Chapter 21—Tommy
I take it in. I take it all in. It’s almost too much for me to handle, and I handle a lot of shit.
I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and dial a number without even thinking twice.
“Get here now,” I say the moment the line connects, then hang up. He’ll figure out where I am. He’s probably tracking my phone already.
Dante moves before I do, coming around me to go to Carl. Leaving me to stand there and stare at Payton.
My Payton.
I don’t know how far he got. But does it matter?
There’s no fixing what he did. Her innocence, the same one I’ve tried to keep her from losing the second she entered my life, hangs in the balance.
Somewhere along the way, she became mine to protect.
Doesn’t matter when it started, just that it has, and the amount of fury inside me right now is barely being contained.
Which is why I can’t move toward her. I stay where I am as she sobs into the couch cushions and curls in on herself.
“Tommy.” Dante looks at me, but once he notices I’m not moving, he pulls off his jacket and puts it over her body. A body that’s mostly exposed due to what Carl was doing to her.
Her screams… I heard them the second I unlocked the downstairs door. I’ve never gone up a staircase so fast in my life.
I barely took the time to take in everything going on before I pulled out my gun and fired.
I have no clue if I killed Carl or not, but I aimed for center mass.
The undeniable rage at seeing him destroy something I’ve classified as mine in such a short amount of time had my head screaming for pain. His pain.
I should check that he’s dead. Or be kicking the shit out of his body. Doing something other than just staring at my girl crying on the couch, covered in another man’s jacket.
That last thought gets my feet moving toward her.
I flip Dante’s jacket off her like it was on fire, marring her perfect skin because it wasn’t mine.
I shrug off my suit jacket, slipping it over her body before cradling her in my arms as I carry her away from where I found her and to a place that’s untouched, untainted.
I sit in my desk chair, not releasing her as I hold her to me.
She’s shivering, and I hope the small amount of heat coming off my body is enough to help.
I don’t speak. I can’t. Too much is in my throat for me to utter a single word. Instead, I look over her body. There’s more bruising on her face. This time I know who did it. I glare but don’t move my eyes off her. Looking at the body on the ground does nothing but fuel my rage.
My hands have been balled into fists almost the entire time, and I force them to relax enough to flex them out. Steadying my breath and attempting to put my mind in a neutral zone, I move one unclenched hand under the jacket.
She’s small enough that my clothes cover most of her upper half, especially with her curled up like a child would when seeking comfort from a parent after a nightmare.
And while my instincts are screaming to protect her, I’m not someone who she should see as nurturing.
Not in the traditional sense of the word.
While I hold similar traits—encouraging, supportive, developing—I also want to corrupt certain aspects of her life.
Help her reach her goals and keep her tethered to me to nurture my needs. My primal needs.
I rub my hand along her arms, shoulders, and ribs, noting every flinch and gasp of breath. I move to her legs and do the same, slowing where it matters most—between her thighs. I check for blood and find none. But it doesn’t mean anything for sure, and I need to know.
I keep looking at her face and notice the moment she opens her eyes. The second she tilts her head up. I don’t ask, but my hand is just over her panties. She gives a small headshake, and the vise around my heart eases as I move my hand away.
With her eyes open, she takes steady breaths and brushes away her tears before sitting up.
Watching her pull herself together, one shuddering breath at a time, sends pride rippling under my skin.
I adjust the coat over her, and she slides her arms through the holes, putting it fully on and fastening the three buttons to cover her upper half.
It hangs on her, but it hides the important parts.
The sound of a gun going off again, this time in front of both of us, has me clutching her close to my chest as I pull my gun from its shoulder holster and aim it at Dante.
Instinct takes over to eliminate the threat even before I can think.
I don’t miss her shaking uncontrollably from the noise as she shrinks in on herself, clinging to me.
Dante stares at Carl a second before putting his piece back into his holster, and I just glare as I lower my gun to the table.
“What the fuck was that?” Danny yells as he and five of his team barrel into my office, ready to shoot at anything breathing.
Dante shrugs. “Guy reached for his gun.” As if that explains everything.
Danny’s eyes narrow on him a second longer before he lowers his gun, his team doing the same as we all take stock of the gun in Carl’s hand.
“Ever think I would want to talk to him?” Danny seethes as he looks around, seeing me and giving me a chin lift before returning his gaze to Dante.
“About what? Why he wanted to rape an employee? Pretty sure the evidence speaks for itself without him trying to deny it.”
Dante takes a seat on the other couch that wasn’t used to torment my girl and pulls out his phone, no doubt to play a game. His way of dealing with my older brother. Dante could never get along with Danny. They go together like oil and water. Which is not unusual for most people who meet Danny.
Who is still staring hard at Dante. Contemplating how to kill him and get away with it, no doubt.
Danny never does well when people do things he doesn’t like.
And talking to someone before they die is something Danny enjoys.
He likes getting answers out of people. It’s his way to confirm he’s 100 percent correct, regardless of whether the evidence clearly shows what’s going on. Like in this case.
With a huff, Danny turns to his team. With a nod in their direction, they start cleaning up what’s left of Carl.
Then he sets his sights on me and the girl still clinging to my shirt like it’s a second skin and walks over. I can tell he’s noting everything about her and me. And my desk. A desk with one of the club books open on it and another under it.
Interesting. I always keep those locked away when I’m not looking at them. Did Carl open it? Someone else? Something to figure out later. After I take care of Payton.
“She all right?” Danny’s voice is low as he looks at me to answer.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, rubbing her back to get her to speak for herself.
I can only say so much. I don’t have cameras in here for a reason.
A choice that’s biting me in the ass right now.
Mostly because I don’t want to get caught for shit that I do with the clients who come up.
The deals I make. It works when we’re trying to hide a body like Carl’s, but it’s shit when I want answers and Payton is still too lost in the moment to talk.
Slowly, she pushes away and looks at me, then Danny. He’s standing, but even if she were standing by him, she would still have to look up.
All the Leones are tall, but Danny is the tallest and widest. His muscles have muscles some days.
He works harder than anyone in the gym, never skipping, not even on Christmas or his birthday.
Guy’s a machine. If he was born into any other family besides ours, he would have probably joined the military, excelling in every task given to him.
But since he’s a Leone, he just takes on the part of a military man: shaved head, daily tactical training, and more tattoos than anyone else in the family.
I keep my tats to places that are rarely seen, as they’re for me, not others.
I know my brothers have tattoos too. Bobby fewer than the rest, as his focus is on the numbers and not marking his skin.
But he still bears the family mark, just like the rest of us.
Even Milly has one, entangled in her sleeve tattoo.
You can’t see it unless you know about it and look, and even then it’s hard to find.
Danny likes the feel of the needle on his skin. And while Vinny and I choose pieces that mean something, he chooses what brings pain. The longer the session, the better to clear his mind or some shit.
He might have similar traits to me and the others—dark hair, tall, and same Mediterranean facial structure—but the man is a different breed. He hunts everything in all aspects of his life. Security is in his soul. And he pities no one. Not even the victim.
“What happened?” he asks when Payton finally looks him in the eye.
She swallows hard, as if something is stuck in her throat. But to her credit, she doesn’t cry or break down again. She just looks down at her hands, which keep shaking as she speaks.
“He… he wanted me to perform.”
My entire body tightens as she admits what I saw. I knew it, but hearing it out loud, from her, hits differently. Though I can’t explain it.
“I tried to fight him off,” she croaks, then shakes her head as she clears her throat. “He was too strong.”
“You provoke him?”
“Danny!” I bark at him, all the rage that had just settled a second earlier rising to the surface of my skin.
Her eyes snap to him, and the pain I see in them is enough to break me as she shakes her head again.
Before he can open his mouth again, I growl, “Careful what you ask next.”
His eyes widen a fraction at the hostility in my voice. I’ve never threatened a brother, especially Danny. We might get into tiffs like all boys do, but I’ve never acted like this toward him. Pushing him off the subject before he can figure it out on his own.