Chapter 35
Lennon
I’m seated in a posh living room with marble floors, oversized leather furniture and walls full of oil paintings. Two Russians are keeping an eye on me. Kir, the guard I stabbed in the hand with a fork is staring daggers at me. I stare back, my eyes narrowed in warning.
He deserved it for brushing against my tit on purpose when he dropped a sandwich in front of me. Stabbing him was a reflex. It triggered the memory of Milo pulling the same stunt.
His phone vibrates. “Da?” His eyes flick back to me over his long, crooked nose as he frowns. “Ya ponimayu.”
After hanging up, he stands and talks to the other guard in Russian. They both turn to me, not looking happy. While the tall, lanky one checks his gun, Kir motions for me to get up.
“Well, printzessa, looks like you are leaving us.”
I push myself off the sofa and pause for a moment, waiting for the pounding in my head to settle.
Once it does, I keep my gaze locked on them and move forward.
I want to believe “leaving us” means they are letting me go.
But for all I know they could mean “leaving” as in a “shooting me and dumping me in the ocean” kind of way.
I keep a few feet of distance between us as they lead me to the front door.
Kir reaches for my arm, and I jerk away, my skin crawling. “Don’t touch me.”
My head snaps to the side, a sting heating my face as he backhands me. I grit my teeth as he grabs my arm, squeezing and jerking me forward.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
As they march me out the front door, I pretend to stumble, my heel coming down hard on Kir’s toe. When he lets out a grunt of pain, I get a hit of satisfaction.
Two more armed guards stand on the front porch.
I take in my surroundings. There’s a full moon. The landscape palms rustle in the light tropical breeze. It’s paradise—unless you’re being held by armed sociopaths.
A few words are exchanged and then all four of them escort me down the brick driveway to the iron gates. Kir punches a code into a metal box mounted to the side of the gate.
As it slowly slides open, I shift on my feet, wondering if I should make a run for it. Then I remember the guns. Being shot in the back is not on my bucket list.
They shove me forward, and I gasp as I take in the scene in front of us.
A half dozen black Range Rovers are lined up along the moonlit street on either side of the driveway, engines humming, headlights on. A line of men dressed in black and holding semi-automatic rifles stand in front of them.
Kir’s fingers are still wrapped around my arm like a boa constrictor, his nails biting into the skin. I stifle the urge to suggest he invest in some nail clippers.
I glance up at him. I don’t understand what’s happening until I recognize the man who breaks from the line and jogs toward me.
Rocco.
He stops in front of me, his stormy gray eyes narrowing.
Kir releases my arm and says something in Russian.
The other soldiers laugh darkly.
Rocco sweeps his gaze over them, then reaches out and gently grabs my chin, tilting it so the cheek with the fresh red mark is in the moonlight. His whole expression changes, tightens into a blind rage.
Rocco takes my hand, pushes me behind him and shouts, “Vieni dalla mia parte adesso.”
A dozen men rush forward to surround us. Their weapons are pointed at the Bratva soldiers. Chaos breaks out as the soldiers shout in Russian, and Rocco’s men shout back not to move. Finally, the Russians, breathing hard, eyes darting around, stand still and slowly lift their hands.
Rocco watches this with a dark smile and then says. “You have two choices. You can all die here tonight. Or you can tell me who put that mark on Don LaRocca’s girl.”
Their nervous glances all land on Kir.
Rocco’s gaze slides over to me and I nod. Then he steps forward and punches Kir in the face. A loud thud and a crack of bone break the silence. Rocco hits him again, this time with the butt of his rifle in the gut.
Kir grunts and falls to the ground.
Rocco turns to the man on my right and flicks two fingers toward the line of Range Rovers. The man rests a hand on my shoulder and leads me down the driveway to the street.
I turn back before I get in the backseat. Kir is curled up in a ball, Rocco ruthlessly kicking him. The circle of Russians are backing away, their attention locked on the Italians’ weapons pointed at them.
I close my eyes and wait.
***
The elevator door slides open. Rocco guides me with a steady hand on my back into Sandro’s penthouse.
It feels like a fortress, like a tower sitting high above the danger of real life below.
I take in the glittering view of Tampa Bay through the wall of glass.
It’s beautiful, but I’m too numb to appreciate it.
“Here, have a seat,” he says, bringing me to a caramel leather sofa. “Do you want water? Tea? Whiskey?”
I settle into the buttery soft leather. “Water would be great, thanks. Sandro’s not here yet?”
Rocco had explained on the ride over that Sandro was meeting with a captain in the Russian mob. Oleg Romanov. The man who held me in the garage. Then he had to calm me down from a panic attack.
“He texted. He’ll be here soon.” When he returns, he has the glass of water but also my purse. “We recovered some things from Sandro’s wrecked car.”
“Oh, thank god.” I open it and I’m relieved that my wallet, keys and phone are there. “Do you have a charger? I’m sure Sloane has blown up my phone. We usually text every day.”
“Sure thing.” He takes my phone and returns to the kitchen. I hear him rummaging through the drawers.
I’ve managed to drink two glasses of water, text Sloane to let her know I’m okay, and fight off the exhaustion when the elevator door finally slides open. Sandro steps out. His eyes find mine and the relief softening his expression is instant.
His long legs eat up the distance between us as Gunnar, Big Tony, and a blond man I don’t recognize file out of the elevator behind him.
He falls to his knees in front of me and grabs my hands. “Thank fucking god,” he chokes, his eyes bright with emotion. When I give him a small smile, he drops his head into my lap and wraps his arms around my middle. His whole body shudders, and he exhales a hot breath against my thigh.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him, though that’s a big fat lie. I’m physically still experiencing the side effects of the car crash and whatever drug they gave me. Emotionally I’m numb. I run my fingers through his thick, dark hair to soothe both of us.
Someone clears their throat.
I blink and look up, realizing the three other men have taken a seat around the living room and Rocco has joined them. Embarrassed at them seeing the intimacy between me and Sandro, I tap his shoulder. After all, he’s an engaged man.
He slowly lifts himself up and sits on the sofa next to me, pulling me into his warm body. I feel him go still as he notices the fresh red mark on my face. He runs his knuckles over it and glances at his brother.
Rocco gives a curt nod, which seems to satisfy Sandro. He drops his hand and squeezes my thigh.
I catch Gunnar’s eye, and he throws me a smile and a wink. I return the smile. Gunnar had always been kind to me and protective.
Then I notice the stranger sitting in the armchair, his stare intense but not unfriendly. He lets his gaze move from me to Sandro. “How are we doing this, mate?”
I feel Sandro stiffen. “I’ll tell her.”
I glance up at him. “Tell me what?”
“You may want to rethink the whiskey offer,” Rocco chuckles.
Sandro shoots him a glare. Then focusing back on me, he gently maneuvers me so I’m facing him. He takes my hands once again, caressing them with his thumbs.
“This man,” he said, nodding toward the man with white-blond hair and an eyebrow piercing, “is Killian Donnelly.”
Sandro is nervous and worried. I don’t understand why. What does this man have to do with me? “Okay?”
Sandro holds my gaze. “He was the one following you in the black Mercedes.”
I glance at the stranger. This man was stalking me? Why is he sitting in Sandro’s penthouse like he’s a friend then? “I don’t understand.”
“His intent wasn’t to harm you but to protect you.”
I blink and stare at the stranger once again as I whisper. “Why would he want to do that?”
“Because, Angel,” he says, squeezing my hands to get my attention. When our eyes meet, he gives me the news that will change everything. “He’s your biological half-brother.”
The bottom drops out of my world. I shake my head no. “That’s not possible. You’re saying my mother had another kid?”
“No.” He pulls me back into his chest, his arm wrapped tight around me as if he can protect me from what’s coming. “Go on, Killian. It’s your story to tell.”
Killian slides forward and rests his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers. His gaze holds mine. “What did your mam tell you about your da?”
Oh, his accent…he’s Irish? “That they met in Chicago. It was a one-night stand and she never heard from him again. Didn’t even know his name.”
“Right.” He nods, a bit of sadness or regret seeping into his expression.
“The truth is your da is Mac Donnelly. He’s also my da.
” He straightens and runs a hand over his jaw.
“Your mam was his mistress for four years. She left him one day without notice, without any way to contact her. Just disappeared. Now we know she came to Tampa. Had help getting a job at Club Paradiso. I figure it’s because she found out she was carrying you, and she didn’t want you growing up in the life. ”
Something cold and hard slithers up my spine. Could this be true?
Sandro tugs me closer.
“What life?” My voice is raw, laced with terror because I already know. Deep down, I already know what she was running from.
Still, hearing it out loud is a detonated bomb shattering my soul. “The mob life, dear sister.”
I immediately begin to shake as I really look at this man claiming to be my family. Do I resemble him? His eyes. The same shade as mine. But lots of people have green eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He twists one of the silver rings on his hand, his expression sheepish. “I took one of your discarded coffee cups. Had a DNA test done. Your lad has the results.”
I look at Sandro. He’s watching me carefully. He nods.
I squeeze my eyes closed. How did I run from one nightmare into another? I’m so tired. I have one more question though. I sound defeated, even to my own ears. “How did you find out about me?”
For the first time, he looks apologetic. “Your Aunt Carla. She came to Da with some gambling debt she wanted out of. Said she had information. Told us about you in exchange for a clean slate.”
I didn’t think I could be any more shocked, but here we are. I was never comfortable at Aunt Carla’s. She had a drinking problem and would bring strange men home. I always slept with my bedroom door locked. But she knew who my father was all along? And to betray me? To betray Mom? It’s too much.
I turn my head and bury it in Sandro’s chest.
“All right. We’ll continue this chat tomorrow. She’s had enough.” He scoops me up in his arms and carries me.
I’m already losing consciousness as he lowers me onto a bed.
Hot tears are dripping onto the pillow through my closed eyes.
Every muscle in my body aches. My chest is so tight I can only take shallow breaths.
I feel him removing my shoes, then my slacks.
He pulls a cool comforter over me and tucks it around my body.
I don’t even have the strength to ask him not to leave me.
His lips press against my forehead then his thumb is wiping away my tears. His soothing voice whispers in my ear as the darkness pulls me under. “Sleep, angelo mio. You’re safe now.”