15. ANTONIO
"Call the Judge," I tell Siri, drumming my fingers on the wheel to the sound of drums from the speakers.
Bruce picks up before the first ring even finishes. He's been waiting, "How's my daughter?"
"You can talk to her in a couple of hours.
I'm on my way home. I just have to make another quick stop.
" I say more than I usually would offer, but my mood has been getting better the closer I get to my home.
"Now listen, four of your jurors are in Carlos's pocket.
Find out who they are and give me their names. "
There is silence on the other end for a moment. "What are you going to do?"
"Why? Are you not going to give me their names if I say I'm gonna hurt them?"
"These are normal people, Antonio, you can't?—"
"Hey, we're on the same side here, or have you forgotten?" I remind him. "Their names, tomorrow."
I hang up before he can start on his moral bullshit.
Bruce needs to understand something: I’m in charge here.
Not him. Not the goddamn law. I stop the car in front of Kevin's house.
It's ironic that the State Attorney General and I live in the same neighborhood. He probably has no clue that I had this area built out, none of the people living here do. They think they chose this place because of the safety, the privacy, the exclusivity. They don’t realize they live in my world.
I straighten my tie, roll my shoulders, and notice that my cuffs are stained with blood—just a few drops, but enough to send a message.
I ring the doorbell.
The door opens too slowly for my patience, and a maid appears. She's a timid little thing. "Can I help you?" she asks, already looking like she wants to slam the door in my face.
"I need to see Kevin," I send my most charming smile at her.
"Who may I say?—"
Now she's wasting my time. I push her to the side and march into the grand foyer. Ah, he chose the Cambridge , my favorite of the models.
"Sir, you can't—" the maid's voice is turning shrill, hurting my ears.
"Kevin?" If memory serves, the office is just to the right.
"What—" Kevin rises behind his chair. "Call the cops," He says to whoever he is talking to on the phone he has pressed to his ear.
"No need, I'm just here for a friendly chat." I pull out one of the leather armchairs in front of his desk and make myself comfortable.
The maid has followed me and is wringing her hands in clear distress.
I would have pity on her and say something to assuage her, but I can't stand whiny people.
In my business, you can't show weakness, especially not in front of others.
Kevin could misinterpret it. He might even think he could try to outwit me.
Yeah, good luck with that, asshat. I glance at her, cock an eyebrow, and she scurries away.
"You should hire a butler," I smirk, steepling my hands and resting my chin on the tips. "If you don't want people to barge in." Maids never open my doors, only my guards.
From the other end of the phone, I hear a female voice yelling, "Kevin… Kevin, what's going on?"
Expectantly, I glare at Kevin and mouth, What's it gonna be ?
With a resigned sigh, he says into the phone, "It's okay, sweetheart.
It's all good… no, no, you don't need to call the cops.
" He sends a questioning look at me, and I shrug noncommittally.
"Yes, yes, I love you too. I'll call you later. "
He pushes the end button and turns to me, "Well, this is a surprise."
"I've been told Carlos Orsi has approached you," I inform him without preamble.
His face pales. "How?" But then he regains control of himself. "And you don't like that idea?"
"You've been on my payroll long enough to know better." My eyes study him over my steepled fingers. "You should have informed me."
"He's not the first to try to buy me. Do you want me to inform you about every thug that?—"
My right hand turns into a fist and slams on his desk, interrupting whatever stupidity was about to leave his mouth. I'm not interested in his lame excuses.
"You know exactly why this is different." I shake my head. "I took you for a smarter man."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I don’t make threats, Kevin," I say, letting my voice drop low, almost amused.
"I make decisions. And yours is about to get very simple."
He swallows as he watches me like a bunny staring at a wolf. "I'm sure the IRS would be very interested in how you can afford all this," I let my hand wave through his room, indicating his house, "on a state attorney's salary."
"I'm compensated well," he tries.
"Enough to pay for your wife's shopping trips to Gucci? Or for the Mercedes she likes to drive?"
"I'll destroy you, DeLuna, if you touch my wife."
I laugh. "Trust me, I wouldn't touch anything that has been whoring herself out to any cop in the city."
Kevin jumps off his chair, his glare furious.
For a moment, I think he might even come at me, but he hesitates for a second too long.
He smooths his hair back with what’s left of his hand—two fingers short, courtesy of Enrico.
The memory of that encounter and my glare brings him to his senses. He sinks back into his chair.
Whatever ideals, morals, or ambitions drove him to become a state attorney have long since left him.
He isn't the idealist he once was, and he knows it.
That went out the window the moment he took my dirty money to pay for his daughter's surgery.
Am I a monster to take advantage of a man's misfortune? Probably. But doing so ensures I will never be in this kind of position. I would die for my family, and I’ll always be able to care for them.
"What do you want?"
"String him along. Take his money, promise him you'll keep him out of jail," I rise, making sure Kevin sees the blood stains on the sleeves of my white dress shirt. I recognize the moment he sees them and nervously licks his upper lip.
"He'll have me killed." Kevin's voice is barely audible.
"It's a possibility," I agree. "But if you don't, I'll kill you."
I don't hold a spark of sympathy for him when he visibly deflates in his chair, his eyes locked pleadingly on mine.
"You need me," he finally mutters.
I shrug. "I'm sure they'll replace you soon. It might even be to my benefit. The next guy might be more honorable in holding an agreement between us."
"Please." I know he's broken as he rises from the chair.
"Please," he repeats as I reach the door.
I turn, taking in his pitiful appearance. For some unfathomable reason, Scarlet pops into my head. Beautiful Scarlet. She hadn't looked half as pathetic after two days of torture as this guy does after a ten-minute conversation.
"Make him believe you'll get him off," I say, staring him down, "and I'll send someone to protect you."
I don't wait for his answer and see myself out.
It's only another fifteen minutes from his house before I reach mine. The gates swing open at my approach, and I nod at the four men stationed around them.
I enter, nod at the other guards by the front door, and make my way to the stairs before realizing that the filth of the two fuckers, Hank and Marco, still clings to my clothes, body, and hair.
I need a shower before I see Scarlet. There's no way in hell I'm going to let her anywhere near their stink.
I always keep a change of clothes in one of the guest bedrooms, and since Scarlet is in mine, I'll need to make use of them.
"Antonio!"
Cursing, I turn to face Vito. He smirks and falls into step beside me. "You look like a man on a mission."
"I am," I grunt, not slowing down.
He chuckles. "Scarlet still here?"
I shoot him a sharp look, and he holds up his hands in surrender. "Relax. I like my balls attached."
"Then keep your mouth shut," I warn. "And send someone to watch Kevin. Carlos has been flirting with him."
"Got it, boss. Anything else?"
We stop in the middle of the stairway. Might as well get Vito filled in now, otherwise the fucker will pester me all night.
"Carlos has four jurors on his payroll. Lambert is going to figure out who they are, but I want you to also do some digging.
" Having caught him up, I ignore him and finish walking up the stairs, almost giddy with anticipation of seeing Scarlet.
I rush through a shower and all but whistle to myself when I open the door to my bedroom. I feel a surge of anticipation, eager to see her again.
She is in my bed, but I'm unprepared for the sight of her.
Her swollen eyes bear silent witness that she's been crying.
Fury rushes through me, and I wish I hadn't killed Hank and Marco yet—the sight of her cuts through my heart with a sharp pain.
Thinking the days of torture have caught up with her, I rush to her side. "Scarlet? What's wrong?"
She tries to turn away from me, but I pull her back. "What is it? Are you in pain?"
She opens her mouth as if trying to speak, but no words come out as she struggles to take in air. Her head nods, and she rubs her chest, managing a weak, "Here."
I pull out my phone to call Doc, worried she might be having a heart attack. But she stops me and shakes her head. More tears spill as she clutches my hand with hers. "Hurts," she chokes out.
I pull her against me and rub her back when I realize she's not about to have a heart attack but is instead suffering from anxiety. Gigi used to have these types of attacks quite often, and since our father saw that as a weakness, it was up to me to help her.
"Shh, it's all good. I'm here," I soothe, stroking her back and trying to ignore the feeling of her full breasts pressed against my chest. "Nothing is going to happen to you again. Ever. I won't allow it."
Her breaths slowly even out. Her breakdown surprises me only because it's coming so late. I would have expected it far sooner. "Carlos will receive his punishment, and the others won't ever touch you again, either."
She slightly pulls away, huge sapphire eyes looking up at me. "What do you mean?"
"Hank and Marco have been taken care of," I reiterate.
I watch the emotions play out in the expression on her face; her eyes darken and lighten in a fascinating pattern. Her lips open when my words fully sink in. "You mean… oh my God, did you…"
I push a finger against her lips and nod.
She takes a hiccupping breath.
For a moment, I think she will push me away, horrified by my admission.
I forgot for a moment that she wasn’t family , that she’s a so-called good girl .
Her father is a judge. She grew up in a different world, a world where things are black and white, where you call the cops when you're in trouble, never anticipating that they might turn on you.
"I'm… glad." The words seem to horrify her as they leave her lips, but she nods, as if trying to convince herself that it's okay to feel that way.
"They deserved it." She insists vehemently, persuadingly.
I raise an eyebrow. "Does the lady have a bloodthirsty streak?"
A small, mysterious smile plays around her lips. "It seems that way."
I search for eyes, but I’m not sure what exactly I'm looking for. It takes me a moment to realize. "That's not what you were upset about." It’s not a question.
Slowly, she shakes her head and lowers her eyes.
"Talk to me." I’m surprised by my urge to know what has upset her so much, but I'm ready to kill whoever has made her cry.
She shakes her head, "It doesn't matter."
I place my thumb under her chin and gently push it up until she meets my gaze, "It does to me."
"Why?"
That's a good question. Why indeed? She's my hostage, my prisoner. She’s not the first. So why the fuck do I care about her feelings? Yes, I want her. I want to fuck her senseless. She’s not the first for that , either.
And I don't need to know her fucking feelings to take her to bed.
But for some unfathomable reason, they matter to me.
My next admission surprises me even more than it does her. "Because I fucking care."
She must realize that I don't say something like that lightly because she confesses, "It was silly. I was feeling guilty for doing this to my dad."
"You're not doing anything to your dad," I reply, creasing my forehead. Because I don't get it.
"If I had been more careful, those men wouldn't have grabbed me…" she confesses as new tears gather in her eyes.
I shake my head, "Scarlet, Carlos's men would have gotten you no matter what you did. If they hadn't gotten you that night, they would have gotten you the next morning or afternoon."
Her eyes grow wide. "Really? Do you really think so?"
I let out a dry laugh. "Trust me, Scarlet, this is my world, and I know a thing or two about it. Carlos had a hit out on you, and there was nothing short of living in a bunker surrounded by an army you could have done to avoid it."
I’m not prepared for the relief in her eyes, but it’s there, clear as day. She moves forward and throws her arms around me, saying, "Thank you."
Fuck, her breasts are pressed against me, her hair is tickling my nose, and her warmth hits me, as does her sweet scent.
This is a different embrace from the one before.
Before, I was focused on soothing her; now, I'm just aware of her.
My dick is already rock hard, again. I could live with it if it were just that, but there's more.
I want her, but not only in a sexual way. I want more from her. So much more.
She kisses my cheek. My fucking cheek. I'm not her fucking brother. I growl, "Scarlet."
Her eyelids flutter, and that's all the invitation I need. A second growl rumbles inside my chest when I slide my hand up her back to tangle my fingers in her beautiful hair. I tilt her head the last few inches forward, claiming her like I was always meant to. The moment our lips meet, control becomes a razor-thin edge. The urge to own her, to devour her, is a fire roaring in my veins. But Scarlet isn’t like the women I’ve toyed with before—she isn’t a game to be played and discarded.
So instead of taking, instead of shoving my tongue deep and staking my claim, I tease.
I brush my lips over hers, my tongue barely tracing the seam, coaxing, demanding without force.
She whimpers—a soft, breathless sound that wrecks me. Her lips part in an unspoken plea, and her fingers fist my shirt, dragging me closer, as if she already knows I belong here. As if she’s already mine. And fuck me, she is.
The realization slams into me like a bullet to the chest. I was finished the second I saw her on that damn video. I thought I had taken her hostage, but the truth is, she’s the one who owns me.
She is mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. And God have mercy on anyone who tries to take her from me, because I won't.