’re sure my claws are clipped, I’m motioned into the backseat. I sit.

The gun nuzzles up against my ribs like an animal looking for affection, pointing sideways through my ribcage and toward my heart.

Its beat is slow and steady, even now.

I just got comfortable with how being a muscle spasm from death feels, so it doesn’t bother me. Maybe that’s part of the problem, really. Maybe anxiety is a survival instinct and my lack of it is a detriment. I never thought about it that way, but if I was anxious, I probably wouldn’t have thrown that door open all carelessly, as if there was nothing unusual that could have been waiting on the other side. I would have been more cautious. More suspicious.

Crossing that sidewalk and getting in this car was something I did every day. That’s where caution falls through the cracks. Just like my parents, leaving their window open during the summer. Old, comfortable habits that wind around your neck and hang you slowly, before you ever realize that you’re choking. Stupid.

My gaze slides to the screen between me and the driver. It’s tinted, but I can tell it’s not Marco.

“What did you do with my driver?” I ask. My voice still sounds flat, which is good. Marco is a good man; the sort of man to go down fighting.

“Left him sleeping on the concrete,” the driver answers. A familiar voice. Atlas.

“Not so neutral now, are we?” I ask, leaning back as if I am still being chauffeured to wherever I want to go.

“Still neutral. I just watched you long enough; I’ve been ready to cash this check for a while.”

I feel strangely calm about that.

“How much is Dellucci offering for me?”

“You? Nothing that I’ve heard of. The girl? A cool 250k.”

My tongue runs over the sharp edge of my teeth. I taste anger.

“Must not be too heartbroken about that $35,000 he lost then, is he?”

Atlas grins, keeping his eyes ahead.

“You should know better than anybody, Caruso. There are rational men and there’s grieving men. And those two categories don’t overlap.”

I watch where we’re going, but I don’t see much. I consider thinking about regrets—I guess that’s what people do—but I just think about her. The same loop again. The muggy taste of a big city summer, which is always better the way you remember it than how it really is. My arm hooked on her shoulders, my mouth against her temple, her fingers pinching me on the waist, and her teeth pinching me on the lip. Goddamn little pincushion before I proved myself to her.

The car stops as we pull into a low garage, and my gaze slides into focus. The door closes behind us. We are in a nondescript house somewhere on Long Island. Pricey, considering the built-in, bottom-level garage and the strip of green I saw out front pretending to be a front yard.

“Out,” the man with the gun barks.

I go, dragging my feet, sliding my hands into my pockets. He orders me to keep them where he can see them, and with exasperation, I slide them back out. His pulse is flickering in his temple. For being the man with the gun, he sure is sweating.

I picture Atlas’s wide hand brushing the top of Harper’s hair. Her big, curious eyes as she smiled up at him. “What’s your favorite animal?”

Atlas is coming around the car just as I’m throwing myself into his buddy, ramming him back up against the car. The gun doesn’t go off, but it stays wedged in his fingers, as we grapple and wrestle for it. I sink my teeth into a man’s throat just like my favorite animal, and he screams like a dying thing out on the hot savannah.

I taste blood.

Atlas sweeps in behind me before I can get the upper hand, before I can wrest the gun away. I find myself on my knees for a moment, not sure how I got there. I watch, curious, as white lights dance in and out of my vision.

Someone whacks me hard over the head. The second time he hits me, the ground flies up to meet me.