Chapter Six

Dante

The roar of engines and blaring horns pulsates through me as I stand on the pitch-black overpass, watching a monstrous gridlock engulf the I-90.

Forty-five minutes. Forty-five fucking minutes, and the wreckage hasn't moved an inch. The Irish scumbags were just pulling out of Urban Elixir when we gave chase and finally managed to turn their expensive asses into scrap metal with a well-timed four-car pile-up.

I bark into my phone. "What the hell is happening? Those pieces of metal are not further apart from each other than they were half an hour ago!"

The idiot on the other end, who is probably a temp filling in for the Traffic Control Operator, mumbles about clearing the road in another thirty minutes.

I snap, "You'll be clearing your desk for life if that highway isn't up and running in ten. Do you understand?"

I hang up, shove the phone back into my breast pocket, and swipe away the rivulet of blood trickling down my left temple and onto my suit jacket. More quickly replaces it, so I reach into my jacket for a handkerchief to staunch the flow.

I don't remember getting the scratch, but it's an insignificant price to pay, considering the magnitude of the crash. One car managed to escape, but the other two weren't as lucky.

As I descend the pitch-black incline of the overpass and back to the Marston, the sound of a gunshot reaches me.

Sal had better not be getting carried away down there.

I usually prefer interrogating in a closed space, where I can control the environment, but tonight we don't have that luxury. Still, it's some small comfort knowing the Marston is ours, so getting the lights and cameras down was light work.

I return to find Sal standing before a kneeling Irishman, his other three friends sprawled on the ground, lifeless. Pietro must have left to check the perimeter again because I don't immediately see him.

"Salvatore. I leave you at a hotel with four guests, and in two minutes, three of them are dead. What does that say about our hospitality?"

Sal shrugs. "Two were already dying before you left. And one was chatting shit."

"And that one?" I cock my head at the only man left out of the four we captured.

"We only need one voice to sing, and his accent isn't so thick," Sal says, and I just huff and shake my head. As if the accent would be an issue for Sal or any of us.

An unspoken rule in our world is that you learn the languages of friends and foes alike, or you don't survive long. Be it the lilt of the Irish, the harsh consonants of the Russians, or the rapid-fire Spanish of the cartels.

But Sal is playing games, as usual.

"You'd better hope you're right about his singing voice," I mutter, then take a few steps toward the kneeling man. He's a big fellow with a ruddy complexion and a shock of dirty blond hair. His eyes, though filled with fear, maintain a defiant glare.

"What's your name?" I ask him, my voice deceptively calm.

He says nothing, just glares back at me with a stubborn set to his jaw.

"That's fair. I wasn't expecting you to answer. So, I'll rephrase. How many of you are still out there?"

He spits on the ground, hatred filling his eyes. "Don't need to answer that either, wop."

I chuckle. "Wop, huh?" I raise my gun and fire, targeting his right rotator cuff. I roll my eyes when he screams like a baby.

Disappointing.

"Keep it down, lad," I gently chide. "You don't want to scare the neighbors or lose your other arm, do you?"

He immediately quietens. That reaction alone tells me Sal is right. This one is worth taking back home. He should sing quite nicely, which is convenient for us, but I shudder to think that this might be someone's soldier. I cannot imagine any of my men being so easy to break.

I shoot Sal a look and dip my head in a nod. Job done, I holster my gun. "Third basement," I say, referring to one of the warehouses purpose-built for holding and questioning.

"Sure, Dante. And what about them?" Sal gestures to the other three on the ground.

"What about them, Sal?" I ask, already knowing he's about to suggest something deeply disturbing.

"Should we not box and mail them back to Boston?"

I grin when I'm proven right. "Nah, bury them. I'm sure the ones who escaped will fill in their friends back home on what happened. By the way, Sal, you might want to talk to Nico's wife about the shit show that goes on in your head."

He grins. "Yeah, I know. I already tried, but she kicked me out after three therapy sessions."

"Three? I'm sorry for being a self-righteous prick, then. You lasted two sessions longer than me."

We both guffaw, but our laughter is cut short by Pietro's sudden return; his usual sure strides are hesitant, and his face is lined with worry.

"Phenomenal work there, Pietro," I say, gesturing toward the I-90.

"Thanks, Boss." Pietro's brows are still furrowed.

I'd taken the wheel from Sal when we reached Urban Elixir. Sal's acute self-preservation instincts would never let him deliberately crash a car, so Pietro and I did it. And from the looks of things, the big man didn't even get a scratch.

"What is it, Pietro?" I ask.

"Two things. First is Don Vitelli. I can't reach him. As Underboss, in his absence, you call the shots . . ."

"I'm aware of that, Pietro. And since you didn't disobey a direct order from your Don, you've got nothing to worry about."

"I wasn't worried at all," Sal pipes up.

I glance back at Sal. "That's because you're an idiot. Pietro here isn't." I turn back to Pietro. "Nico will have to go through me before he gets to you, so you're good."

"‘Preciate that, Boss."

I'd gladly take a bullet for any one of my men, but once again, a deep sense of affection and respect for my brother fills me. I'm almost certain that Nico didn't take Pietro's call because of me. Nico guessed exactly what I would do tonight, and giving a contradicting order would make the men pull back and leave me vulnerable.

"Pietro, you said there were two things?" I remind him.

He nods, glances at our hostage, and then approaches my ear. "I found . . . something else lurking on the far end of this parking lot."

I rear back and recount. We dragged out four Irishmen from the wreckage. Two died from their injuries, Sal offed one, and the last one is currently groaning at my feet. "Another one?"

He nods.

"How? Have those ones who escaped come back for their friends?"

Pietro shakes his head. "I don't think so. She was alone and on foot."

She! I gape at Pietro. I would have laughed at the absurdity except for the grave look on his face. "A woman?"

"You should see for yourself, Boss." He cocks his head toward one of the cars in the lot. "She's in there."

"Was she armed?"

Pietro's face darkens with annoyance. "No. But she's feisty. Was feisty," he amends. "She's out cold now."

At my puzzled glance, he explains. "She bit me. Got sharp teeth, too, and it hurts like a bitch," he grumbles. He then turns his back to me and shrugs off his coat and suit jacket, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to show me his shoulder blade.

Pietro was wearing leather overalls, so I don't know what the fuck he expects me to see there. The man has taken bullets without flinching, and yet at a woman's bite, he looks about to cry.

I suppose everyone has their tolerance. Holding back a chuckle, I say, "There are no puncture marks, Pietro, if that's what you're worried about, but you can still get tetanus shots later if you're really concerned."

"Unless you thought she was a vampire," Sal chortles, "in which case you're fucked."

"Sangue di Cristo!" Pietro crosses himself several times, which makes Sal laugh harder.

"Come on, show me," I say, following Pietro's hulking frame to a black car with the windows freshly broken, I suspect, by Pietro's elbow. I'm still wondering how the man managed to break into the car without triggering the alarm when I bend to peer through the shattered glass.

The first thing that hits me is the mass of red curls shot through with gold and chestnut. Thick, glossy, and thoroughly disheveled. I pull back as raw need slams into me, knocking me into an involuntary step backward. Then, almost immediately, my brain catches up, and I do a double take.

Because fuck me. There is only one person on earth who has hair like that.

I fling open the back door and grab her sleeping form, dragging her down the backseat toward me. And there she fucking is. Out cold, but there she is.

Adele.

What the fuck?

I stare. I can't help it. Porcelain skin, a dusting of freckles across high cheekbones, a pert nose, and full pink lips. My chest suddenly feels too tight, and I can't draw in air.

Without my permission, my index finger trails over her pale face and her chin, and finally brushes along her lip. She's wearing a prim shirt tucked into a skirt. A fucking skirt!

"Addy?" I murmur.

Her lids flutter open, but her green eyes are soft and unfocused, bringing back unbidden memories of the last time I watched her sleep.

Everything inside me wants to crush her against me and seal my lips to hers, but instead, I jerk back and away from the car.

Pietro looks at me curiously, but I ignore him.

Then when I trust myself to speak, I command, "Untie her, Pietro. Then get me a few joints and a car."

Pietro hesitates. He knows I haven't had a smoke in six months, and only recently, I'd been proudly bragging among the men about having finally kicked the habit.

He hesitates. "Boss—?"

"Now," I bark.

Pietro inclines his head. "Boss." He grabs a pocket knife and crouches into the car. Then he straightens and leaves without a backward glance. I never speak to my men that way. But I don't have the presence of mind to feel remorse. I have no capacity to feel anything apart from blind lust.

I hear her moan and start to shuffle around. Any moment now, she'll come out of the car.

And my carefully crafted control of the past twenty-eight months and six days will go up in flames.

If the Irish wanted to destroy me, they found the perfect weapon.