Page 63 of Rescued By the Mafia

His gaze returned to her and his lips curled, disdain darkening the brown of his eyes once more. Without warning, Paul surged forward again, blood and spittle flying through air as he let out a furious roar. “This is your fault!” The chains snapped taut, yanking his arms up and back much like they had with Mark before him. “You—you ruined everything!”

Iris arched a brow and carefully sidestepped closer to Dante. Not because she was frightened, but because she had the overwhelming desire to flaunt her new strength and her new happiness in her ex’s face. Pretending to whisper to Dante, she asked, “What did I ruin?”

He tilted his head toward her and matched her tone. “His self-image, honey.”

Paul took one large step back, easing the tension on the chain enough to lower his arms, and spat a fresh pool of blood in their direction. It splattered on the floor inches shy of Dante’s shoes. “You’d get better action from a blowup doll than stickin’ it in that used-up pussy.”

Iris crinkled her nose. She wasn’t exactly insulted—that was far from the most offensive thing Paul had ever said to or about her—but it was still gross. Or maybe she just didn’t like the image of Dante using a stand-in.

Dante, on the other hand, started laughing. It was not a pleasant, heartwarming sound. The laughter he released was ominous and booming and, though short-lived, Iris was sure it put every man in the room on edge. He raised a hand and extended two fingers. “Bring me a chair and get my fucking coat from the car.”

“Y-your coat, Boss?” one of the men asked.

Dante glanced over his shoulder.

“You got it, Boss!”

Paul made a choking sound that might have been intended as a scoff. “You think we’re gonna have a nice chat now that you’ve got me all chained up? Or is this the shit that gets you off?”

Iris watched a slow, dark smile tip Dante’s lips. “Maybe a little of both.” He paused for a lingering second. “You haven’t asked about your friend, Deputy Mark.”

A stretch of tense silence passed and Paul shifted his weight, the resettling of the chain emphasizing the movement.

Finally, Paul said, “Figured you’d tossed him into the Passaic by now, mobster.”

Iris’s mouth fell open. “How can you be so casual about that? Mark was your friend.” She didn’t know why she blurted it. The words felt stupid the moment they were past her lips. Paul was clearly incapable of true friendship just as he was incapable of love.

Even as Paul’s glare snapped back to her, Dante said, “Bring in Mark.”

Paul’s eyes widened for a split-second revealing his surprise, and he snapped his mouth shut.

Iris heard one of the two remaining men slip from the room, and realized she actually recognized the one who still stood in the far corner. He was one of the four who’d originally guarded her at the garage, when Dante had sent a team ahead to protect her until he could get there. The garage… She looked at Paul again. “While we wait,” she said quickly, “tell me something. Tell me about the bomb you put on my car and why you blew up my roommate. In a public parking lot, no less!”

Paul gave her the look that always said she was an absolute moron. The look that more often than not preceded the first swing of his fist or whatever was in it. Except that look was much less frightening with blood still dripping past his lips and off his chin, to say nothing for the chains restraining him or the powerful man at her side. It was just an expression, she realized, as the violence that usually followed … didn’t. This time, he scoffed and said, “As if I give a fuck. You’d never go down to PD, and if you did, we both know what would happen.”

Yeah. That was pretty much what she’d thought he would say. But hearing him confirm it just made it worse.

Iris shook her head. “You’re despicable. You’re supposed to protect the innocent, not beat on them. Not blow them up. Not kidnap them and lock them in crawl spaces!”

Paul leaned forward, sneering, more blood dribbling from his mouth. “You know how I feel about kids.”

Dante curled a hand around Iris’s elbow and pulled her back a couple of feet, simultaneously barking, “Get me something sharp.”

The sneer fell from Paul’s face immediately.

The man in the corner moved forward, a brief noise came from the shelf area, and then he was within arm’s reach and extending a serrated dagger with a wickedly sharp tip. The knife looked mean, even in the bad lighting.

Dante took the blade and stepped closer to Paul, who shamelessly shuffled back as if he thought he had somewhere to run. “I didn’t really expect you to have any pride,” Dante said, voice darkening. “And I already knew you were fucking stupid.” He shot out a hand and caught the chain, jerking Paul to a stop. “But I do kind of wish you could live through more of what I want to do you. Because today’s gonna end with you dead, and I’d be perfectly happy to cut on you for a good, long five years. Guess I’ll have to settle for making it hurt real fucking bad before I let you die.”

“You sick basta—” Paul cut himself with a piercingly loud, gurgling scream as Dante swiftly plunged the dagger into Paul’s foot. Severing the two outer toes entirely.

Dante straightened as Paul fell back against the pillar again, keeping the dagger in his hand. “I said I’d punish you every time you insulted my future bride. I never said I wouldn’t hurt you otherwise.”

She shouldn’t have been so happy to see tears of genuine pain rolling down Paul’s cheeks. She liked to think she would have at least winced if it had been anyone else getting their appendages lopped off. But it’s Paul. Paul deserved the worst kind of pain before he died.

Dante handed the bloodied blade off and motioned someone forward. “Pay attention, Bishop. You have a visitor.”

Something like an actual whimper sounded from him and Paul shifted, attempting to sit straighter and not put pressure on his foot. “A-at least stop the fucking bleeding!”

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