Page 75 of Mercy in Betrayal

Reset.

Reset.

I jump to my feet, the book falling to the floor with the motion. “Why aren’t you doing anything? I need to go. I need to stop this.”

Angel lifts an eyebrow at my actions but does nothing more than chuckle. “Please sit. If it gets too bad, Azrael will take care of it, love.”

I lift my hands and pull at my hair. “Don’t fucking call me that! I’m not your love, your pet, your dear, or your anything. I’m Rowan Scarpetta, and that’s my husband out there. Who is Azrael? Where did he come from? Why is he here?”

Angel’s expression darkens, and he sets the drink down with a clink on the bar cart. “Azrael isn’t a ‘he,’ Mrs. Scarpetta. Azrael is a ‘they.’ Azrael is the hammer of judgment the Commission brings out when order is needed among the Families. Even I don’t know who they are. No one in the Commission has seen their faces in decades. We communicate through boxes. Sometimes, we get messages. Most Dons will never hear from them. But on very rare occasions, you receive one of these.” Angel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a

highly lacquered, golden card with a symbol on it. “If you get one of these, or even if this symbol shows up somewhere, that means Azrael is in your area. Azrael is here. They will hear

about the fight, and they will end it.”

I study the card with its circular symbol. I need to get to that fight before Azrael does. I need to stop it from happening because something tells me the “hammer of judgment” isn’t going to politely tap each man on the shoulder and send them home with a warning.

They’re going to die.

And for whatever reason, Angel Valachi wants to let it happen.

Reset.

I look at Vivi, who has been my rock these past few weeks, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring at her brother, one hand surreptitiously raised to hide the tears leaking continuously from her eyes.

I’m going to have to do this on my own.

Heart pounding, I make a beeline for the door. I make it one, two, three steps before Angel lunges and catches me easily. It’s pathetic, how easy it is.

His arms band around my chest, yanking me backward. I scream and kick out, determined to be loose. Shocked from her stupor, Vivi yells.

Angel laughs.

“Let me go!”

Footsteps sound outside the door, and Angel’s arms tighten. “We’re good!” he calls. “I have it under control; carry on.”

The footsteps don’t stop, though. The door bursts fully open, and Angel looks away from me in annoyance to chide whatever guard or servant has dared to ignore him. I see his expression change and transfer my attention to the door, watching with a mix of horror and fascination as men pour into the room.

Several go straight to Angel and rip him away from me. Another goes to Vivi, holding her back as she starts forward. The others force Angel to his knees, unresponsive in the face of his loud demands to know what they mean by this intrusion. I melt into the corner of the room, hoping to simply go unnoticed.

I have no idea what is going on, but they seem to be waiting for someone, holding us all at bay.

Another man stalks silently into the study, his gaze categorizing each of us in turn. He’s massive, built like a tank, with tattoos ranging from his collar up the length of his neck.

As he crosses the room, he slowly rolls up each sleeve of his white shirt, an action that sends a chill down my spine.

“Now, Ivan—” Angel begins.

Ivan punches him.

Vivi screams and lunges against the arms of the man holding her. I edge toward the door and stop as another man gives a tiny shake of his head.

Giving up, I stand and try not to flinch as the man called Ivan beats Angel, each thud of his fist against flesh brutal and methodical in its placement. Angel doesn’t lose consciousness. Ivan doesn’t intend for him to lose consciousness. He intends for him to feel every hit.

Vivi sobs. “Ivan, please! Don’t! Please!”

He stops, narrowing his gaze upon her. “Tears do not faze me, woman.”

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