Page 10 of Married to the Mafia

“Thank you,” she whispered before he could disconnect. The watery sound of her words had his fingers tightening over the steering wheel.

It was hard to unclench even enough to dial the man he wanted, but it was necessary.

“’Sup?” Ryoma answered after the first ring.

Ordinarily, Mikey would have rolled his eyes at the greeting. Cristiano’s friend was a little too casual sometimes. But he was also dependable. “Are you free?”

“I am indeed.” Ryoma paused. “Are you angry? You sound angry. That’s unusual for you.”

“I get angry all the time. I just hide it better than my brothers.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Grab at least two men and get over to Hogue Street. Brandi Richardson’s been carjacked and might have been less than honest about her well-being. I’m fifteen to twenty minutes away.”

“Protection detail, then. I can handle that.” Ryoma paused. “Richardson, isn’t that—”

“She’s one of my best employees and she’s called for help. She knows what that means.”

“Yes, sir.” Mikey wasn’t sure if there was really a grin in Ryoma’s voice or if he was so used to hearing the man’s voice that way that he defaulted to picturing it. Regardless, the response felt almost taunting. Mikey might have snarked at it, but Ryoma didn’t stay on the line long enough to let him.

Probably for the best.

Brandi was one of his best employees. That was actually the first time he’d put the sentiment into words. Statistically it was accurate. He wouldn’t have given her a top-floor desk if it weren’t. But acknowledging the fact under these circumstances felt … different. Everything felt fucking different the past few days and he couldn’t put his finger on why.

So he set that aside, too, and just drove. He’d told Ryoma he was fifteen to twenty minutes out, but that was only if he obeyed the speed limit.

Brandi felt so stupid. She’d called four different cab companies, the process for which had all on its own made her late for work, and she wanted to scream. She wasn’t sure why she resisted. The first company refused to send its cars to that area of the city. The man who’d answered had the gall to lecture her for being ‘dumb enough’ to go there in the first place, before promptly hanging up. The second company hadn’t ever answered the phone. The third had given a less severe version of the same answer the first had given, and the fourth had avoided outright refusal by saying it might take two or more hours. That she should call other companies and call back if no one was available sooner.

She was never spending another dime on cabs again.

And those rideshare companies? They didn’t have anyone available for her requested area, either. She was mad enough to want to delete her entire account, but she talked herself down off that ledge for the time being. Though calling her boss—a mafia man—for help instead probably hadn’t been a whole lot smarter.

At least he’d answered the phone, and not laughed or lectured her right off.

What was the world coming to when a third-generation mafia man had more humanity than a supposedly not-criminal businessman?

The sound of an approaching engine drew Brandi’s attention and she sniffled, realizing some of her tears had leaked free despite her best efforts. She turned, phone and purse clutched tightly in her grasp. The sight of the approaching SUV petrified her for several paralyzing seconds before she realized it was shiny, polished black and coming the wrong way up the one-way street. Definitely not her stalker.

The SUV spun in an impressively tight circle, parking almost perfectly parallel, just feet from her. Three of the four doors popped open and two men and one woman climbed out. None of them familiar, all of them wearing clichéd black.

Brandi pushed to her feet, not wanting to be sitting in the dirt for whatever happened next. She brushed off her jeans, shouldered her purse, and watched as one of the men took up a position at the head of the SUV while the female moved to stand at the rear, facing her. The other man, the driver, walked toward her.

He was tall, about six foot, and lean muscle with dark hair and distinctly Asian features. Tattoos danced down his bare forearms. His lips kicked up in a lopsided smile. “Brandi Richardson?”

Remembering Mikey’s words, she said, “Who’s asking?”

His smile widened. “Michele De Salvo sent us. I’m Ryoma.”

“Mr. De Salvo’s here,” the female said almost simultaneously.

Ryoma whistled, his gaze shifting from Brandi, toward the engine Brandi hadn’t registered hearing behind her. “Someone blew a few reds.” He sounded amused.

Brandi turned in place, watching as a car she recognized from the parking lot at work came to a stop almost in front of her. The tension inside of her began to settle. They may not perfectly understand each other, and her father’s behavior might make it impossible for her to ever fully fit in, but at least she knew she could call on someone if it truly became necessary.

The thought sliced the air from her lungs even as Mikey stepped from the car.

When was the last time she’d honestly felt as though she could rely on anyone beyond herself?

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