Page 20 of Rescued By the Mafia

Dante took her hand in his as two more men from an SUV that had pulled up behind theirs joined them silently. One moved forward, toward the building they’d parked in front of, drawing Iris’s focus outward.

They’d arrived at an old, two-story industrial looking building that practically hung over the edge of the Passaic River. It was too small to be a true warehouse, though it certainly had that vibe, and it was tucked behind and between several larger buildings. If Iris had ended up at a place like this with anyone other than Dante, she would have been instantly terrified. As it was, the part of her that was still hesitant—still frightened—insisted this was bad.

But Dante’s grip was strong and comforting, so Iris did her best to focus on that even as he led them into the mini-warehouse building. If this was her bad judgment finally getting her brutally killed, at least she wouldn’t live to regret it.

Fluorescent lights snapped to life with the flick of a switch, illuminating a wide, mostly open space over a concrete floor. There was a chair pushed off to the side, one wall boasted a long row of lower cabinets with a butcherblock countertop, and there was an actual chain hanging from a steel beam in the ceiling. It looked like a movie set.

Iris leaned a little closer to Dante. The most dangerous thing she could see, arguably, was the chain, but the entire room felt threatening. Ominous.

Dante turned, pulled her into his chest, and kissed her firmly. He tucked a hand behind her head, swept his tongue through her mouth, and held her there long enough for her to claw at his sleeve. Then he broke the kiss, stroked his thumb over her jaw in an almost absent gesture of affection, and stepped away. He started rolling up his sleeves and said, “Jarrod. Take a fucking seat.”

Iris couldn’t have missed the way the men around her stiffened. Fear rippled through the room like a palpable wave.

“Now.”

Slowly, the man who’d played escort to her for the bulk of the day stepped forward. Right. She’d completely forgotten she’d been told his name somewhere during her hectic morning. His name was Jarrod.

Iris watched as Jarrod moved with slow, but distinct, purpose toward the chair she’d noted earlier. He pulled it away from the wall a couple of feet, turned, and lowered into it.

Dante strode up to Jarrod and punched him square in the face.

Iris’s eyes flew open wide.

Jarrod reared back, front legs of the chair rocking off the floor and his hands flexing at his sides.

“What was your job today?” Dante demanded, anger darkening his voice.

Realization slammed into her and Iris reached across herself, gingerly cupping her elbow. It no longer hurt, but the initial fresh contact was mildly uncomfortable. She suspected she’d see a scrape the next time she looked in the mirror.

“I … I did my job, Boss,” Jarrod said, his voice a little garbled.

“Then why was she fucking bleeding when she got into the SUV?” Dante threw another punch, this time to Jarrod’s collarbone. “I was very. Fucking. Clear.” He hauled the large, groaning man halfway off the chair after the fifth strike, and this time, his voice dropped so low Iris could barely hear him. “Not a scratch, I said.”

Jarrod attempted to raise an arm, as though he might try to push Dante away, despite the obvious difficulty he was having just trying to breathe. “B-Boss—”

Dante dropped him, letting the man crash awkwardly onto the chair and then fall off, landing sideways at his feet. “You put your hands on my woman, Jarrod. You drew her blood.” He turned his head as if anyone in the room wasn’t already hanging off his every word, and as he spoke, he extended one arm and pointed directly at Iris. “Let this be a lesson for every goddamn one of you. I have killed for you, I will kill for you again, but if you hurt this woman in any way, I will motherfucking destroy you.”

While his words still hung in the air, Dante bent forward, pulled a pistol from beneath Jarrod’s pantleg, and fired a bullet into the man’s face.

In her peripheral vision, Iris thought she might have seen one of the nameless men flinch. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t look away from the sudden, glistening splatter of crimson on the floor at Dante’s feet. The large man who’d so intimidated Megan was slumped over, body limp, and face half blown off, never to glare or grunt at another defenseless woman again. The overly muscled, unapproachable man who’d shoved Iris around in that hall without any actual regard for her—let alone bothering to speak with words—would never touch her again.

She ought to have been horrified at the sight of his death. She’d certainly never been in a room with a freshly deceased human being, as far as she knew. Yet Iris did not feel terror. She did not feel disgust, or even shame. She felt … relief. Hope. And perhaps a whisper of shame from that, but it was quiet.

Dante moved fully into her field of vision, into her space, and handed off the gun to the man who’d driven them previously. “Clean this shit up.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Dante curled an arm around Iris and turned them toward the door. “We need to stop by the house.”

Another voice assured recognition of the order, doors were pulled open, and Iris and Dante were in the backseat of the SUV that had followed them out. They drove away from the little warehouse in silence and Iris found her gaze drawn to the window for a moment before she looked back over at Dante.

He was wiping off his knuckles with a cloth he’d produced while she wasn’t looking. “Does that help you understand, Snapdragon?” He met her gaze, the blue of his eyes burning. “I know you’re still curious about me, about all of this.” He tucked the cloth inside his suit coat. “This is my world. Which means it’s your world now, too.”

A smile lifted her lips and Iris slid up to his side again. She reached over and took his hand—the hand with the banged-up knuckles—into both of hers, gently running her fingers along his skin. She massaged his hand, stroking her fingers up the length of his palm, and brought his knuckles to her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. She kissed each knuckle, then cradled his hand in her lap as she leaned herself against his shoulder.

Dante curled his fingers around her hand in return.

Iris didn’t force herself to fill the quiet, and she found she felt no need to shift in her seat. The once-familiar desire to sink through the floor never rose inside her. Instead, she let herself reflect. She wasn’t going to find the answer to her confusing feelings on the internet, and she wasn’t going to find it by closing her eyes and pushing forward.

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