11. Chapter 6 #2
“Carefully,” Giovanni continues, like she hasn’t even spoken.
“Don’t make any moves against them. I want you to have proof before you even think about gathering men or making some sort of declaration.
Got that? If you’re right, and it was the Volkovs, then we’ll deal with it the right way.
” His gaze narrows, focused sharply on mine.
There is so much of me in his face, but we couldn’t be more different.
“Understand me carefully, brother. You will do all of this through me, not around me. I’m the head of this Family now.
I don’t want to have to remind you about that again. ”
My nostrils flare as I struggle to control my temper. “Understood, brother.”
“Good.” He picks up his fork and nods at Carlo. “So. The Presidio distribution numbers.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Normally I wouldn’t check it at a Family meal, but I made a promise to someone that I would protect him, and I’ve set my phone to deliver his notifications no matter what.
Carefully, I pull my phone from my pocket and check it beneath the table. The message I read sends cold fear jolting through me.
Dashiell: I need help.
Immediately, I’m on my feet. “I have to go.”
“Where—?” Mother begins, but I shake my head.
“Something’s happening. I have to go.”
“Lorenzo!” Giovanni calls after me, but I ignore him. I’m already headed for the door.
I answer Dashiell’s message with a short message of my own:
Me: Where are you? I’m on my way.
His response comes in quickly, giving me the address.
The whole drive, my mind spins scenarios of what could be wrong. Damn Dashiell for not giving me more information. I have the full force of my driver Wolfe’s armory in this car, which I could use to wipe out a small militia if I had to.
A thought surprises me: I would do that for Dashiell, if that’s the sort of danger he’s in.
Jesus—what’s wrong with me?
I don’t even know the firefighter. Sure, I made him a vow to protect him, but the urge I feel goes so far beyond the strength of a promise.
It’s deeper than a promise, more primal.
I find myself in a postcard of a neighborhood, all narrow duplexes shouldered up against each other, brick buildings and old family stores. A dying part of San Francisco, the kind of place that the mob has maybe tried to get its claws into but hasn’t.
And here I am, corrupting it.
Corrupting Dashiell.
No, I tell myself. I’m not here to corrupt him, even if corrupting might be what he wants. I’m here to protect him, because I made him a promise.
I park opposite the duplex whose address he gave me, my glossy black SUV standing out in a neighborhood of practical cars.
This seems like the sort of place where the neighbors notice everything. What will they think when they notice my car, when they see me going into this house?
Quickly, I size up the situation.
I don’t see any immediate threat to Dashiell, though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. For all I know, he’s in that house, bound and gagged and at someone’s mercy.
He should only be at your mercy, a voice says in my head. I silence it, ignore it. Thoughts like that aren’t helpful right now.
The best way to handle this won’t be to go in all guns blazing. For all I know, that could inadvertently make everything worse.
Instead, I take only my Glock with me, hidden beneath my suit coat—the same suit I’ve worn since the funeral.
I’m sure I make a fascinating picture, skulking up to the duplex. A tall, muscular man all in black, something bulging suspiciously beneath his armpit. Surely the neighborhood gossip train will go crazy with this later.
Dashiell’s message told me that he’s in Unit B. There’s no doorbell, so I knock twice on the door.
Seconds later, Dashiell opens the door. There’s chatter behind him, and the warm light of an occupied house. I get only a small glimpse of a foyer lined with family photos before Dashiell steps out onto the stoop and closes the door behind him.
“You came,” he says, almost breathlessly.
I fight the urge to reach for my gun, to demand he tell me where the threat is so that I can neutralize it. “Of course I came. What’s going on?”
He has to crane his neck to look up into my eyes.
Tonight, he’s wearing a simple sweater and jeans.
Without his firefighting gear, he’s even smaller than I thought he’d be—almost boyish.
His face is young and pretty, his skin clear and ivory-fair now that it’s not dirty with sweat and soot.
His curls of chestnut hair look soft, and how I wish I could twine my fingers through it and force him to his knees.
“I got this today,” he murmurs, and reaches into his back pocket to remove a folded piece of paper. “Look.”
I take the offered paper from him, our fingers brushing against each other. “What is this?”
“Look at it,” he insists.
Unfolding the paper, I take a moment to scrutinize the image on it, a cold dread settling in me.
“Your house.”
“My parents’ house.”
“Ah.”
“Look at the back.”
I turn the paper over and see the message carefully written on the back: You saw nothing that night.
“Someone’s threatening me.”
“I can see that.”
“Who do you think it is?”
My jaw clenches as I resist the urge to crumple the paper in my fist, and then to use that fist to beat the shit out of whoever left this here. “It has to be about the night of the fire at my father’s place.”
His eyes widen. “You think so?”
“Did you see anything that night, maybe when you were inspecting the house after?”
He shakes his head. “Not that I can think of.”
“Clearly, someone thinks you saw something important, and they’re trying to silence you.”
He scoffs. “I should leave the paper out for them, saying, ‘Yeah, I really didn’t see anything!’”
A smile edges along my lips—it’s almost cute, how he can find humor in a moment like this.
But he has no idea what sort of danger he’s in.
If I’m right, and the Volkovs did set the fire at my father’s place, that means they’re the ones targeting Dashiell.
If Volkov enforcers think that Dashiell could be a liability, then they’ll stop at nothing to neutralize him.
“We should get inside,” I say.
“What? No. No, you can’t come in. My parents will ask too many questions.” His face falters. “Not to mention my grandma.” His eyes skate over me. “She’ll want to eat you up for dessert.”
“Dashiell, this is serious.”
“I know. That’s why I texted you. Can you take care of this?”
Now it’s my turn to scoff. “Can I take care of this? Last time I checked, I don’t work for you, Dashiell.”
He shivers visibly at the sound of his name on my lips. I like it, how easily I can cause him to squirm like that.
“You made me a promise to protect me,” he insists. “That’s what I’m asking you to do.”
I step closer to him, forcing him back against the front door. “And I keep my promises, but I keep them on my terms. Have you noticed anything else, anything besides this note?”
He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not that I’ve noticed. But I don’t like that they’re threatening my parents. Whoever they are.”
“I get it.” I make a snap decision. “Okay. You’re coming with me.”
His mouth falls open. “What? I can’t go with you. I’m with my family. We’re—we’re watching the game.”
“And someone knows where your parents live, took a photo, and dropped a threat at the front door. You want them to keep doing that? You want to put your parents, your grandma in danger?”
Anger blazes in his eyes. “No, I don’t.”
“I’m a busy man. You want me to protect you? I need you to be where I can see you. You’re coming with me.”
He visibly struggles for a second, thinking through what I’ve said. “Tell me who you think it was, and then I’ll come with you.”
“This isn’t a debate, Dashiell. Remember what I said about how I don’t like it when people disobey me?”
He pushes off from the front door—now, he stands so close to me that his chest almost brushes against me. “Then you’ll have to punish me, Lorenzo,” he says in a deathly soft voice.
Fucking hell. If only he knew how badly I want—no, need to do that. If only he knew just how capable I am of punishing him, of forcing him to do everything that I want him to do.
But I won’t.
I won’t force him.