Page 22 of Falling for the Enemy

Relief washes through me; it’s short-lived.

A lone second.

That’s all it takes for my brain to register that he’s wrong. A different shape and size, the lights headed our way, the first we’ve seen in an hour, don’t belong to my brother-in-law’s pickup truck.

.No, they belong to a high-end SUV, much like the BMW X6 that Vincent DeMeo, Stefano’s oldest living son, drives.

I don’t think before reacting.

Left hand diving into my suit jacket to rip my holstered gun free, I pop open the Rover’s passenger door with my right and jump out. My lieutenant does the same, his every move matching my own.

“What’s the plan?”

His words slice through the cloud of rage that billows between my temples, but my gritted back teeth render replying impossible. Knowing he’s both watching and listening for an answer, I signal for him to follow, allowing the lethal instinct ingrained in me as a boy soldier to guide my movements.

Careful to remain within the blanket of darkness that lingers, awaiting the rise of the sun, I move down the sidewalk, my careful steps near silent on the sweating concrete. The silver SUV stops, and I do the same, finger resting on the hair-trigger of my Beretta.

A hundred feet away, I wait, breath bated.

My knees bend, and I crouch, pistol rising, my sights trained ahead as the passenger’s side door of the vehicle swings open. Two quick shots. That’s all this will take. One for the driver and a second for La Famiglia’s new underboss, who’s about to step into my view.

But it isn’t Vincent who emerges.

No, it’s a woman.

And not just any woman.

My black heart jolts, its chaotic beats thunderous as two silver stilettos tap the concrete, one after the other. A diamond anklet then comes into view, followed by a pair of tanned legs I’ve fantasized about having wrapped around my waist since the moment we met.

Arianna fucking Ivanova.

Seven frustration-filled days have passed since I stalked her through her bedroom window, but the infatuation I developed when she fearlessly went toe-to-toe with me hasn’t abated.

If anything, her infuriating absence and cold shoulder have fueled my desire to hunt her down, bringing her delectable body, one I wish to have writhing beneath me, within arm’s reach.

No matter how loco the notion is.

Disbelief and surprise, followed by dread, crash over me as one question after another assaults my racing mind, eroding the red haze of both pleasure and fury clouding my thoughts. Among them: Why is she here? Does she know of Carmen? Will she try to hurt her?

My shoulders tense, the last question echoing through my skull like a battering ram. Despite my fixation, I won’t allow her to hurt my sister.

I’ll bury her first.

Hands having dipped the slightest bit, I retrain my aim as she steps out from behind the vehicle’s open door, exposing herself. The primal need to protect Carmen rakes at my spine, clawing deep and demanding I end the threat facing her.

But for the first time, I hesitate.

With my finger frozen on the trigger, I watch as she crosses beneath a flickering streetlight, a thick brown envelope clutched in her hand. Stopping in front of a black metal box that’s welded to the closed shelter gate, she drops the small package inside.

Confused, I pull my eyes from her and read the red sign that’s mounted above the box, its bold white letters easy to make out despite the distance.

Toluca Women’s Shelter, it says.

All donations accepted.

My brows draw together.

¿Qué mierda? I think to myself. What is she—

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