Page 45 of Rescued By the Mafia

Her heart thundered in her ears. Paul’s wild, rage-filled eyes consumed her vision, and Iris bit back a sob.

“What the hell was that? Did I tell you it was okay to talk to him?” Old, still-familiar pain lanced through her, echoing across her face as the memory played. “I won’t say it again. You don’t socialize without me. No. Unapproved. Friends. It’s not that goddamn hard!”

Her jaw trembled as she fought through the pain of the wounds that weren’t really there. “Make it stop,” she whispered. She hadn’t meant to say the words, but the sound of Mikey’s voice immediately quieted and she couldn’t bring herself to regret them.

“Now look what you made me do, sweetheart.”

Iris barely saw Dante lift the phone to his opposite ear in her peripheral vision. She was more aware of his hand sliding up and down her arm, squeezing gently. His steady, warm touch was soothing and her breathing stabilized before she could truly start to hyperventilate.

“Send some men to Iris’s old apartment, make sure that piece of shit’s not holed up there,” Dante said. “Put out the word. I want him found yesterday. That fucker can’t have been prepared to hold two hostages; he shouldn’t be too goddamn hard to find.”

His words swirled around in her head, not fully settling before they were replaced with more. She could no longer hear whatever Mikey said in response, so she assumed Dante had taken the call off of speaker. That was fine. Preferable, even. But something about Dante’s words—or the essence of the situation around them—lingered in her mind and a horrible possibility whispered to her. It seemed crazy.

Then again, so did a car bomb. And taking Megan and her innocent son hostage. And leaving behind a picture with a threatening note for possibly anyone to find.

Paul had clearly been stalking her since before he’d slashed her tires. He had to have been stalking her at least long enough to learn what places she went routinely and who she interacted with on purpose. Was it possible he’d somehow deduced that she had lived with Megan for a brief time? Was that why he’d targeted Megan? Was he trying to kill off everyone she potentially got close enough to talk to?

Iris forced herself to lift her head, just a little, in order to be heard. Dante was still on the phone. She expected to have to say or do something to get his attention, but her movement had apparently been enough. His sharp blue eyes were focused on her by the time her gaze had lifted. She wanted to smile in gratitude, but she wasn’t sure her lips managed the gesture as she dragged up the words she needed.

In the moment of her drawing breath, Dante said to Mikey, “Wait.”

Iris pushed the crazy and frankly terrifying thought past her lips. “I had a storage locker. Megan got it for me, and I only let it go about two months ago. Megan was the only other person who knew about it, but she never had a key.” Megan had gotten the locker for her as a way to start accumulating things for herself—things a person would be expected to have, and would need—while she was searching for a place of her own. Megan had known Iris wasn’t keen on telling her story to every available ear, and having at least some stuff to her name invited fewer questions than showing up with a beat-up car and a garbage bag’s worth of possessions.

Iris had kind of hated the locker, even though she’d always agreed with Megan’s reasoning. But she had never hated the locker more than in that moment, when Dante’s brow furrowed and he asked her for the location information. If her fear was valid … if Megan and Parker really were being held in her old storage locker…

Suddenly, just for a second, all Iris could see was Elise’s lazy smile.

Was she going to get everyone killed?

Iris hadn’t said a word since reciting the address and number of her old storage unit, and Dante didn’t know how much more of the silence he could tolerate. She didn’t seem to want to be alone, if her willingness to follow him from the SUV and all the way upstairs was any indication, but he’d never seen her so withdrawn. She’d been emotional in the aftermath of her roommate’s death, understandably, but this was different from that.

Dante watched her move to the loveseat in the bedroom and sit in the corner, up against the arm. He scowled and ripped the blood-speckled shirt from his body, not caring where it fell, before striding up to her. “Iris.”

She lifted her head and blinked sad eyes up at him.

Dante held out one hand. “Come here.”

A moment passed before she stood again, bringing herself to a stop within arm’s reach of him.

Dante forced his voice, and his expression, to soften. “Withdrawing doesn’t help anyone, honey. Least of all yourself.” He reached out and tipped up her chin until their gazes met again. “Don’t think I’m going to let you do it.”

Her brows pinched together and her lips quivered as she pulled in a breath. “I-it’s my fault people are getting hurt…” She fisted her shaking hands in her skirt.

Dante leaned down and brushed his lips over hers. “No, honey.” He reached around her, found the zipper of her dress, and slid it down. “You’re not responsible for that bastard’s bad choices.” He eased the fabric off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “And he will pay for what he’s done to you.”

“Wh-what about what he did to Elise?” Her voice wavered and tears filled her eyes. “What about what he’s doing to Megan and—” She cut herself off, the first tear rolling down her cheek.

Dante lifted a hand to catch it, intending to respond, but she spoke again. This time moving one hand over her own belly.

“What about what he … took from me?” Her question was barely even a whisper. Her fingers pressed into her own skin. Another tear dripped from her lashes as she sucked in a breath. “I-I should have told you sooner,” she said, sounding as apologetic as she did sad. “I don’t know if you want— I don’t know if I can—” She cut herself off and wiped roughly at her face.

Dante caught her wrists in his hands and pulled her closer. “Look at me, Iris. You never need to be afraid to tell me something. Do you understand?” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Never.” Even if he was remotely right about what she was struggling to say, and how furious he knew it would make him.

Her fingers settled over the winding arc of the dragon across his abdomen, stretching as if to follow the movement in the image. She took a moment to gather herself, her tears ebbing, and looked up at him with sad, searching eyes. “I got pregnant,” she said quietly, “a little less than a year after I moved in with him.”

Dante locked his jaw, unreasonable jealousy and fresh anger lashing through him. He kept as much of it off his face as he could and held his hands steady over her back.

“I won’t say I was excited,” she said, the light in her eyes dulling as if with shame. “I was mostly confused, a little freaked out. We hadn’t talked about that. We were pretty safe, I thought. So I was surprised.” She dragged in a breath and closed her eyes for a second. Another tear escaped. “When I told him, he was furious. He said he didn’t want it, and he blamed me for trying to ruin his life. Then, after a couple hours or so, he barged into the room where I’d been crying and went on a rant about what it would do to his reputation if I got an abortion—not asking if I was okay with that—and demanded I find another way to ‘get rid of it’.”

---