Page 48 of Rescued By the Mafia

Dante cursed.

Iris thought she saw Carlo tap his ear.

“Get to the panic room,” Dante said. “Don’t wait, and don’t come out until one of us comes to get you.”

Her throat constricted. She would be all alone in that space, more so than she’d been in the house when she knew someone was always within shouting distance. “Dante…”

“I need you to do this for me, Snapdragon. I’m ten minutes out in this fucking traffic no matter what road we take. I need to know you’ll still be breathing when I get there.”

The fire she’d been using to protect herself suddenly bloomed, taking on a warmth that seeped into her muscles. Loosening them by chasing away her tension, her anxiety, and replacing it with something stronger. “Okay,” she said, almost too quietly. “Be safe.”

If he hadn’t already decided to kill every last fucking idiot who willingly labeled themselves an Ink Blot, he was sure as hell going to do it now. Or as soon as he could get his hands around their throats.

He couldn’t even take solace in the knowledge that he’d been out getting important shit done, because he hadn’t been. Bishop had obviously already abandoned the storage unit. Meaning Dante had left Iris home alone just long enough to nearly get fucking sniped from inside his own goddamn string of properties. A fact which also meant he had a traitor to burn out, because the shooter couldn’t possibly have gotten into that position without help.

His men had the street shut down by the time they swung onto the road. Dante spotted one sedan with a window shot out, and men were walking along the sidewalk on both sides of the street. Every person and every vehicle he could see belonged to him. Until they drove past the driveway for the staff house and he spotted three figures on their knees, surrounded by a cluster of Dante’s guards.

“Stop the fucking car.” He could wait until they were properly parked and walk the distance back, the staff house wasn’t comparatively far. But he was impatient. He wanted answers and he wanted blood. And then he wanted Iris, safe and sound, in his arms. So he threw his door open as soon as the SUV came to a halt and jumped out.

Mikey muttered a curse and scrambled to follow suit.

In his peripheral vision, more men adjusted course to fall in on his position.

Dante ignored all of them and strode straight for the cluster. With the low light of the mostly set sun, he didn’t have to get too close to see a shock of white peeking through the black of his soldiers. Denim in shades of blue registered next, and red. Red splattered on the ground, red staining fabric, red pooling beneath someone’s knees. That was the body doing the most shifting around, so wherever they’d been shot, it probably hurt too much to ignore.

Too fucking bad. “Out of my goddamn way.”

The nearest man looked over his shoulder and promptly leapt aside to do as he’d been ordered, his compatriots shuffling in his wake to make room. Their movement revealed the three figures and, somehow, Dante’s temper spiked higher.

The man in white was his secondary chef.

The other two—including the one doing the most bleeding—Dante didn’t know from shit. But it was clear, when their eyes shifted his way, all three recognized him. And all three recognized what the expression on his face meant for their futures. Or they thought they did.

The man still wearing his chef coat dared lower his arms from where they’d been crossed behind his head. “B-Boss, I—”

Dante surged forward and threw his fist into the traitor’s face. “You sniveling little shit-stain,” he said with a snarl, “I let you into my home.” He hauled the man up by his reddening lapel. “I left you alone with my niece. I trusted you to cook for my fiancée. And you fucking betrayed me?”

The man wheezed, attempting on instinct to suck in air through his shattered, bleeding nose.

The youngest of the three, the one doing the least bleeding, spoke up with a cocky grin. “Guess you should be more careful who you trust. Dragon.”

Dante dropped his soon-to-be-deceased chef, grabbed the smart-mouthed moron by the throat, and lifted him to his feet. This one, and his compatriot, both had their hands bound by zip-ties, as the chef should have. Dante squeezed, making sure the moron couldn’t speak. “I’d advise you to watch your mouth,” he said, “but that lesson would be better saved for any underage relatives you might be leaving behind.” He kept squeezing, until his blunt nails threatened to break skin. “Unfortunately for all three of you, I’m in no mood for your bullshit. You thought you’d play assassin. Now you and yours will suffer the consequences.”

Then he twisted his arm, spinning the shorter, gasping man around, and with practiced control, snapped the bastard’s neck. It wasn’t as satisfying as burning his flesh or even beating him to death, but it was efficient. It still sent a message. And the expressions of shock turning to horror and terror on the remaining two faces did quench the smallest bit of his bloodlust.

Bloodlust that would be temporarily satisfied when these overconfident bastards landed in a heap at their chosen master’s feet.

A throat cleared behind him. “Boss.”

Dante didn’t look away from the two in front of him. The chef who’d betrayed him trembling like a leaf and looked more likely to piss himself than to try and make a break for it. The injured gangster was breathing hard, but looked less terrified. If it weren’t for the bullet wound in his torso and his obvious disadvantage, he might have been more of a problem. But Dante let them sit in their panic for another second and acknowledged the man who’d addressed him. “What?”

One of the men who worked primarily on his home security detail stepped into his periphery and held out a business card. “I found this in that one’s wallet.”

Dante arched a brow and took the card, letting his focus drop for a moment. Long enough for that familiar chill to spark in his veins. The business card held Paul Bishop’s name and registered cell phone number on the front, with a New Jersey number scribbled on the back. He lifted his glare back to the surviving gangster. “How did you acquire this?”

The punk scoffed. “Ebay.”

Dante stepped over the body between them and crouched down closer to eye-level. “You want to cooperate with me on this,” he said. “Give me something good enough, I’ll even spare your family.” He held up the card with the handwritten number facing out. “Tell me the story behind this card.”

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