Chapter 5
FIVE
Angelo
I storm down to the basement and slam my fists into the punching bag. Few people piss me off the way Luisa just did. I have damn good control over my temper. I know how to use it, where to focus it, and how to channel it into something productive—murder, covering tracks, making things happen.
Cops call me a murderer.
The people who hire me call me a hero.
They thank me for doing what they couldn’t.
I take out the trash. I clean up the streets.
Sure, not every job is about taking down rapists and child killers. Sometimes it’s some idiot drug dealer selling a bad batch. Sometimes it’s an arms dealer stepping into our territory.
We have rules.
We’re not good people because it’s not a fucking good and nice world.
Cops, lawyers, judges—they follow the letter of the law, but that same law traps them. They can’t do what’s right. They can’t always put the guy in jail. If there’s one hiccup in the case, it’s over.
Hell, I’m proof. Maybe I’d believe justice was possible in a courtroom if even one of the people I’ve killed had been held accountable. If I was going to be held accountable.
I beat the shit out of the bag until I’m afraid I’m going to pop the damn thing. My breath comes hard and fast as I glare at the door. Luisa needs a goddamn wake-up call if she still believes in the system she’s watched fail again and again.
The burner phone buzzes. The one our rat in the department gave me before dumping me here with my ankle bracelet. I pick it up and hear Matteo. “Hey.”
“What?” I demand.
“Dad’s planning a raid to get you out. Cops are going to catch bullets. What are we in for?” Matteo demands.
“Don’t bother.”
“They’re going to try to pin half the murders of the last year on you,” Matteo argues. “If they dig into you, they dig into us. We’re going to take out the Cane dude and drag Emilia back. Take out the Chang chick and anyone else we can’t buy off.”
“Matteo—”
“This is happening. How many cops they got on you?”
I rub my forehead. Jaw tight. “Do. Not. Do. This.”
“Why? You falling like Emilia did?”
My teeth grind. My gaze flicks to the staircase leading up to the main floor. I shake my head, then switch to Italian.
“No matter how the trial goes, it’ll be fine. They don’t have anything that links back to you, Luca, or Dad. Emilia’s got dirt on all of us, so leave her alone. Trust me. She’ll keep her boyfriend in line as long as we ignore her.”
“She’s family.”
I exhale sharply. “The family matters more.” My voice drops, firm. “Protect it. Forget about me.”
Matteo’s quiet for a long moment. Too long.
Then, “Dad already gave the order. It’s happening in three days. We’ve already got people watching.”
His voice is final. “You’re dad’s legacy and the only one who can take over. You don’t get a choice in this.”
The line goes dead.
I exhale sharply, my grip tightening around the phone I’m not even supposed to have.
I glance at the stairs again.
I shouldn’t have a phone. Shouldn’t have access. But I memorized a few numbers before they took mine. Some were already programmed in.
My thumb hovers over Emilia’s name. She shouldn’t be in my contacts.
But… she could be an asset. If she goes back in and distracts them, I can figure out how to fuck everything up from the inside.
If I can make Luisa hate me so much, she begs to be replaced—and one of our own takes her place—it’ll be cleaner.
I text Matteo. Give me 72 hours to get a cleaner way.
You have 48.
Fuck!
Forty-eight hours.
How the hell am I supposed to push Luisa far enough to make her leave in that amount of time? It would be easier to make her love me than to break her.
No.
Not love me. If she fucks me. Gives in to me, she’ll remove herself. She won’t risk a case—she’s too damn noble for that.
She’ll kiss me, report herself, and be replaced.
I’ll use her fucking morals against her to save her—to save her (proving I’m not a monster) and keep the cops from stacking more charges against me.
That’s doable. Just like Luisa is. I go another round with the punching bag before heading upstairs.
She’s stretched out on my couch, reading something about the law—how fucking fitting. She kicks her feet idly, twirling the tip of her ponytail, shifting just enough that her thighs jiggle slightly.
Just like her ass. She’s so damn plush.
“You look like a perfect body pillow,” I inform her.
She doesn’t flinch. “Dinner’s being served in an hour.”
How the hell am I supposed to seduce the woman I just yelled at?
I glance at my fists and smile. “Want to punch me?”
Her feet freeze mid-kick. For a second, I don’t even think she’s breathing. Luisa’s gaze snaps to mine. “You’re trying to get me on police brutality?”
Damn. That would have been an easier way to go.
Backup plan. I shrug. “I don’t have a murder room—here anyway—but I have a boxing ring.”
“Fight club. Shocking,” she sneers.
“We both put on boxing gloves and go at it. I’ll put in writing that it was my idea—if you need supervisor approval to get a workout.” My tone condescending.
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t need permission to best you in boxing.”
“Are you sure?” I tilt my head, all mock innocence. “Seems like you need permission to enjoy yourself. I tried to give you that permission, but maybe we should call your boss, your partner, your parents. I want to cover my bases,” I say with a shrug.
She slams the book shut.
There she is.
“You won’t even land a hit.”
“That sounds like a bet.” I keep my tone light. “Are we betting money, a service, something fun?”
She stands, eyes locked on me, contemplating. Calculating.
“If you don’t land a hit, you behave. You leave me alone. You act like the perfect gentleman. You’ve convinced plenty of people you are.”
I grin. “And if I win, you kiss me.”
It’s out of my mouth before I can second-guess it. Luisa stares at me, jaw tight, teeth grinding, planning her next move like this is a chess match.
I arch a brow. “I thought you were confident I wouldn’t land a hit, Topina.”
“I’m already bending the rules since you’re not allowed to touch me,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
I smirk. “Well, if you’re too afraid—if you can’t back up your words—”
“I didn’t say I was!”
“You didn’t take the bet.”
Her nostrils flare. “It’s not a mandatory part of getting in the ring!”
I smirk. “But you want to get in the ring.” I lean in just enough to watch her glare sharpen. “Aren’t you tired of doing what you’re supposed to do and ignoring what you want?”
Her lips press together.
“Having to kiss you is a punishment that’s too steep.”
I snort. “I didn’t say you’d be kissing my ass or my dick. It’s a kiss.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not, or you wouldn’t be fighting so hard for it.”
Smart girl.
“I’m on the clock.”
I shrug. “Fine. Chicken out. I won’t hold it against you. I’m nice like that.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. And then she follows me downstairs. I pull her gloves on, tightening them just a little too much, just enough to watch her hiss and growl at me.
She watches me the entire time.
“One kiss,” she says, voice tight.
I grin. “One. And it’ll be our little secret.”
She grumbles. “We’re not making a habit out of secrets.”
“Two isn’t a habit.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “We don’t have two.”
“So I should tell the next officer I see that I slept with you six years ago?” I ask, voice low, teasing. “That you moaned for me? That you clawed my back so hard I had scabs?”
I take a step closer, watching her jaw tighten.
“Or should I describe how much you liked having my palm on your ass?”
Luisa’s eyes narrow to slits. “Two secrets, but no more than that.”
I chuckle as I pull on my gloves. “You’re hurting my feelings. Friends have secrets.”
“We’re not friends.” She tugs at the straps of her gloves, testing them. “Just because I’m your babysitter.”
“Ah, well, babysitters have secrets too.” I flash her a wicked grin. “Bribing kids with candy. This is the same. You’re just bribing me with kisses and the bosses never have to know.”
I wink.
She rolls her eyes so hard I think she sees the back of her skull. Once we’re in the ring, though, I see a whole new side of Luisa. She’s not just full of piss and vinegar like a possum—she’s got finesse, skill, control.
If I hadn’t been doing this since I was sixteen, she’d have me on my ass in seconds. Her punches are quick, her footwork sharp. She ducks like she’s been trained by the best.
I grin. Neither of us has landed a hit yet. “Have you realized the loophole yet, Topina?”
Her focus doesn’t waver. “What loophole?” Then she fakes a headshot and jabs me so hard my shoulder nearly dislocates. I try to sweep her legs, but she stumbles back just in time.
I chase her down, pressing the attack—only for her to jab me in the abs and throw herself to the ground, rolling away as loose strands of hair fall into her face.
I’m still grinning. “I didn’t give us a time limit.”
“You son of a-”
“Careful. Insult me, not my parents,” I warn her.
Her nostrils flare, but she keeps moving.
We keep sparring, teasing each other between punches, though she’s less vocal than I want her to be. I like her awkward side. It means I’m getting to her.
Ten minutes in, she’s landed plenty of hits, but she was right—she dodges like hell. Every time I come close, she disengages, rolling away, diving to the floor rather than letting me get in even a glancing blow.
She’s fast. Smart. Fucking infuriating. When I tease her about her form, she slugs me across the face.
Hard.
Instantly, she freezes. I blink, shock flickering across my face before I can stop it.
She laughs. Full, unrestrained amusement. “I wish I could save that face as a picture.”
That’s it. I grit my teeth, stop holding back, and close the distance fast.
We grunt and yell, bodies colliding, breath ragged, until I clip her shoulder. She goes down. I take out her legs—but she drags me down with her.
She rolls on top of me, slams a hit into my ribs, but I’m already ripping my glove off with my teeth. I flip her, pinning her beneath me.
She rips off her own glove off, tries to swing again, but I catch her wrist mid-motion. She thrashes, her breath ragged, but I hold firm, locking my grip.
I jerk my other hand free, grunting from the effort—and somehow boxing becomes wrestling.
She’s damn good at counterbalancing her weight, shifting just enough to keep me from fully subduing her. Every move I make, she counters, her body twisting, legs pushing, forcing me to adjust, restrain, react.
The second she gets her feet under her, I sprint to reclaim her—but pause when she grabs me first.
I drop to the ground before she can flip me. Luisa lets out a surprised noise as she tumbles down after me. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head.
She fights back, arching beneath me, trying to regain control. When she wraps a thigh around me, trying to flip us, I dig my knee into her thick thigh.
I feel the sound in my veins, making her gasp.
“Angelo, get off me!” she yells.
I grin down at her, chest rising and falling, breath hot.
“Naughty girl, throwing punches without gloves.” My voice drops. “Imagine if one had landed. Police brutality is still illegal, isn’t it?”
“It’s self-defense!” She thrashes under me, her body twisting, her heat pressing into mine.
I tighten my hold.
“Now,” I murmur, my lips a breath from hers. “Do I charge you a kiss for every hit I landed? Or do I make you give me a real one—a good one?”
She snarls.
Thrashes again.
I lift my knee slightly, just enough to remind her I’m there, controlling the fight but not hurting her.
Her face is red, rage burning so hot and sharp in her eyes that it sends a thrill down my spine.
Her body is hot beneath mine, shifting, testing me, pushing back.
Fuck.
A part of me must be a masochist because I love seeing her just like this.