21
Cade
The moment she disappears down the hall, the pressure in my chest eases—like a garrote wire finally loosening its grip. But the blessed relief doesn’t last. Her presence lingers in this kitchen.
I brace my hands against the counter, jaw clenched as I survey her battlefield.
Pans scattered like fallen soldiers, the smell of burnt eggs hanging in the air—a middle finger to my usually ordered world. Every piece of evidence screams that I’ve lost control.
The woman can’t even cook herself a decent meal yet has me tied up in knots. And what’s worse is, she’s impossible to get a read on. Most people take one look at me and their instincts kick in—eyes darting away, smiles going brittle, that primal fear seeping through their pores. Men, women—doesn’t matter. They all crack the same way.
Not Luna.
She ’s like a bored, jacked-up cat that keeps trying to play with me. As if I’m a toy she can wind up and then watch skip around. And behind those dark sloe eyes, she’s hiding something.
How the fuck did Kat miss that detail?
Because Luna isn’t the mark. Her father is.
I drag a hand through my hair, restlessness crawling under my skin like ants. Why can’t she be open with me? My rescues are usually grateful and malleable. One gentle push and they spill their guts like a punctured vein.
One call to Kat, and I could have Luna’s whole life laid bare in the time it takes to load a clip. My fingers itch toward the burner phone, but I stop myself.
I want Luna to trust me enough to tell me on her own.
And since when do I give a damn about earning the trust of someone I’m not about to kill?
I look over at Saint, who’s sitting in the corner, his eyes fixed on me like I’ve just committed a cardinal sin. “And you,” I snap.
Saint’s ears twitch.
“I thought you were antisocial? Thought you hated strangers getting too close? But Luciana? She waltzes in here, a whirlwind of purr and sass, makes eyes at you, and suddenly you’re ready to take me down for her?”
Saint looks away, but not before I catch the way his head lowers a fraction, effectively chastised.
To be fair, I can’t blame Saint. After all, I did command him to lock it down with Luna. Which to Saint means to guard her to the death. And then I fucking praised him for the effort he made in warming up to her.
Needing to give him the guidance he deserves, I cross the room, and crouch down to meet Saint’s eyes. He immediately stands taller, body tense, ears pinned forward, ready to obey. I plac e a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him, then nod toward the hallway.
“Listen, Luciana’s not hurt. “ I give a quick, subtle hand signal—fingers pointing downward for “bed,” then reinforce the command with my tone.
“When Luciana’s screaming with Cade, St. Michael you are to stand down and go to bed.”
Saint holds my stare a heartbeat too long—testing boundaries. Then he folds down like a deactivated weapon, tucking his head with a sigh that says he’ll obey, but he’s not happy about it.
“Good boy,” I murmur. He’s too smart for his own good sometimes. We’ll need to run this drill again, but he’ll adapt. He always does.
Rising, my attention catches on that scrap of paper on the counter—Jacques Devereaux’s email scrawled in wide angry loops. With a chuckle, I crumple it into a tight ball before pitching it into the trash.
Paris my ass . I took a gamble and pushed her buttons hard. The look in her eyes and the droop of her shoulders as she stormed off told me everything she’s too stubborn to admit.
This princess doesn’t want her gilded cage. She wants to run with the wolf. She looks at me like I’m a dark savior—her personal demon with a rescue complex.
And Christ help me, a twisted part of me craves that look in her eyes. Because somewhere between her taming my dog and trying to tame me on that counter, I’ve come to terms with one fact: there’s no scenario where I’m letting her go.
I grab the burner phone off the counter, head to the living room, and drop onto the couch. I dial a number I know by heart. The line rings, echoing in the quiet.
“ Who is this?” A suspicious rasp, roughened by years of cigars.
“The better question,” I drawl, “is whether you’d like to see your daughter again, Alfred.”
Silence. Then comes the icy tone that does nothing to keep his men in line. “I asked who the hell this is.”
“Think of me as a vault,” I reply, crossing one boot over the other on the coffee table. “A vault to hold on to Luna until all of my terms are met.”
His breath catches. “If this is a joke—”
“I assure you it’s not,” I settle deeper into the couch. “But feel free to wait until she doesn’t come home tonight. Then send your best men, empty your arsenal . . . the completely useless works. Or, you could hear what I’m about to say now.”
A beat of silence. Then, a sinister chuckle. “You must be one of those dirty lowlifes my daughter surrounds herself with. What, you thought you’d leech off Luna some more? Squeeze her Papa for ransom? Well, I can tell you this for free; you’re a dead man.”
“Dirty?” I sigh, letting a dark smile edge my words. “If only you knew how obscenely filthy I plan to get her.” I let the innuendo slide like poison between us.
His breathing changes—controlled, measuring his response. I’ve struck a nerve, but he’s a man accustomed to negotiations, even with a gun to his head. “Name your price, you son of a bitch,” he commands, voice hard as granite.
A laugh scrapes up my throat. “You couldn’t pay me enough money to hand her over, Alfred. No, what it’ll cost you to get her back is very simple. One life.” I let that sink in while I picture his throat working, eyes narrowing as he fights to keep his voice steady.
“Whose?” he finally grits out.
“ Yours, ideally. But I’ll settle for Clemenza Brando’s if you’re not feeling that generous.”
The pause that follows is long and calculating, his mind no doubt working, weighing his options and testing for any sign of weakness.
“You clearly don’t know what I can do to you. Your entire generation.” His voice carries the weight of decades in the business.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Focus, Alfred. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what I can do. What Nico Vitelli is capable of doing to your precious Luna.”
That gets his attention. “Explain to me what my Consigliere’s death has to do with my daughter’s return.”
“Funny you should ask. You had your chance to find out this morning when she tried to talk to you. As usual, you blew it.” I pause, letting each word sink in. “So here’s your second chance of ever seeing your daughter again: Kill Clemenza. I’ll let Luciana walk free. You have seven days.”
When he speaks, his voice carries the chill of a man who’s ordered his share of deaths.
“You expect me to murder my right-hand man on your say-so?”
“I expect you to make a choice. And just so you know, if you don’t, I’ll introduce you to the grave I’ve dug for you.”
I snap the phone shut just as a sharp knock echoes through the room. My muscles tense, and I glance at my watch. No one should be here right now. Sophie couldn’t have pulled strings this fast. Unless . . .
I cross to the window, push the curtain aside, and groan when I see the sleek black Escalade sitting in the driveway.
There’s only one person who would bring an armored tank on a simple errand. Dumber.
My jaw ticks as I wonder what kind of favors Sophie had to call in to get him out here so fast.
I open the door, already regretting it. Dante Vitelli stands there, looking every bit the Underboss—second-in-command—of the Chicago Outfit with his flinty gray eyes and pretentious bun. Of course, he’s wrapped in a suit that costs more than most cars, looking like he’s heading to a board meeting—or a funeral. Probably both.
“Jesus, Dumber,” I mutter, letting the disdain drip from my voice. “What’s with the penguin get-up? Can’t even drop off a package without decking out in your Sunday best?”
Dante flashes a mocking grin. “I didn’t dress up for you, Quinn. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Romano princess. Word on the street is that Luna leaves quite the impression.”
He cranes his neck as he peers past me into the house, and I clench my fist to stop them wrapping around his throat. It doesn’t matter that the fucker is hopelessly devoted to his wife—just hearing Luna’s name on his tongue sets my blood boiling.
“You gonna invite me in, or do I have to stand out here like I’m selling Bibles?” he drawls.
I plant myself in the doorway, arms crossed, wordlessly telling him where he’ll stay.
His smirk widens. “That’s probably the smart call. Best keep her away from us Vitellis. Although technically, I’m not the one holding the grudge.”
True enough. It’s his brother, Nico—the Don—who harbors a special hatred for Luna’s uncle.
“I’m surprised they’ve got you on errands duty, Dumber. A recent demotion?” I snort.
“Nah, still calling the shots. I volunteered for this particular errand.” He dangles the shopping bag from its braided handle s, eyes gleaming with mirth. “I had to see up close what ‘pussy-whipped’ looked like on you.”
My blood spikes hot, my hand already darting toward his throat before my brain catches up. But Dante is ready. Steel flashes in the light and his blade kisses my knuckle, leaving a thin red line.
He slides the knife away in one fluid motion, that shit-eating grin still fixed in place. “Oops. Force of habit. You know how it is with us brothers.”
I flex my fingers, letting the sting remind me why I shouldn’t kill him. Yet. “One of these days, Dumber.”
His gaze drops to my rosary, and his eyes narrow with that nosy bastard look I can’t stand. “Ever consider retirement?”
My gut coils tight. There’s no way he knows what I really do.
I lock down everything but the irritation. “Get to the point,” I growl.
Something almost like concern flickers across Dante’s face. “Road life’s not for everyone. Even wild little princesses need roots.”
I rip the bag from his grip, my knuckles whitening around the handles. “Your job’s done. Now fuck off.”
Why does everyone suddenly feel the need to write my wedding vows because I rescued Romano’s daughter?
He raises his hands in mock surrender, that damned smirk creeping back onto his face. “Just saying, you might wanna rethink the nomadic life.”
He turns on his heel, sauntering back to the SUV.
“And you might wanna watch your back, felon,” I call after him as he pulls open the door.
Dante glances over his shoulder. “Why should I? That’s what you’re there for.”
I g rit my teeth, my hand twitching with the urge to throw the penknife in my boot at him. But sweet little Addy wouldn’t appreciate having to dig my parting gift out of her husband’s ass. So I just watch until the Escalade disappears.
I slam the door shut. Pussy-whipped? I can’t fucking believe my sister. I know she and Dante are thick as thieves, but she’s supposed to be a therapist. And two seconds after I tell her about Luna, she’s blabbing that shit to him?
But maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world that Luna already has Sophie and Dante on her side. Something tells me she’ll need those allies very soon.