Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
ENZO
As soon as I hear my uncle’s voice, I run.
“Why the fuck did you tell him Enzo was here?” From behind the thick velvet curtains, my Uncle Andre’s voice is a low growl, the kind of quiet threat that makes grown men tremble.
But not this man.
I peer out to find a giant of a figure, standing tall. “He deserves to know where his son is, boss. He’s the boy’s father. Yer brother. Family.”
His broad back faces me, but I’d know that voice anywhere—deep, brogue, and unwavering. It’s Mullvain, his prized fighter. Brute force personified, his presence is towering yet gentle, even from where I’m hiding.
“Family?” Uncle Andre’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “I don’t need a life coach, Mullvain. I need loyalty. Do you understand?”
Mullvain nods once, and my uncle stops pacing, turning to face him directly.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Someone’s been barking up to the Feds. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“No, sir,” he spits, clearly offended. “I handle me own battles. I’m no snitch.”
“Good to know.” Uncle Andre’s voice drops to a low, feral growl, almost predatory. “You got kids, Mullvain?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then Mullvain shakes his head. “No,” he says, with a casual shrug.
“Liar,” I whisper before I can stop myself, panic flaring as the word slips out.
But no one notices.
I strain to hear, because I don’t know everything about Mullvain, but I know he’s lying. I once saw a picture on his phone—two girls, unmistakably his.
I hold my breath, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure they’ll hear it. My uncle is infamous for making examples of men who cross him, and lying ranks right up there with stealing and informing.
Through the crack in the drapes, I see Mullvain’s clenched fists and the tight line of his jaw. It’s the look he gets just before he turns someone into hamburger meat.
Not that I’ve seen it myself, but I know when he fights for my uncle, all the guards place their bets on him. I might have thrown in a few bets myself.
In this world, even a fifteen-year-old can place bets, and not because I’m a D’Angelo. It’s because a C-note is a C-note, no matter whose hand it comes from.
Mullvain always wins. That’s why my uncle has him teaching me to fight. Not to turn people into hamburger meat, but to protect myself and what’s mine .
“Good,” Andre says, his voice cold and calculated. “Because if you did, you’d have a hard time with this next fight.”
“Why?” Mullvain asks, a wary edge creeping into his voice.
There’s a pause before my uncle speaks, a smug grin forming on his lips as he considers his words. “So we all can see what you’re made of. And to show that nephew of mine how our world works.”
Mullvain’s defiance falters. “Enzo is impressionable,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
My uncle gathers his keys and heads out the door as I duck behind a massive oak cabinet. “That’s what I’m counting on,” he says, his voice cold and calculated.
With that, Uncle Andre and his henchmen blow past me, their footsteps heavy and rushed. Mullvain lingers behind, seething. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping out from behind the cabinet and quietly shutting the door.
He sees me and forces a smile, the kind you give a three-year-old. “Nothing, boy. Ye shouldn’t be here. Yer uncle’s in a mood. Best ye stay out of sight.”
I step closer, my curiosity burning. “Why would you tell my dad I was here?”
He blows out a breath. “Yer Da’s worried about you. I would be, too, if I had a son camping out in a lion’s den.”
“Like you worry about your daughters?”
His face loses all its color, going pale. “How do ye know about them?”
“I saw the picture on your phone once. Two girls.” When his frown deepens, I step even closer. “You can trust me. I won’t say a word.” I hold up my hand solemnly. “I swear. We have a pact. Like Fight Club? ”
A cautious smile curls his lips. “Ye know the first rule of Fight Club.”
“You do not talk about Fight Club,” I recite, puffed up and serious. He rubs my hair, and there’s a closeness between us. A bond. A protectiveness I can feel emanating from him.
He’s protective of me—a great grizzly adopting a wolf. A protectiveness I adopt, too.
“Can I see them? Your girls?” I ask, though it’s really just the one girl I want to see.
“Our secret?” he asks, holding his hand up like he wants to arm wrestle.
I latch onto it and grip it tight. “Our secret.”
He opens his phone and scrolls to an image. There are two of them, but I can’t take my eyes off the little freckled girl with dark hair and eyes like his. Her smile is slight, and my mind spins with all the ways I could make it wider. Cannoli? Or maybe by fighting as well as her dad. “She’s pretty,” I blurt out, sounding like a dork.
“Aye, they both are.” He throws me a mock stern look. “Don’t ye be getting any ideas. From what I’ve heard, her Da’s a mean bugger.” He winks and goes to put the phone away.
Before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out to his. “Is there another picture of her?”
“Maybe. Ye been practicing the series of jabs I showed ya?”
His question instantly flips a switch. He lights a cigar as I run through the moves, pushing power and force with each punch, ending in a tornado kick I’ve been itching to show off.
He chuckles when I fumble the landing but still applauds. “All right, young Jedi.” He pats me on the chest. “One more picture, then it’s back to practice.”
Bzzz.
Bzzz-bzzz.
What feels like a second after I closed my eyes, my phone rings.
My eyes adjust to the brightness of the screen as the name Smoke cuts through the haze. My pain-in-the-ass older brother, probably ready to lecture me on starting a war with Andre.
I answer, groggy and irritated. “What?”
“Just calling to make sure you’re still coming to my wedding.”
His wedding... fuck , when is that again? “Of course, I’m coming. I said I would, so I will.”
“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure, considering I just heard you’d been shot.”
“Do not tell Trinity,” I order, my voice firm.
“Then stop getting shot,” he fires back. “But since you’re not dead, I guess there’s no reason to say anything to our baby sister. Other than you’re an idiot.” He huffs. “A fucking idiot.”
“Are you almost done?”
His voice rises so loud that the sound warning goes off on my phone. “It’s just like you to pull a dangerous stunt like this, days before my wedding, without at least clueing me in.”
When he finally takes a breath, I cut in, “You sound like a nag.”
“And you sound suicidal!” he shouts. “Butting heads with Andre? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I hold the phone away to avoid my eardrum bursting. I let Smoke vent; he probably needs it with the wedding jitters and all. Finally, he calms down. “So, you got yourself shot. Where? In the ass?”
“In the arm.” I sit up, wincing as pain radiates from both my arm and head. “Just a graze,” I mutter, trying to blink my eyes open and realizing it’s pitch black. How long have I been out? I shake off the grogginess and squint at the time.
Past midnight.
Fuck.
I fumble around the abandoned building as Smoke’s voice booms through the phone, giving me more shit. “From the way you’ve been going after Andre, I was sure you’d been shot in the head. What else could explain Mr. Reckless Behavior other than something close to a lobotomy?” He blows out a long, meditative breath. “Are you okay?”
“I’m”—fucked six ways to Sunday—“fine.”
“So, my man of honor is still coming to the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because you know it’s in about thirty hours.”
What? Thirty hours can’t be right. “It’s in three days,” I argue, pretty sure the groom should at least know the right day he’s getting married. “Sunday.”
“That’s right, genius. Sunday. And today’s Friday. Do the math.”
“I know that.” I totally forgot.
I trip over something in the dark, swearing up a storm as some furry, screeching Chupacabra darts over my foot and across the room, scaring the living shit out of me.
“What was that?” Smoke obviously hears the commotion, and maybe even the unholy hissing from a demonic rat from hell. “Where are you?” he asks.
My brain finally kicks in, and I use the flashlight on my phone to meander the rest of the way out of the building.
Hmm .
One glance around what remains of the brothel, and I seriously wish I didn’t need the light.
The place is a living nightmare: moldy walls peeling like old scabs, stained mattresses strewn about, and the unmistakable stench of decay hanging in the air. It’s the kind of place luminal would make light up like the Vatican City at Christmas.
I shake my head. “Trust me, it’s better that you don’t know.” I finally make it to the street, disoriented for only a second before remembering where I parked. “I need to go.”
“Don’t get killed.”
“Don’t fuck up your vows. Seriously, women hold onto that shit forever.”
Weary and worn and nearly an hour later, I finally make it home. The house is bathed in silence, and as exhausted as I am, my hand still wraps around my Glock.
I peer into the guest room and find Sofia and Lili snuggled together in front of the fire, with Truffles at their feet.
I don’t know what it is about the warm glow of flickering flames and everyone cuddled under blankets, but it tugs at heartstrings I didn’t even know I had. The sense of satisfaction and peace that comes over me is eerie as fuck.
Shit . Is this what it’s like to be tamed and domesticated like a fucking house cat? Oblivious to the world and happy for it ?
Maybe there’s a pill for this.
Or some miracle cure like electroshock therapy.
From the corner of the room, a floorboard creaks. I’m already zeroing the barrel of my gun at Dory’s head before I realize it’s her.
She’s in a recliner, fast asleep, with her glasses still perched on her nose and a copy of Matilda resting on her lap, open to the part where the evil hag is scouring the house for the precocious child. What’s her name? Punchbowl?
Now, Miss Honey—that’s a name I remember. The woman with the pretty face and light brown hair was the only highlight of my reading this book to Trinity. All eighteen million times.
My lips twitch into a smile, picturing Dory leaving the girls on a cliffhanger before bed. Who knew she had a dark side?
She rustles slightly, and I pocket my gun before carefully removing her glasses and setting the book aside. Then I drape a blanket over her.
There’s something endearing about her serene expression, though I know the crick in her neck will be a bitch in the morning.
By the time I reach Bella ’s room, my phone buzzes again. I know I should ignore it, but what if it’s Smoke or Dante? What if something’s wrong?
I glance at the screen and read the text. He spells out the date, along with a message.
Debt Due
8:00 p.m.
D’Angelo Estat e
In his own special way, my uncle is letting me know he’s aware of my every move. The thinly veiled threat is evident: Either I hand my Bella over, or we turn Smoke’s wedding into a bloodbath.
And considering the bride’s family is as bloodthirsty as we are, it should make for an interesting reception.
“Sure, Uncle Andre. I’ll hand Kennedy right over to you. How about tied up and naked on a silver platter,” I scoff, shaking my head. Anger fuels my long, deliberate strides from the hall to the nearest guest room. “Over my dead fucking body.”
I need to see Kennedy so badly, my body thrums with a deep, aching pain. A live wire sparking just beneath my skin.
But I can’t. Not yet.
First, I need to shower in a firehose of bleach and clear my head. I’m too edgy and riled up, and if I fuck her when I’m this emotionally charged, the girl’s vagina will combust.
Then, I need to text Smoke.
I detour to the nearest guest room, stripping off my clothes and vowing to burn them. With one step into the shower, I meditate beneath a cascade of scalding hot water that nearly melts my skin off. The heat sears away the grime and tension, but not the anger.
My uncle wants a war? He’s got one.
I dry off and shoot Smoke a text.
Me
About the wedding . . .
I’ll need a plus one.