Chapter 24 Dom
DOM
I had a whole thing planned. I’d sit in the living room with Eduardo standing guard and wait for her to come in, soft and contrite.
But I forget all of that when Annetta steps into the penthouse with blood on her face.
I leap up from the couch, ripping past Eduardo, and cup her face in my hands. Blood is smeared under her nose, and the right side of her face is scraped. Did she get in a fight?
I’m going to have to kill someone tonight.
Her first thought, annoyingly, is not for me but for Eduardo.
"What happened?" she asks, pushing against my hands.
Eduardo's mouth is set in a grim line as he cradles a stained bandage around his left hand. He silently looks at me. He’s smart enough to let me answer.
"He failed in his duties.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes before she hardens her face into a furious expression. “What did you do?"
"What did you do?”
Of course, I know exactly what she did. I had a nice, long chat with Turi about his wife's decisions, which fell on deaf ears. He’ll never accept criticism of his perfect wife.
“I went out,” she says.
“Go home, Eduardo,” I grit out. “Mommy and Daddy need to have a little chat.”
“Yes, sir.” Eduardo exhales, giving us a wide berth as he runs to the elevator.
“What happened to his hand?” Annetta snaps once the elevator doors shut behind her.
I’m torn between grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until some sense falls into that pretty head of hers and cradling her against my chest and making her swear never to leave without telling me again.
So, I act like a jackass instead.
“You happened. You left without telling anyone except your new best friend, Marisol. When I came home to a guard who had no idea you had left, I had to take matters into my own hands."
"What does that mean?" she asks with deadly slowness.
“That means I cut off two of his fingers. One for each hour you were missing."
Which I know she’ll disagree with, but I was incredibly generous.
If he's smart, he'll run his ass to the Family doctor and get them sewn back on, and if not, I hope he's at least smart enough to have learned his lesson.
I don't give a shit if she cuts into the glass window like a goddamn international spy and belays down the side of the apartment building—there's no fucking excuse for letting her out of his sight.
“That's horrible.”
I give her my most roguish grin, the kind that usually has men clutching their rosaries and whispering their final prayers. Blood smudges my hand as I cup her face in my palms, and she glares up at me without blinking or pulling away.
I’ve always liked that she’s never been afraid of me, but right now, I could use a little fear.
She needs to understand she can never do this again—that she can’t make me go through this.
How the fuck will I ever be able to focus if I have to worry that she’s going to run out of the penthouse and get herself hurt at any moment?
“Who the fuck did this to you?” I ask as softly as I can while my wife’s blood mars my skin.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” When she doesn’t give me an answer, I lower myself until we’re almost eye level. “Annetta, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to kill everyone in that house. I need a name, angel.”
Her eyelashes flutter.
“Lasso,” she breathes.
I file that name away. I know a Lasso who hangs out with Aceto’s kid. I’m about to dump a can of gasoline on him and burn that little shit alive.
Annetta grips my wrists like she’s reading my mind. “Dom, you shouldn’t have done that with Eduardo. He didn’t deserve that.”
“And you shouldn’t have gone to Aceto’s.” I meet her gaze so she knows I mean every word. “But you leave the house, and your lapdog might shit on the rug.”
She scowls, twisting her face to wipe her blood on my palm like she’s a cult leader marking me as her disciple.
Heat travels south. I crowd her, inhaling her sweet shampoo and the metallic scent of her blood.
My neck throbs. For all her baked bread and soft smiles, this is the woman who bit me hard enough to leave a scar.
“I’m not responsible for what you do when I leave,” she murmurs defiantly. She looks so fucking beautiful with her wild, golden hair framing her furious gaze.
Anticipation thrums through me, but for what? A fight?
I don’t want to fight with her. I want her safe, alive, and happy. The rest doesn’t matter.
I cup her waist, my thumb brushing against the bulge of her holster tucked in her pants, and drag us together until our bodies melt together. I rest my cheek on the top of her head.
“Yeah, I know.” I glance at our homemade gun range, where she’s worked on her shooting more than I’ve seen anyone practice. “Do you feel better at least?”
Finally, her arms come to circle my waist. Her head rests against my chest. “I do.”
“Good.”
When I leave the bedroom hours later, Annetta’s asleep in a nest of bedsheets.
Turi had texted back to let me know the girls Annetta risked her life for were already at the airport to head home. I guess Marisol isn’t a total piece of shit.
Just outside the bedroom door, Rafa pulls a chair over and sits down. He sets his phone and gun in his lap and glances at me over his glasses.
“You got this?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His attention is already back to the door. “Have fun.”
I pass by another of Turi’s men—Camillo—in the apartment lobby. Mauro’s stationed outside on the street. I’m not taking any more risks this time.
In my truck, I call up Turi. He answers on the first ring.
“Dom,” he says as a greeting.
I stab the keys into the ignition. “Don’t Dom me. Is Aceto still at his house?”
“Yes.”
“Is he planning to hurt Annetta?”
“Not that I know of. He’s upset his son threatened her. He knows we’re going to be watching him now.”
I roll my eyes. “Alright. What about Lasso? Annetta said he’s the fuck that hit her.”
“If Lasso has a connection to the Chiarellis, he’s better off alive—”
“I don’t give a fuck, Turi. Maybe you should have thought of that when your wife put my wife’s life at risk.”
“She can make her own decisions.”
It’s not clear whose wife he’s talking about, but I don’t give a shit.
“I’m sick of her life being constantly in danger.”
“I understand.” And it fucking pisses me off that he does. “I’m working on it.”
The bastard’s voice barely rises. Salvatore Luporini and his perfect fucking blood pressure.
“By going on double-dates with all the capos to find a sweetheart for your brother?”
Ever since his half-brother Nico moved into town, he’s been way too focused on finding him a girlfriend instead of shit that actually matters.
“Securing a marriage between Nico and one of our women gives us more security with the Commission, especially if the Chiarellis move against us.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the Commission! How many hoops do we have to throw ourselves through for their precious approval? When Marisol was under threat, I helped you to kill our fucking don. When Matteo—”
“Don’t.”
I’m heaving like I’ve run a mile.
Matteo. He might not be here, but his memory binds Turi and me together like an invisible net.
“I’m your brother too,” I finally say. “And she’s my wife.”
After a heavy silence, Turi exhales, long and slow. “He’s getting drunk at the Pink Palace.”
The bouncer at Pink Palace is smart enough to let me in without fuss.
The interior of the club is one long room, a single floor with two exits and four stages, and I spot Lasso immediately.
He’s in a circle of friends while a pair of run-down-looking strippers make out in front of them.
Even from here, I can tell he’s drunk. That’s the problem with these fucking wannabes.
They all think this lifestyle is drugs and pussy, but that’s the shit that catches up with them the quickest. The smart ones know this lifestyle demands you live like a monk.
I stride up to Lasso’s little group of friends. One of them, a man with more neck than chin, spots me first, his eyes growing comically wide. Beer sloshes over his hand as he slaps Lasso’s back, who shoves him away to lean in toward the strippers.
I hook Lasso from under the shoulders and drag him over the top of his chair, and the club erupts into chaos. The women scream and run away as the men in Lasso’s group turn tail. Not a single one of them lifts a finger for their buddy as he fights and squirms in my hands like a rabbit on a snare.
I haul the idiot kicking and screaming into one of the backrooms. Guess he’s getting the VIP experience tonight.
I throw him inside, grab a stained purple chair, and shove it under the door handle. He reaches for a trash can and misses, throwing up on the carpet at my feet.
Fucking great.
“What… the… fuck,” he says in between retching sounds.
“So you like beating up women?” I walk up and kick him in the dick like I’m launching a soccer ball.
Lasso screams, high-pitched and pathetic. His drunken eyes slide from the ground to me.
“No,” he groans. His face is turning all sorts of interesting shades of red and green.
I aim and stomp on his hand. Was it the one he touched Annetta with? I kick his other hand for good measure, and he screams out.
“You like seeing a woman with a bloody nose, is that right?”
He shows his first glimmer of intelligence by covering his face with his broken hands as he shakes his head.
I do the unexpected thing and squat down in front of him.
“You know who Serafina is, don’t you?”
He peeks at me through his fingers and shakes his head.
I cock my head and suck in air through my teeth. “I think you do. You know, she named you. Said you were the one who fucked up her face. I happen to like her face just the way it is.”
His eyes fill with tears. “Please. I was… I was just following orders. Stefano told me to grab her. His dad told him. She-she’s not who she says she is. She’s the other twin. The bad one—”
He chokes and scrambles back as I pull out my knife from my leg holster. “That’s where you’re wrong. Cause you see, my wife? She’s a fucking angel.”
“When can I go after Aceto?” I ask Turi over the phone.
I drive with the windows down to air out the car after my quick stop at Aceto’s house. He’s not going to like the little present I left on his front porch. Most of the blood washed right off, but I’ll have to take a stain remover to my T-shirt later.
Turi’s silent on the other end, which means he’s thinking. That, or finger fucking Marisol. Those fucking idiots can’t keep their hands off each other.
“Once he gives us something damning about the Chiarellis.”
“Or I could just pop down to Florida and kill them all now.”
“Don’t. I have too much on my plate right now. I’m working with Ottavio,” he spits out his dad’s name, “to choose a suitable replacement for the Chiarellis. They’ve kept the peace for now. We need a little more time.”
I squeeze the steering wheel. “So we can whack our don for your girl, but I have to wait for mine to get murdered before I’m allowed to raise a finger?”
He sighs, and I imagine him squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Use whatever resources you see fit to keep her safe. I want to try diplomacy first. If that doesn’t work, we’ll act.”
Turi and I both know history repeats itself. If he doesn’t act in time to keep my wife safe, he won’t be happy with the results.
Instead of saying that, I tell him in a dry voice, “Sure, boss.”