Shield of the Mafia Guard (Costa Vendetta #3)

1. Gemma

Gemma

Sizzle.

Hot fryer oil meets cold steel. The acrid scent of burning diesel mixes with the sweet, ruined perfume of roasted cumin and orange zest. Smoke billows from the serving window of my food truck. Gray haze curls around the undeniable, metallic tang of fresh blood on the asphalt outside.

My ears ring with a high-pitched whine. The aftermath of deafening noise. Automatic gunfire.

Only minutes earlier, I’d been plating al pastor tacos for nursing students under the cheerful pink glow of my neon sign. I was an independent business owner with a functioning engine and a pristine flat-top grill.

Now, my dream is a metal carcass.

Glass crunches under my non-slip boots. I push myself up from the sticky floor of the truck. My knees ache from slamming into the diamond-plate steel when the first volley of bullets tore through the neighborhood. My favorite apron is covered in smashed avocados and spilled salsa verde.

Rage boils fast in my stomach.

Tears do not fall. Crying does not fix shattered windshields or buy a new commercial deep fryer. It certainly does not undo the damage caused by whatever low-life mafia turf war just rolled through my intersection.

The Bellantis. The whispers in the neighborhood always point to that name whenever an unmarked sedan rolls through with tinted windows.

Some rival gang or family pissed them off, and the street became a shooting gallery.

The intended targets sped away. The Bellantis kept firing.

My truck absorbed the crossfire like a bright pink sponge.

I grab a clean rag from the dispenser above the sink.

The dispenser has a jagged hole right through the center of the plastic.

I stare at it. Ten thousand dollars in kitchen equipment.

Gone. Three years of saving every single dime, denying myself vacations, working fourteen-hour days.

Destroyed in forty-five seconds by men who probably wear suits that cost more than my entire business.

"Assholes," I mutter.

I wipe a smear of sour cream off my cheek. Stepping over the twisted metal of my ruined prep counter, I push open the warped side door. The hinges scream in protest. The door jams halfway. I kick it with the heel of my boot. It bursts open, clattering against the exterior siding.

The alley behind the food truck is deathly still. The nursing students scattered the second the tires squealed. The street is empty of pedestrians. Sirens wail in the far distance, trapped in Chicago traffic, entirely useless.

I step down onto the pavement. Cool night air hits my face, doing nothing to cool my temper.

Headlights blind me.

Three black SUVs turn the corner at the end of the block. They do not move like frantic civilians fleeing a crime scene. These men advance in formation. A synchronized, predatory glide. They cut the angles of the intersection, boxing in the street while blocking exits and securing the perimeter.

Not cops.

Cops have flashing lights and sirens. Cops announce themselves. These vehicles kill their headlights the second they shift into park.

Doors open in unison. Men step out onto the asphalt. Dark suits. Tactical vests. Weapons drawn but held casually, pointed at the ground. They fan out across the street, moving through the shadows with terrifying efficiency.

My spine stiffens. My grip on the dirty rag tightens.

A shadow detaches from the lead vehicle.

He moves differently than the rest. The other men are soldiers following orders. This man is the order.

The wind shifts through the urban canyon of the street. It cuts straight through the smog of burnt cumin and spilled gasoline. It carries a scent completely foreign to a South Side kitchen alley. Gun oil. Rain-soaked concrete. Black coffee.

The smell is aggressively masculine. Violently sharp. It slices through the chaos of the ruined street and anchors the air.

He steps into the flickering amber glow of the one streetlamp the shooters failed to destroy.

An imposing build blocks the light. He is built of muscle packed into a dark henley shirt.

The sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, exposing solid forearms wrapped in ink.

Intensely detailed tattoos track up his skin.

Dense armor, detailed knotwork, and a stark compass claim his right arm.

A menacing skull tangled in dark roses bleeds up his left.

A gold watch catches the amber light on his wrist.

The henley unbuttons at the collar, pulled tight across a solid chest. A small, jagged scar rests right at his upper collarbone, pale and stark against his olive skin. Short, dark hair frames a face of hard angles. A beard shadows an unyielding jaw.

Dark, empty eyes scan the street.

He does not look at my ruined food truck or the smashed salsa containers on the sidewalk. He does not look at me.

He clears the space.

His movements are calculated. A machine operating on pure tactical assessment.

He points two fingers toward the northern alley.

Two men break off and vanish into the dark.

He gestures toward the roofline of the abandoned building across the street.

Another man raises a rifle, checking the sightline.

He treats my destroyed livelihood like a coordinate on a tactical grid—a battlefield objective to be cleared.

Anger, hot and fierce, spikes over my initial shock.

He thinks he can just roll in here and take over the street?

He thinks he can ignore the devastation of my business?

Please. I have dealt with territorial men my entire life.

Broad shoulders and a lethal, rugged beard do not give him a free pass to treat my disaster zone like his personal playground.

I march forward. The glass under my boots grinds loudly into the pavement.

"Hey," I snap.

He does not flinch. He does not turn his head. He continues tracking the sightlines down the southern block.

"Hey. G.I. Joe. Are you deaf?"

A man in a suit steps toward me, raising a hand. "Ma'am, step back."

"I am not stepping back," I bark, glaring at the suit before turning my attention back to the towering man ignoring me.

"This is my permit zone. That is my truck bleeding coolant all over the storm drain.

And you and your little tactical squad are currently tracking broken glass all over my ruined cilantro. "

The man freezes.

The clinical sweep stops. The tactical assessment halts.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head.

His dark eyes lock onto mine.

The stillness of his body is terrifying.

He does not blink. He does not offer a polite apology.

He just stares. The cold detachment in those hard eyes strains under mounting pressure.

Something else presses against it from behind, not breaking through—not yet—but unmistakably there. Something dark. Something too focused.

The street goes dead silent. The men in suits stop moving. The distant sirens fade into nothingness.

The wind kicks up again, blasting that scent of gun oil and black coffee directly into my lungs. He takes one slow step toward me. The oversized gold watch catches the light again.

He studies the flour on my cheek. He tracks the salsa stains on my apron. His hungry gaze drags down the curve of my hips, the sturdy stance of my boots, and snaps right back up to my face.

A muscle feathers along his bearded jaw.

"Your truck," he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp.

"My truck," I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest. I refuse to cower. I refuse to back down. "Three years of my life. Ruined. Because you mafia assholes cannot shoot straight."

The men in the suits tense. One of them reaches for his weapon.

The mountain simply raises a single, tattooed finger. The men freeze instantly.

He does not break eye contact with me. He steps closer. His mountain of muscle eclipses the streetlamp. Shadows fall over my face. The heat radiating off his broad chest combats the chill of the Chicago night.

"You were inside." It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. A realization dropping like a lead weight in the space between us.

"Obviously." I gesture wildly to the bullet holes riddling the pink metal of La Diosa. "I was prepping for the late-night rush. Now I am prepping for bankruptcy."

He takes another step. He is too close now. The scent of rain-soaked concrete is magnetic. The violent energy rolling off him demands submission and caution, along with a healthy dose of fear.

I refuse to give him any of it.

"Who did this?" he demands.

"Like you do not know." I scoff, throwing my dirty rag onto the hood of his shiny black SUV. "The Bellantis. They rolled through spraying bullets at a silver sedan. Missed the sedan entirely. Nailed my deep fryer. It is a tragedy of epic culinary proportions."

His eyes darken. His beard twitches as his jaw sets. The small scar at his collarbone shifts with the sudden, harsh intake of his breath.

"You are injured," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher. Darker.

"I am annoyed," I correct him. "I have a scrape on my knee and a ruined business. Do not act like you care. You just want to clear your territory or whatever it is you people do."

"My people," he repeats slowly.

"The Costas, I assume. Unless there is a third mob family running the South Side that I am unaware of."

He does not smile or confirm or deny. He just keeps staring at me with that fracturing focus. The cold operator from two minutes ago is gone. The man standing in front of me is no longer a calculated commander; he is a wild predator who just found something he intends to keep.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"None of your business."

"Your name." The gravel in his tone leaves room for argument.

I lift my chin. "Gemma. Gemma Torres."

He repeats it. Just a faint rumble in his broad chest. "Gemma."

He looks at the truck. He looks at the bullet holes. He looks at the smeared salsa on my apron. The tactical assessment returns, but it is no longer directed at the street. It is directed at the threat to me.

He reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a matte-black phone. He dials a single number, holding the device to his ear. He does not look away from me.

"Send the cleaners to the South Side intersection," he orders into the phone. "Bring a flatbed. Tow a pink food truck to the secure lot at the compound. Nobody touches the interior."

He hangs up. He slides the phone back into his pocket.

"Excuse me?" I demand, my hands dropping to my hips. "You are not towing my truck anywhere. I need to call my insurance. I need to file a police report."

"The police are not coming, Gemma."

"There are literally sirens right now."

"They are being rerouted." He takes the final step, closing the distance. His frame eclipses the streetlamp. "Your truck belongs to my family's lot now. Your insurance will not cover an organized crime drive-by. You will get zero dollars from them."

"Then I will sue the city. I will sue you. I will sue the Bellantis."

"You will do none of those things." His dark eyes track the movement of my lips. "The Bellantis will circle back. They left a job unfinished. They do not leave witnesses."

The fight in my chest stutters. Just for a fraction of a second. "I am a taco vendor. Not a witness."

"You saw the cars. You are alive in the crossfire.

" His broad chest rises and falls. The oversized gold watch glints as he raises his hand.

For a wild second, I think he is going to touch my face.

His fingers, rough and calloused, hover just an inch from my cheek.

He traces the air over the smear of flour.

"They will come back to finish the job."

"Then I will go home. Lock my doors."

"A wooden door will not stop automatic gunfire." He finally drops his hand. The loss of his body heat from that hovering touch leaves my skin cold. "You are coming with me."

"I am not getting into a black SUV with a mafia enforcer."

"I am not an enforcer. I am the guard."

"I do not care if you are the Pope. I am staying right here."

He tilts his head. The messy beard shifts. A tendon pulls taut along his neck. The clinical edge is completely wiped away. The man looking at me now is operating on a dangerous instinct. The kind that commands a private army.

"You have two choices, Gemma Torres," he states softly. The quietness of his voice is infinitely more terrifying than a shout. "You get in the vehicle under your own power. Or I put you over my shoulder and secure you in the vehicle myself. Make the choice."

I stare at the width of his shoulders. I look at the dark, unyielding ink of the skull and roses on his left arm. I look at the dark eyes promising lethal violence to anyone who steps in his path.

He is not bluffing. He thinks he can just bark an order and I will fall in line?

"I will scream," I warn him.

"Scream," he agrees. "My men will not care. The street is empty. You are wasting time."

I grind my teeth together. "You are a lunatic."

"I am the man keeping you alive tonight." He steps to the side, gesturing toward the lead SUV. A man in a suit immediately opens the rear door.

I look at the ruined metal of my food truck. I look at the smashed salsa containers. The smell of cumin and gun oil twists together in the night air. He is right about one thing. The police are not here. The sirens have faded. The street belongs to the Costas.

And right now, apparently, so do I.

I step past him. The heat radiating off his frame catches my skin. I do not look back at him as I climb into the leather-scented interior of the SUV. The doors are armored. The windows are pitch black.

The door slams shut behind me.

The guard climbs into the front seat. He barks an order in rapid, harsh Italian. The convoy slams into gear. The tires squeal against the asphalt.

We leave the ruined shell of La Diosa behind in the dark. We speed away from the South Side, plunging deep into the neon-lit arteries of the Chicago skyline. I sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring straight ahead.

I have no reason to trust a Costa. I have every reason to run.

But as the armored SUV merges onto the expressway, taking me away from the only life I have built, running is no longer an option.

The guard has locked me down.

And the war has just begun.