Chapter Thirteen

Renzo

“Fucking what?” I barked as Rico stepped into the room.

I had someone by the front of his shirt, lifting him up off of the ground like a fucking rag doll.

He’d dropped himself down there the second I entered, his face twisting up, his eyes watering, as he begged for forgiveness for trying to fuck me over on a deal that had just been finished the day before.

I’d been afraid the pathetic sack was about to kiss my fucking shoes, wrenching him up the ground to face me.

But that was when the door flew open, and Rico rushed in, his phone to his ear.

“Boss?”

If I wasn’t so pissed about a missing ten grand that this asshole with the tears streaming down his face thought he could hide from me, I might have heard the clipped note in Rico’s voice and immediately listened.

“Renzo!” he barked.

And this time, I noted something close to panic in his voice.

Panic?

In Rico?

A man who once casually walked into a building with no fewer than six loaded guns pointed at him with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a swagger in his step?

Who’d walked out of that same building a few minutes later, blood covering his shirt and shoes from the bodies he’d just sent to their maker.

That Rico was panicked?

I dropped the fucker’s shirt so hard that he crashed to the ground, letting out a sniveling whimper as I turned to face Rico.

“What is it?” I asked, voice more serious.

“Lore.”

“What do you mean it’s Lore?” I asked, stepping toward him.

Then he said three words that had my fucking heart seizing in my chest.

“Lore was attacked.”

“What?” I hissed, walking through the room with him.

“Elian said she ran out of the elevator, bloody and crying. That’s all he knows.”

I wasn’t walking then.

Neither was Rico.

We both ran toward the SUV, him in the driver’s seat. Which was good. Because as the panic and rage mingled in my system, there was no way I could be trusted behind the wheel.

“How bad?” I asked as Rico peeled off into traffic to a chorus of car horns and screeching tires.

“He said there was a decent amount of blood.”

“Where?”

“Her face.”

Her face?

A growl moved through me, my mind flashing with images of sweet, small, defenseless Lore out on the street and some fuck putting his hands on her.

In my fucking neighborhood.

Someone put a hand on what was mine in my neighborhood.

Rico weaved in and out of traffic before it hit a complete standstill.

“Fuck it,” I hissed, throwing open my door, flying out, and running down the street instead.

I’d never really known panic before.

I’d been born and raised in this life.

I’d been fighting and walking into dangerous fucking situations since I was in grade school.

But that was me.

This was Lore.

A woman who’d been forced into marrying me. Who hadn’t fucking asked for this. Who probably never had a hand laid on her before in her life.

Crying and bleeding.

Because I’d dragged her into my world.

It felt like a lifetime before my apartment building came into view, and I was nearly coming out of my skin waiting for the fucking elevator car to reach the top level.

Elian was already standing there, concern etched on his face.

“Why aren’t you with her?” I snarled as I pounded my fingers into the keypad on the door, fucking it up in my haste, and having to wait for it to stop blinking before I tried again.

“She doesn’t want me,” he said, maybe a bit pointedly, but I didn’t have time to dissect that shit as I threw open the door and rushed inside, eyes scanning the common space, calling out her name.

When no response came, my heart was fucking twisting in my chest as I tore up the stairs, then threw open the bedroom door.

And there she was.

Perched on the edge of the bed, still in her jacket, though it was pulled open, the zipper snagged in the material.

Like it had been yanked down.

My hands curled into fists, thinking of someone pulling at her clothes, filling her with fear and dread of something no woman should have to endure.

But then my eyes were clocking the blood on her shirt.

On her chin.

Dripping from a nasty fucking gash on her lower lip.

Beyond that, her flawless fucking skin was starting to darken with the shadow of a bruise.

Because someone took their meaty fucking fist and plowed it into her pretty face.

Rage was gasoline in my veins, just waiting for a spark to catch fire.

Until I saw the haunted look in her eyes, the way her lip trembled the second she looked at me.

And just like that, the rage pulled backward, leaving just the concern in its place as I moved in front of her, dropping down to my knees.

“Oh, mouse,” I said, hand lifting gently touching her bruised cheek, knowing it was only going to darken over the next few hours until it was a deep purple and blue. “What happened?” I asked, voice softer than I’d ever heard it before.

She brought that out of me, it seemed.

That lip of hers trembled harder as her eyes went from glistening to overflowing.

“It’s alright,” I said, reaching behind her neck, massaging it.

But then she was slipping closer, resting her forehead on my shoulder as a choked sob escaped her.

I wasn’t good with tears.

Fuck, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been around crying women before. Not up close and personal like this.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do.

But my other arm snaked around her, holding her closer as she cried on my shoulder for a long moment before she was sniffling, trying to pull it together.

“He… he grabbed me,” she said. Then, voice a little stronger, like she knew—likely from experience with the Costas—that I needed details when they were fresh. “He grabbed my arm and whipped me around,” she said, pulling back to try to use her hands to wipe her cheeks before she caught sight of them, dropping them.

Looking down, I saw the little violent red scrapes, the way her skin was pulled back. Likely from skidding across the ground when she tried to break her fall.

“Then he, he slammed me back against a wall and demanded my purse,” she said. “I… I didn’t have a purse,” she said. “I was trying to tell him that, but I couldn’t… I just couldn’t,” she admitted. “But he just kept yelling at me. I tried to walk away, but then… then he shoved me. And I fell and… and he flipped me over. And unzipped my jacket.”

The growl that escaped me had her pausing, her gaze flicking up to mine.

“And I, I tried to scream then,” she said. “And he… hit me,” she said, gesturing toward her face. “Then kept trying to feel around for my money. He… got it. And then… left,” she said, shaking her head as she finished the story.

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“He was tall, not like you,” she said. “But… tall. Light brown hair with, um, the sides were short,” she said, touching the side of her own head with her fingertips. “Skinny. He was really skinny. Wearing a red sweatshirt with some sort of sports logo on it,” she said. “Oh, and he had an eyebrow ring. On this side,” she said, touching her left eyebrow. “And a lip one,” she said, going to touch the side of her mouth before remembering the split, and dropping it. “A hoop,” she said.

“Okay. Alright,” I said. “I need to clean you up, okay?” I asked, trying to keep myself calm. Because all I wanted to do was turn, stride out of the apartment, hit the streets, and find this motherfucker.

But I had to take care of her first.

“Okay,” she said, nodding, but making no move to stand as I did.

Deciding to leave her where she was, I went into the bathroom, finding the plastic container I had jam-packed with medical supply shit because my lifestyle required a lot of that sort of thing, then filled the small container in it with warm water, grabbed a washcloth, and headed back out to her.

She hadn’t moved, like she was frozen, like she was maybe in a bit of shock.

Who the fuck could blame her?

Getting attacked on the fucking street.

I dipped the washcloth in the water, wincing a bit as I looked at her lip. “This isn’t going to feel great,” I warned her, getting a little nod before I started to carefully dab at her lip, then wiping the blood off of her face and neck, before working on her hands.

Finding an individual plastic tube of saline, I used that to clean her lip, then her hands, before drying her with some gauze, and wiping some ointment onto her hands.

I hemmed and hawed at her lip, not wanting her to ingest any of the ointment.

“I’m gonna leave your lip alone for now,” I said. “It’s not bleeding, so if you’re careful, it shouldn’t open back up. No big smiles or straws,” I said, though I doubted she would be smiling for a while after this.

That motherfucker…

No.

I had to focus.

“Okay,” she said, voice small.

“Are your teeth alright?” I asked, looking at the bruise.

“Yeah. My head hurts,” she said, shrugging.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I got something for that,” I said, reaching into the box for a bottle of prescription pain pills.

I wanted her to sleep.

For unselfish reasons. To heal. To not lie awake feeling scared.

But for selfish ones too.

Because I needed to know she was out cold and not needing me.

So I could find this bastard.

She took the pill numbly, swallowing it with a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand.

“He took all I had,” she murmured, seeming to be talking to herself as I cleaned up my mess.

“What was that?” I asked, sure I misheard her as I put the lid back on the plastic container. “Lore?” I pressed when she didn’t answer.

“He took all I had left,” she said. Then, sensing my lack of comprehension, “All my money,” she added.

“All your money?” I repeated, confused for a second.

Before it occurred to me just how much I’d been fucking all this shit up.

All the money she had.

Meaning she had some, likely small, stash of cash she’d brought with her. And she’d been using that to, I dunno, buy her books or whatever she was doing all day long when I wasn’t around.

All the money she had, I repeated to myself, pissed at my own fucking incompetence as I went toward the dresser, opening a drawer, reaching in, pulling out a stack of cash, and putting it down on the top.

Another drawer and stack.

Then another.

And another.

Ten grand? Twenty? I didn’t know.

“This is your money,” I told her, watching as her brows furrowed as she looked at the cash, then at me. “You use it, I replace it. No questions asked. No one will ever take all of your money,” I said. “Ever,” I added. “We’re not getting upset over money,” I said, watching as her lips twitched ever so slightly. Relief? No. It seemed like something sweeter than that, but I couldn’t place it. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“I mean it,” I said, not quite believing her yet. “Spend what you want. As much as you want.”

To that, her lips curved just a little bit more. I had a feeling, if she wasn’t being mindful of her cut, she would be giving me a real smile. Something it seemed like she fucking never shot at me.

“I can spend all that on books?” she asked, a playful edge in her voice.

“You could buy an entire fucking bookstore for all I care. It’s your money,” I added. “All of this,” I said, waving at the apartment in general, “is yours. Got that?”

To that, she nodded.

Though I had a feeling she would still be fretting over each dollar she spent.

“Yeah,” she agreed, a soft look in her eyes.

I moved away from the dresser, reaching toward her jacket, trying to un-snag the fabric, before having to give up and just pull the thing up over her head.

I went for her shoes next, undoing her laces, and pulling her feet free.

“No, mouse,” I said, shaking my head at the heated look growing in her eyes. “You’re hurt,” I added, thinking of her hands and the way she grabbed me when I was inside of her. “What do you want?” I asked. “Instead of that,” I clarified.

Her gaze dropped to her lap. So fucking shy. And I both loved and hated that in equal measure.

“Will you… just sit with me?” she asked, voice such a whisper that I barely made the words out.

“Sit with you?” I asked, confused. “Yeah,” I agreed, not knowing what the fuck she wanted from me, but willing to give it to her.

She scooted up the bed, and I kicked out of my shoes before following her toward the headboard.

Feeling awkward as fuck, like a teenager sitting side-by-side with a chick I had a thing for for the first time, I slid an arm around the back of her shoulders.

I didn’t need to know what to do after that.

Because she curled toward me, curled into me, her head in my neck, her arm resting over my chest.

Fuck, but she was small.

Who the fuck saw someone as tiny as her and decided to hurt them?

Someone who’d be eating through a fucking straw and pissing blood for the next few weeks, that’s who.

“This is never gonna happen again, mouse,” I vowed as my hands slid up and down her spine, then sifted up into her hair, knowing how she made those soft, sweet kitten noises when I lightly ran my fingers over her scalp. “I mean it,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, already starting to sound drowsy from the pain meds.

“No one puts their hands on what’s mine,” I added, hearing a little whimper move through her.

Half an hour later, she was out fucking cold, so I carefully slid out from under her, tucking her into my side of the bed, then making my way out of the bedroom.

Rico and Elian were already inside the apartment, waiting for me, for an update on Lore, for a plan of action.

“Is she alright?” Elian asked, face tight. Clearly, the guy had affection for my wife. Something like a big brother/little sister connection.

“I gave her some pain meds,” I said. “She’s okay. Split lip. Bruise. Some cuts on her hands.”

“What the fuck happened?” Rico asked, voice aghast. Because this shit didn’t happen. No one put their hands on a Lombardi. Not if they didn’t want to forsake their lives.

“Someone wanted her cash,” I said. “Slammed her into a wall, knocked her down. When she tried to call for help, he hit her.”

“Fucker,” Rico snarled. “Who the fuck would be dumb enough to put their hands on your wife?”

A snorting sound escaped Elian, making both of us turn to him.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said but the look on his face told another story.

“What is it?” I snapped.

To that, he shrugged.

“How the fuck was anyone supposed to know she’s your wife, boss?” he asked. “She stays locked up in here like a dirty little secret—“

“She goes out.”

“She’s gone out exactly three times since she moved in,” he corrected me. “The bookstore,” he said, counting it off on his fingers. “To buy an outfit for the party,” he went on. “And then today. That’s it.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I mean, I figured she was still, you know, living a life. Not staying cooped up in the apartment all the time.

“She sure as fuck hasn’t stepped out of this apartment at your side,” Elian went on. Clearly, he had feelings about this Lore situation, and he knew I rarely ever tried to muzzle my crew on their opinions. Even when they criticized me.

“Okay,” I said, nodding, getting his point.

“How is anyone supposed to know she’s yours if you don’t make any attempt to claim her publicly?” he went on.

“I get it,” I said.

I didn’t tell her about the money.

I didn’t make sure the neighborhood knew she was mine.

I was husband of the fucking year.

I mean, the thing was, I never really thought past the vows. Past the alliance that would remove years of concerns about the other families rising up against us.

I never sat and thought about what it would be like to have a woman in my home. How I would need to claim her. How I would need to give her access to money. Make space for her things.

Come to think of it, save for the luggage at the bottom of the free side of the closet, some shampoo and body wash, and the books that were occasionally left around, there were no signs of Lore in the apartment.

She didn’t even have her clothes hung in the closet.

The fuck was that about?

Did she feel like it wasn’t hers?

Did she need permission to hang them?

Before the thoughts finished forming, though, I knew the answer.

Yes.

Yes, she felt like the apartment wasn’t hers.

Yes, she needed permission to settle in.

Not only had she been uprooted into a new life and apartment, but she was meek and nervous about everything.

She needed invitations and reassurances.

“Did you get a description of him?” Rico asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I said, rattling it off.

“Just a fuckhead who likes hurting women, or a desperate addict looking to score?”

Clearly, both.

But it made a difference for where we looked first.

I was still telling them where I wanted them each to look when there was a loud knock on the door, making us stiffen.

Elian walked over, looking out the peephole, then reached to open the door.

And there was Cinna.

“What the fuck do you mean your wife was attacked?” she said, zeroing in on me.

Rico or Elian must have sent out a text to the capos.

Which was good.

The more eyes on the street for this bastard, the better.

Cinna must have been nearby when she got it.

I was surprised by her anger.

I would never say it was right, but I’d seen this woman pull herself up off the ground, bloody and bruised, spitting out a tooth, favoring bruised ribs from a fight with a man, then snarled at me to stay back so she could finish it herself.

She was as hard as they came.

But, maybe, life had forced that upon her.

Then she saw someone like Lore, who had been protected, whose life had allowed her to stay soft and sweet, and didn’t want her to have to become hard.

Big sister energy type shit.

“She’s okay,” I said, feeling the waves of rage and concern flowing off of Cinna from several feet away. “She was hit in the face. Split lip, bruise. Scraped hands from catching her fall. I cleaned her up. She’s sleeping now.”

“Sleeping,” Cinna said, brows drawing together, dubious. “Did you drug her?”

“I gave her a pain pill. She had a headache.”

“Do you know who it is?” she asked, arms crossing, still pissed about something, but I didn’t have time to suss that shit out.

“We have a description. Not someone in any of the crews around here from what I can tell.”

“The fuck are you still doing here then?” she asked.

Good question.

“Can you stay here?” I asked. “Watch the door. Maybe check on Lore. I don’t want her to be alone.”

At that, Cinna’s arms uncrossed, her tension easing a bit.

“Sure,” she agreed, nodding. “Go get that motherfucker.”

With that, we took off, crisscrossing Brooklyn, scanning the streets, talking to people hanging around, connecting with other capos, soldiers, and associates.

It was closing in on dawn and I was losing hope at finding this fuck before needing to crash for a few hours.

Then, the call came through.

Elian.

“I got him,” he said in my ear, then rattled off an address.

I showed up to one of the backrooms we kept for just this sort of situation, finding Elian standing there, body ramrod straight, a bit of blood on his shirt.

From, it seemed, the nose of this asshole who was sitting on the floor, face defiant.

Until his gaze landed on me.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, immediately throwing up his hands. “What’d I do, man? Don’t want no smoke with your crew.”

“No?” I asked, jaw going to stone. “Then you shouldn’t have put your fucking hands on my wife,” I growled, watching as confusion turned to realization and then, finally, fear.

And that shit was intoxicating.

Elian moved to stand in front of the door, tapping on his phone, likely calling off the other capos, telling them they could go find their beds and get some rest.

While I started sinking my fists into this fuck’s face, thinking of the blood on Lore, the bruise that was going to be ten times worse by the time I got home to her. Imagining her on the ground, terrified, crying for help, for mercy.

Mercy she didn’t get.

Mercy I didn’t show this bastard who’d made her hurt, who’d made her cry.

My vision was still tinged red when, suddenly, Elian’s hands were grabbing me, pulling me back.

“Get the fuck off,” I growled, trying to yank away.

“If you want him to be a walking warning sign, you gotta stop now, or he isn’t going to make it.”

My vision cleared and I came back to the moment, feeling the sweat trickling down my back, the wetness of blood on my knuckles, could smell it filling the room, see it smattering the floor and the walls.

Elian was right.

This fuck, whoever he was, was unconscious on the floor, so bloody and swollen you couldn’t even make out his features anymore.

Next to his face on the floor in a small pool of blood was his lip ring which, at some point, I must have ripped out.

“Right,” I said, sucking in a deep breath, feeling my heartbeat hammering in my chest from the effort of the beating. “Right. Thanks,” I said, cracking my neck, then turning toward the door.

Elian could move the fucker onto the street.

He would clean up the mess.

I had to go home to my wife.