Page 47 of Protected By the Mafia

Cristiano grinned. “He’ll be pissed. We haven’t thrown hands since we were teenagers, but he might give me a shiner for this.” His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “But when he sees you with my mother’s heirloom diamond on your finger, he’ll understand.”

Her heart kicked up an erratic drumbeat in her ears. “What?”

“I need you to be sure, baby. Because I’m only giving that ring to one woman.”

The tears that had threatened before broke free, running down her cheeks unabated. “Cris, I— Are you sure? I mean, that’s a big deal, and….” And she wanted him to be sure. Because she wanted to say yes. She couldn’t fathom the idea of another man holding her or touching her, or letting anyone else call her ‘baby.’

He smiled, as if she wasn’t still sitting on his faintly twitching cock. “You’ve been my future since the day I laid eyes on you, Foxglove. If I have it my way, you’ll be Felicity De Salvo before winter sets in. But you have to say the word.”

She opened her mouth, but her voice cracked. Before winter? It was already September! She sucked in a breath and tried again. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please, Cristiano, don’t ever let me go.”

fifteen

Name Drop

Cristiano let his gaze linger on the beautiful, brown-haired angel passed out in his bed. No, their bed. This was her home as much as his. He probably hadn’t done enough to make that clear, but as soon as these threats were handled, he’d make that a priority. He’d never pictured himself in an overly domestic role before Felicity. Hell, he’d rarely cared to hold any specific woman longer than a weekend. Felicity was the only one he’d put above the family.

Felicity was the only one he’d ever even considered dusting off his mother’s ring for.

He pulled in a deep breath, hand moving to his pocket and curling around the old ring box. He’d given her the ring the previous evening, after finally letting her up from the sofa. But Felicity’s hands weren’t the same as his mother’s, of course, and the ring needed resizing. She wanted nothing else done to it other than some simple cleaning to help it shine like new. So he’d promised to take it to a jeweler he knew to get that process started the next time he went out.

He drank in the sight of her for another thirty seconds, then forced himself to turn and stride silently from the room. Her phone had been moved, volume lowered, to the charger on the bedside table. Beneath it he’d left her a note to make sure she understood why he’d left so early. This morning he didn’t want to disturb her sleep, and it was his hope to be home before lunch. At least long enough to enjoy the meal with her.

That would largely depend on how much information he could squeeze out of her ex-landlord, and how long it took her ex-neighbor to die.

He went through the penthouse quickly, triple-checking the security points, then slipped into the private elevator. He pulled out his phone and raised the volume as he descended, re-reading Ryoma’s latest text. One phone call was all it took to convince the jeweler to open a little ahead of schedule, and a stack of cash persuaded him to get the job done quickly and without running his mouth. Then Cristiano was back on the road, aimed in the opposite direction. In the early morning traffic it only took a few minutes to get to the edge-of-town location Ryoma had chosen for their guests.

Cristiano parked around the side, popped the trunk to grab a particular bag from within, then made his way into the building. There was no one standing guard, but at the first interior door he had to punch in a code to continue inside. Doing so would send a notification to Mikey’s system, just the same as Ryoma’s use of the space would have done when he’d dumped them off and locked it up. Cristiano didn’t care. He had potential information he could get out of these men, and a personal stake. They were allowed personal motivations.

He jogged down into the property-wide basement as the overhead light buzzed on and two off-set groans started to build. A chair scraped as someone struggled in his restraints. Something louder than a groan, too muffled to be clearly distinguished, followed the scraping sound.

Then Cristiano rounded the landing pad and set eyes on the pair of men, bound and gagged to matching chairs which were themselves anchored to the floor. The larger of the men glared back at him, his face red and swollen looking behind the rolled-up cloth wrapped around his jaw. His eyes showed no recognition. The other man, the neighbor, went pale as a fucking sheet and immediately stilled.

Cristiano dropped his duffel to the ground as he moved into position across from them, looked between them for a second, then settled his stare on the one who already had an idea who he was. “Matt. I hear my man found you at a bus station out of town. What did I tell you about running?”

Matt made a sound like a whine, his nostrils flaring as his chest heaved.

Cristiano shifted his focus to the other man. “Chuck. We haven’t met.” He stepped closer and dropped into a crouch to look the overweight piece of shit in the eye. Here, he didn’t have to hide his rage. It worked in his favor to let it show. Chuck started fidgeting in his seat before Cristiano even continued. “You put your hands on my woman yesterday. You drew her blood.”

A bead of visible sweat broke out on Chuck’s forehead, rolling slowly down the side of his face. He tried to speak, the look in his eyes saying his anger had already fizzled into fear.

“Specifically—” Cristiano stood and walked around the captive man. His eyes tracked the limb he needed. “I believe it was this hand you put on her.” He reached out, latched on to Chuck’s offensive hand, and squeezed with his full strength as he twisted. Bone snapped beneath his fingers, surrendering to his superior strength and position.

Chuck screamed through the gag, attempting and failing to wrench his arm free.

Matt screamed.

Cristiano let go, watching as the skin immediately began changing color. He hadn’t broken through the flesh—hadn’t tried to—but he’d certainly crushed a few of the smaller bones in the hand and snapped several others. If he were inclined to let Chuck live, that hand would never be fully usable again.

He walked back up to his bag, unzipped it the full length, and took his time sifting through the contents within while the cowards in the chairs sobbed and attempted to curse him. He knew what he’d brought, of course. But the occasional glimpse of blade or clang of steel would ratchet up their terror. The knife set he chose to take out and spread on the ground for display more than ease of access would heighten their horrified anticipation. The perfectly sharpened machete he slid free, lifted up, and spun around would have them choking back vomit. He made sure to let them glimpse the sledgehammer, and hear the heavy thunk of something they couldn’t see at all. Then he set the machete down beside the knives, picked up the smallest dagger, and made his way back to Chuck.

Chuck had stopped screaming, stopped trying to curse him, and even mostly stopped whimpering. He was still breathing hard and still red-faced, but that was fine. That was preferred.

Cristiano ripped the gag from his mouth. “Now, I hear you might have something useful to tell me.” He lifted the bladed weapon in his hand. “Feel like talking?”

Chuck’s eyes darted to the knife and he swallowed hard. “F-fuck you.”

Cristiano rolled his eyes. “Not very original, Chuck. You get one more chance. My girl tells me you have information I want to know.”

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