Page 23 of Falling for the Enemy

A shadowed figure appears at the mouth of the alley fifteen feet ahead, interrupting the carousel of thoughts flitting through my head. Cloaked by a dark hoodie and concealed from what few lights line the desolate street, making out the new arrival’s face is impossible.

Recognizing the gun they hold isn’t.

Oblivious to the threat that looms behind them, the faceless person—who’s just landed at the top of my kill list—raises their weapon, sights trained down the sidewalk.

Directly at Manzana.

It’s the wrong fucking move.

Without stopping to question the feral protectiveness that rises in me, bringing with it the rabid need to protect the woman that’s both my enemy and a lethal threat to my sister’s well-being, I rush forward.

Silent but swift.

Halfway to my target, I holster my Beretta and unsheathe the knife attached to my side, my skin protected from its razor-like blade by a leather case. For most, bringing a knife to a gunfight is a reckless move.

Not for me.

A low grunt echoes through the humid air as I wrap an arm around the man’s throat from behind, placing him in a chokehold he has no chance of escaping. Grasping his bony wrist, I slam his knuckles against the crumbling brick building he’s been hugging for added cover.

His revolver falls, hitting the ground.

Rage roils in my gut as the worm in my arms struggles against me, his fingers clawing at me in vain, both his words and much-needed breath cut off by my unrelenting hold.

“You just made a mistake, pendejo,” I taunt, the words I whisper seething with venom and inaudible to anyone but him. “A big fucking mistake.”

Benito moves past me and rounds the man, bringing them face-to-face. Features grim, my lieutenant takes my knife and cuts down the center of the man’s nondescript hoodie and white undershirt, exposing his heaving chest.

And there it is.

The brand I needed to see.

Unlike the Camorra and Calabrian families, Stefano requires each of his soldiers to be tattooed with La Famiglia’s crest. A mistake he likely adopted from Melendez, the ink leaves no room for misinterpretation.

Stefano has once again tried to strike against Arianna, this time using one of his young soldiers to do so, putting Carmen in danger in the process, an outcome that was likely intentional.

It’s another mark against him.

One which I’ll make him scream for.

A dozen times over.

Fire ignites within my veins. Anger-spiked blood acting as an accelerant, I focus on the kicking meat suit locked in my cruel embrace. “For what you just attempted to do, you signed your own death warrant.”

My hold on his throat tightens, threatening to crush his windpipe. The pressure and lack of air are too much for the young Italian. Legs giving way, the nameless fuck collapses in my arms. I smirk, the upturn of my mouth dripping with malice as I release my hold the slightest bit, not wanting to kill him.

Not yet, at least.

Pulling my livid gaze from the crest painted on his skin, I peer at Arianna, finding her eyes locked on mine through the darkness. Like the night I watched her from the highway bridge, there’s no chance she can see me.

But somehow, she senses my presence.

The inkling isn’t one I can explain. But I know my burgeoning obsession and forbidden craving to dually taste and possess the enemy isn’t a gnawing ache that burdens only me. It’s impossible that the invisible rope attempting to tether her demons to mine is a one-way connection.

I’d bet all I possess on it.

And I’m not a gambling man.

I tell myself I’m right a second later when her bee-stung lips curve into a devious grin, her expression absent of alarm and fear. Raising her hand, she blows a kiss into the shadows, aimed at where I stand.

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