Page 17 of Rescued By the Mafia

“Fuck, man,” Dipshit rasped. “Y-you aren’t gonna—”

“I am.” Dante stepped into his space again, torch blazing. “You chose not to answer my questions. That was your last mistake.”

Dipshit went pale and for a moment, Dante thought he might pass out before the flame ever touched his skin. Instead, the punk opened his mouth and let loose a shrieking cry for help that could easily have been mistaken for a female.

Pathetic. Dante offered no warning before bringing his fire to Dipshit’s flesh, searing a single word from collar to navel. By the time he finished he was grateful, as always, for the nose clip he’d slipped into place while his men had sliced off the shirt. He’d long ago become familiar with the stench of burning flesh, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a man chose to breathe in when it was avoidable.

Dipshit’s pleas for help had reduced to senseless screams and involuntary twitching, but the most irritating thing was that he’d also pissed himself.

“Gross,” Romeo said from behind Dante. His voice was a little off, indicative that he was also wearing his custom nose clips.

Dante stepped back and held out the torch, disengaged again, for his man to put up. He disliked burning more than one message into any particular victim. He looked down and grimaced. It seemed Dipshit had had a full bladder, and Dante’s loafers hadn’t fully escaped the meager retribution.

Dipshit groaned, only semi-conscious.

Dante pushed out a breath. He had other places to be and there was nothing left to gain from this fool. He turned and locked eyes with Romeo. “You know what to do. Let me know if these morons take the bait.” He started toward the stairs, carefully stepped out of his shoes so that he could leave the soiled footwear on the concrete floor, and snapped, “Someone get me some goddamn shoes!”

It was time to go have that conversation with Leandro from the small, apparently incompetent, garage that had released Iris’s Corolla to her piece of shit ex. So Dante didn’t bother unraveling his sleeves or rebuttoning the upper third of his shirt. He’d allowed his men to be subtle when he’d paid to have her car towed there originally, but there would be no subtlety this time. Leandro would know exactly who the fuck he was dealing with from the moment Dante entered the room.

He allowed one of his men to drive to the next destination and was met this time by another man—Benny—and a shiny pair of black loafers. The sight of Benny reminded Dante of the last time he’d seen the man, in the employee break room at the restaurant, informing Iris of her suspiciously flattened tires. More than likely, the two would share a shift again in the near future as long as she insisted on keeping that job, and Dante found he disliked the idea immensely.

“Boss?” Benny asked, shifting his weight with obvious discomfort beneath Dante’s unrelenting stare.

Dante felt his frown deepen and turned away. It could also be beneficial to allow them to maintain a decent working relationship without his heavy-handed influence. He released a slow breath. “How’s your mother?”

Benny stilled, relaxing faintly. “Today’s been a good day.” His lips twitched. “At least, as long as I remember to bring home her Dickie Dee’s.”

Dante’s driver chuckled.

Dante inclined his head. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.” He’d taken Benny off the main rotation to give the man a chance to care for his mother while she recovered from cancer treatments. Benny worked part-time shifts at the restaurant to keep some money coming in for personal use, and likely as a demonstration of loyalty, but he’d been assured that his mother’s needs came first. Dante had been raised to take care of his family, blood or no blood.

Benny expressed his gratitude and slipped away without once asking why they’d had to meet at this particular port-side warehouse. He was no fool.

Dante led the way into the building, his men following behind.

This time, the man he was there to see was alone in the holding room. There was no available light until Dante pushed the interior door open. One of the men behind him switched on the old, overhead fluorescent, the yellowed light flickering and sizzling ominously as it flared to life. Leandro, the manager of the garage, stirred and squinted his eyes against the intrusion. As Dante expected, Leandro was chained by the wrists to a pillar on one wall, with a meager four-foot lead. There was a rank bucket within reach, a necessary unpleasantry when holding people overnight.

Dante made a single gesture and one of his men moved for the bucket, snatching gloves from the shelf along the wall—outside of Leandro’s range—along the way. No one spoke until the source of the odor was taken away.

Leandro jerked at his chains. “What the hell’s your problem, man? What’d I ever do to you?”

Dante let his head tilt to the side, his stare landing on the man still wearing grease-stained clothes. “You know what you did.”

Leandro sputtered. “You kidnapped me over a damn car?”

“You released that car to someone other than the woman who owns it.”

“He had her fucking signature!”

Dante strode forward and hauled the chained man to his feet, hands fisted in his dirty shirt. “You were told to only release it back to the owner.”

Leandro started breathing heavily. “Seems like a her problem.”

Dante released the man’s shirt and dropped a fist into Leandro’s sternum. With his other hand he snatched the rattling chain and looped it around Leandro’s neck, pulling it tight enough to force the coughing man’s head up once more. “She is my woman,” he said. “Which makes it your problem, Leandro. Do you understand? You allowed a man who has previously laid hands on her to take possession of her only means of transportation, effectively stranding her, all because you failed to recognize the difference between scribbling and cursive.”

Leandro’s nostrils flared, his eyes wide as fear settled on his face. “I-I didn’t know!”

“Will that pacify your wife when she buries an empty casket with your name on it?”

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