Chapter 3ANGELO

Chapter 3

ANGELO

Walking away from my girl when she's turned on only increases my rage at the man in my hold.

If not for him, I could be in the club watching Candi. But he had to ruin tonight for both her and me.

I shove him through the door to the back. A john steps out into the hall, takes one look at me and rushes back into the room he came out of.

"Angelo, you can't kill that guy." Nerissa hustles past me and turns to face me.

Ugo's right behind her, but he's looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

"I'm not going to kill him." Losing a hand is final, not fatal. "I'll even put a tourniquet on his arm so he doesn't bleed out before his friends can get Ronnie here to an ER."

I told them to pick him up in the alley and if they don't abandon him, he'll be fine. Mostly.

Ronnie starts struggling again. "Don't let him take me out there and beat me up. He already broke my hand. I'm going to sue this place!"

"I'm serious." Nerissa steps to block the hallway more completely. "You know things are tense right now."

"Nerissa, I respect that you have the balls to try to stand in my way." I can count the people on one hand that would stand up to me with such cool.

Salvatore De Luca's sister and second-in-command has balls of steel.

"Good. Let him go and we can keep respecting each other."

Ugo is inching along the wall, like he's looking for a door to duck into. Salvatore needs a better GM for this place.

"This piece of shit assaulted one of the dancers in your club. I am taking care of the problem for you."

Nerissa gives the stronzo in the cheap suit an icy glare. "I'll take care of it."

I shake my head. "No can do. He touched Candi and that made it personal."

"Did you start dating?" Ugo asks, his voice an octave above his normal pitch.

What kind of made man is he?

"She's mine. That's all you need to know."

"You're claiming her?" Nerissa asks carefully.

"I am."

"Does she know that?"

"Not yet. Like you said, the timing is bad right now." Our don is angling to be the next godfather when Don Caruso dies.

Things are dangerous for anyone connected closely to the De Lucas right now. As the Genovese head enforcer and assassin, I take my orders directly from Severu De Luca. You can't get much more connected than that.

I'm not painting a bullseye on Candi's back by claiming her before the dust settles and our enemies are flushed into the light and eliminated. "I expect my claim to stay between us."

Nerissa jerks her chin in agreement and Ugo nods vigorously.

"Good. Now get the fuck out of my way." I don't bother to threaten either of them.

I don't have to. I take my orders directly from the don. No capo's second has the authority to get in my way, much less a made man with no rank.

"You promised not to kill him," Nerissa says without moving.

It wasn't a promise, but I jerk my head in acknowledgement anyway.

"Okay, but fuck, Death. Cutting a man's hand off is going to draw attention that our don doesn't want."

"No, it won't." I know what I'm doing.

Out of patience, I shove the guy squawking about suing the club and Nerissa and every employee who ever worked here toward the back exit.

Nerissa steps aside and lets us pass. "It better not, Angelo. What's going on at the top is more important than either of us."

"Agreed." But it's not more important than Candi's safety.

"Keep your lesson for Ronnie away from the club," she spells out.

I was going to take care of this situation in the alley and leave the stronzo to the tender mercy of his friends, but Nerissa has a point.

Better to take him to one of the spots I use when The Box is not expedient. Fuck. I need a car for that. As I open the back door, I voice command my phone to text Derian.

Death : Need a work car in the alley behind Pitiful Princess .

The ping from Derian's reply sounds as I open the back door.

Derian : On it, boss .

Tossing the pissant into the alley where he falls and rolls toward the dumpster, I register that the light in the alley closest to the backdoor is out and the streetlight above the dumpster is broken.

On instant alert, I scan my surroundings. My guard does not drop when I don't see anyone. This might be an alley behind a strip club in Lower Manhattan, but despite what the deed shows, it's owned by a capo in the Genovese Family.

And Salvatore keeps his properties up. There are no broken streetlights behind his clubs to act as an invitation to street thugs trying to peddle their shit on our territory.

Tuning out the moans from Candi's attacker, I open my senses to the sounds and smells around me. The swoosh of rubber on pavement from the avenue at the end of the alley gets filtered out. The scent of stale piss and garbage masks other smells and it's noxious.

I frown.

Candi walks down this alley every night to get home.

Making a note to text Nerissa and tell her to get the street sweeper down here, I move my head infinitesimally to the right and then to the left.

A shadow of movement on the left has me pulling my gun and spinning to face it. I prefer my knife, but guns are more efficient in situations like this.

The shadow detaches itself from the wall beside the dumpster, a deep rumble issuing from deep in its chest.

A dog.

Huge and black, it reminds me of the Cane Corso mastiff my grandparents had when I was a kid.

Fiercely loyal, that dog gave its life trying to protect my nonno from the scum who robbed him coming out of the hospital where my nonna lay dying after a massive stroke.

Nonna's heart gave out completely when she heard the news her husband of 62 years had been murdered and their dog was dead.

Some people said nonno and nonna dying on the same day was poetic. They loved each other so much.

I called it fucking unacceptable and tracked down every member of that bullshit gang before exterminating them like the cockroaches they were.

They were the first ones to lose their hands to my knife.

Severu's father, Don Enzo, insisted I join the Army after what he called my undisciplined killing spree. He said the Army would instill the much needed discipline in me. They did. And they trained me for my future career.

Killing people.

Favoring one of its back legs, the dog nevertheless takes up an assertive stance in front of the dumpster.

Is he protecting someone?

"Whoever the fuck you are, get your ass out here."

Another shape steps away from the dumpster, right in front of the dog. "You'll have to shoot me before you kill the dog."

"Who are you?" I ask, noticing that my prey is trying to crawl away.

Ronnie's headed toward the end of the alley that's blocked by another building. I'm not worried he's going to get away, so I ignore him and focus on the old man barely visible in the dim light of the alley.

"You the one who knocked out the streetlight?"

His ratty clothes and unkempt hair indicate he's living rough, but he stands straight and looks me in the eye. "The dog wouldn't sleep when it was on. Kept jumping at shit."

"He's limping. Does he need a vet?"

"Probably, but if I take him in, they'll scan his chip and return him to his people."

"And that is a bad thing?"

"Yep."

Something about the old man is familiar to me. The way he stands with a ramrod straight spine, his head fixed forward? That's pure military. But that's not the familiarity pricking at my brain.

"Why?" I ask.

"His owner is the reason he's limping."

"How do you know that?" I wouldn't, and don't, give the owner the benefit of the doubt either, but maybe the old man saw something.

"They was walking in Central Park and the dog went running after something. Probably a damned squirrel. He's big, but I doubt he's more than a year old. Still thinks he's a puppy."

If he's that young, he still is a puppy, no matter how big he is. "You an expert on Cane Corsos?" I ask.

"Knew a man who preferred them for his guard dogs."

I nod. It's a popular breed for that. My nonno wasn't the only man who grew up in Little Italy that thought so. Descended from the original breed to protect Roman emperors, the Cane Corso is the most popular breed of guard dog among la famiglia .

Wanting to know how the dog got injured, I ask, "What happened when he chased the squirrel?"

"The wife was holding the leash and he pulled her right off her feet, she slid into muddy grass face first. Was fucking funny. Until her asshole husband starts screaming at the dog and kicking him."

"You step in?" I ask. Not sure why.

Most people wouldn't.

"Yeah. Told him he should have been holding the leash in the first place. Wasn't the dog's fault he was too big for the woman to control."

I nod. The dog must weigh over a hundred pounds.

"Won't repeat what he said about Mars, but privileged little shit told me if I thought he was such a great dog, I could take care of him."

Something stutters in my chest. "That his name? Mars?"

Nonno's Cane Corso was named Mars. It's a popular dog name, but it gives me a jolt anyway.

"Not according to the tag I took off him. The yuppie couple called him Bentley Beauregard von Simmons. He answers just fine to Mars."

I shake my head. "He deserved to be rescued from the name alone. He's fucking Italian, not German."

"That's what I thought. They could have at least used an Italian car name and di instead of von ."

"Mars is better."

"That it is." The old man points toward the back of the alley. "That guy you brought out here with you is going to escape through the vegan restaurant's kitchen."