Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
ENZO
The hit is swift and blinding, a brutal impact that slams straight into my chest. I’d be impressed if it didn’t hurt so damn much.
The clamor of the crowd is deafening, but not enough to drown out the sickening crack of my rib. As long as the Goliath keeps circling me like a crazed jackrabbit and exhausting himself, I’m good.
Deep breath in, punctured wound out.
“You’re weak, D’Angelo.” His thick Albanian accent cuts through the chaos. It’s almost refreshing—it means he’s avoided my face entirely, and I’m not blacking out.
Weak? Maybe. Because nothing screams pussy-whipped more than marrying a girl, right?
By doing so, my brothers had no choice. Protect Kennedy and her sister at all costs. If necessary, with their lives. The creed of the D’Angelos.
La Familia Prima . Family First.
And yes, it was a dick move to force their hand by inviting our uncle to the wedding, but time was of the essence, and the last thing I needed was a lengthy debate.
Especially with Dante. That fucker’s half-lethal killer, half-incessant nag.
But the bigger dick move was forcing Kennedy into matrimonial bliss. My Bella doesn’t understand the lengths I’ll go to for her. But she soon will.
“Tell me what I want to know.” My demand seems reasonable, even as I’m doubled over, gasping for air.
He laughs an evil fucking laugh. “What do you want to know, pretty boy?” Never mind that he’s still chasing me like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the way he called me pretty boy .
But I need answers, so I do what I always do. I strike a deal. “The photos. He has photos of girls. Not digital. Real. Give me the name of Andre’s supplier, and I’ll let you live.”
Head cocked, he looks at me, confused. “Is this a joke?”
“Tell me what I need to know, and I promise to end this quickly.”
That makes him laugh so hard, now he’s doubled over.
Originally, I thought my uncle was just a low-life cockroach, peddling flesh because he wasn’t smart enough for a more sophisticated racket.
But, and I hate to admit this, I was wrong.
After chopping Uncle Andre at the knees in Italy, photos began showing up, delivered to me wherever I was. Sometimes by professional couriers, sometimes by whoever will do it for a buck. Always of Bella .
Kennedy, younger and younger, posed in different outfits. Dresses chosen by sick shits and predators to make her look like a doll.
Every single photo makes me want to lurch up whatever I’d eaten that day or kill someone with my bare hands.
Hence, my little interaction with Kreshnik here. No one’s more connected in human trafficking than the Albanians, and Kreshnik has all the answers.
Every pinch point, every vulnerability. So, if my uncle thought I’d back off once he started leveraging my wife, he’s dead fucking wrong.
When I zig and should’ve zagged, Kreshnik lands a direct hit. My body slams into the fencing, pain flaring in my side.
Dante’s voice cuts through the crowd with his usual pep talk, “Only morons go in alone.”
Groaning, I force myself up on my hands and knees, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. Then I look up at him from inside of the cage. “Since when do you need an engraved invitation?”
“You sent me a text. ‘Going to war with Uncle Cocksucker. See you there.’ No place. No time. I had to track my own goddamn jet like I’d lost my phone.” He looks up and switches gears. “Incoming.”
I brace myself. As Kreshnik lunges to kick me in the gut, I catch his foot and twist until I hear a snap. He crashes to the floor with a satisfying thud.
Without missing a beat, I grab his other foot, rinse and repeat. He writhes in pain, howling like a wounded animal.
The crowd roars again, and someone tosses a heavy-duty chain into the center of the ring—the kind that can break bones with a single strike .
My sadistic streak kicks into high gear when Kreshnik starts army-crawling toward it. I stride over and kick it to the other side of the cage.
The rules are cutthroat. When weapons are tossed in, whoever touches it with their hands keeps it.
That’s why hands are usually the first casualties. Broken, smashed up, ripped right off—whatever it takes.
But me, I go for the feet. Give the mouse a sliver of hope, and they’ll race through your maze all damn day.
I snatch the chain just before his fingers are able to graze it and whip him once across the back. “The supplier,” I demand.
Kreshnik’s a beast—300 pounds, six foot seven. He fights at first, enraged and in pain. But after a few brutal hits to his arms, shoulders, and head, his fierce defiance crumbles.
His curses dissolve into mumbled groans. “You—” he gasps, struggling for breath.
I think he’s about to call me another name, when he spits, “You’re the supplier.”
I stumble back, stunned. “I’m the supplier?” I glance at Dante, who just shrugs. I’m about to press for more when the referee declares me the winner, shoving my hand high in the air, which is a bitch on my ribs.
I rush to Kreshnik, delivering a sharp slap to his face. “Explain yourself!” I hit him again. “Wake up!”
Then the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the match.
I look up at the ref. “I need more time.”
“Too late. A debt has been called. That trumps your little spar. We need the cage.” He kicks Kreshnik’s lifeless form. “He’s dead. It’s over. ”
I should be rejoicing over one less flesh peddler, but unease settles over me like tar.
Two of Andre’s men, both naming me as the puppet master with their dying breath. And I need to know who’s pulling the strings.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Dante hands me a scotch and collapses onto the seat beside me, defeated.
I toss back the glass of scotch, hoping to numb the gnawing dread that my uncle has the upper hand. I know it doesn’t work when a second later, I send the glass flying across the jet with enough force to shatter and bust a hole in the panel.
I can feel Dante’s glare without looking at him. “First, you buy a jet with my Black Card, and then you destroy it?”
My lips twist into a grin. Yeah, I feel a little bad about that.
When I ignore him, Dante punches me in the arm—the one I was previously shot in. I suck in a wince. “Your rib next,” he threatens. “Talk.”
I blow out a breath. “Uncle Andre’s setting me up.”
“How do you know?”
“The dance school is a front. I’ve cleaned it up, but there are dozens of fronts with my name on them. So, I’ve been taking them over. Cleaning them, then holding them. But I doubt I’ve accounted for all of them. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m at half.”
“Why would Andre do that?”
“Because I’m his biggest threat. He doesn’t want me dead; otherwise, he wouldn’t have had me shot in the arm. I run D’Angelo Holdings. To the world, I’m at the helm. If I’m under his thumb, he owns it, too.”
Dante leans back, considering. “Fine. You step down. One of us takes over.”
The weight of the idea has merit. But between targeting me or one of my brothers, I’d rather be his target practice. “Not yet.” I say it to placate him, avoiding a long, drawn-out argument.
Dante switches the monitor from a soccer game to a FaceTime call. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
When Smoke, Dillon, and Mateo’s faces light up the screen, I roll my eyes.
“You found him,” Smoke says. “And alive. Which means Dillon owes me twenty bucks.”
“You bet on whether I was dead or alive? For twenty bucks?” I snap, offended.
Smoke shrugs. “At least I bet you’d stay alive.”
“What?” Dillon retorts, pointing at me. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same if you were me.”
Point taken.
“You look like hell, man.” Mateo smirks, taking in my disheveled state. “Lady troubles? I’ve got a bottle of blue pills with your name on it.”
“Keep them, bro. With that, you’ve got a marginal shot at actually satisfying women. Two-inch dick and all.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” Smoke grumbles. “Because I’ve got shit to do.”
Dante elbows me hard in the arm—ow—and I huff out a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “Kennedy is being targeted by Andre. But I know what he really wants— me. I need to take him down before he takes me down.”
“Correction,” Dante interjects with his usual quit fucking around voice. “ We need to take him down.”
I shake my head, the weight of involving my brothers pressing on me like a hot iron. “I’m only telling you this because you need to shield yourselves. Keep your distance from me, and, as a favor to me, protect my wife.”
None of them hesitates, but Smoke is the first to speak. “You’re an idiot.”
“Moron,” Dillon chimes in.
“Totally brainless,” Mateo adds, shaking his head.
I blink, confused, then turn to Dante. “What the fuck is going on?”
Dante grins. “We’re telling you we’ve got your back, dumbass. Just tell us what you need done.”
After a few tedious conversations and wandering aimlessly for several blocks, I’m finally in front of the dance studio.
The building buzzes with activity, bricklayers and construction workers weaving in and out of the guards. Safety precautions for the dance studio are nearly complete, and the former money laundering operation is gone.
I can appreciate washing money as much as the next guy, but a kids’ dance studio? Not on my fucking watch.
I step inside and spot my Bella down the hall. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her—beyond the surveillance cameras, that is. The ache to touch her, to hold her, to absolutely consume her, hasn’t let up one bit. And my dirty little girl hasn’t helped.
I’ve sent her texts. Nothing overly sentimental. Just enough to let her know I’m thinking of her without actually saying as much because when she’s riled up, she turns to Titan. And it’s the most binge-worthy thing I’ve seen in my life.
Watching her is one thing.
But knowing that I own her—that no other man touches her without his hand feeding a meat grinder—is everything. It’s kick-started my lump of a heart, and there is no going back.
Kennedy will be protected.
And I have to show her these fucked-up photos of her and find out what she knows. There’s a piece I’m missing. Something that’s staring me right in the face that I just can’t see.
I’d rather toss back battery acid than do this, but I have no choice.
Pain is the only way I’m dragging her from an inferno, and no matter how much it burns, it’s her only way out.
“Who did?” Kennedy’s voice snaps me back to reality, cutting through my thoughts.
I move closer, catching Riley’s answer. “Enzo.”
“Yes.” They both pivot toward me, and I catch Riley’s face.
I didn’t mind Riley staying here after the wedding. It’s easier to keep a close eye on her this way. But her being under Knox’s watchful eye—I’m not sure what I make about that.
If that asshole hurt her, which seems likely judging by her tear-streaked eyes and trembling form, then the bastard will pay. And making him pay will be my pleasure.
The moment Riley spots me, she bolts. I blow out a breath. Teenagers .
Kennedy moves to chase after her when I grab her arm. “Let her go,” I say firmly. “My men will catch up to her.”
Holding her like this, feeling her tremble in my arms, is more intimate than we’ve been in weeks. I can’t bear to let her go—not now, not when she’s about to be swept away like a leaf in the wind.
I hate that I’m about to shatter Kennedy’s world, but I will build her back up. Shape her into the queen she was always destined to be.
“You and I need to talk, Bella .”
For a lingering moment, I study her face, contemplating what it will take to mend her after I devastate her with these photos. How much time it will take? How many men will I destroy?
Then, I kiss her.
A slow, tender kiss that reassures her of the depth of my commitment.
I am hers.
Judge, jury, and executioner. “I’ll get your coat and have someone take your class. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but we need to talk.”
“Let’s go home.”