Page 59 of Married to the Mafia

Mikey sealed his lips over hers before she could question whether or not he would kiss her in front of his family, or how. His hands anchored over her hips, holding her tight, the press of his fingers telling her everything she needed to know about the intention behind the grip. If she couldn’t guess it from the way his tongue swept into her mouth and chased the breath from her lungs.

She didn’t realize her own hands had rumpled the fabric of his suit blazer until they separated several seconds later, the chapel filled with applause and Romeo’s whistling.

Mikey wound an arm around her waist, holding her at his side as they stepped away from the altar-like space, and he tipped his head close to hers to whisper, “Welcome to the family, Mrs. De Salvo.”

seventeen

The First Lead

By the time they left the courthouse, Mikey wanted nothing more than to spread his new wife over the nearest semi-suitable surface. So to say he was aggravated to receive news that Ramires had taken a turn and they were short on time if they wanted to get anything out of the man was an understatement. One of Cristiano’s so-called guesthouses, where he tended to keep the captives they hoped to keep alive for a while, was about the last place Mikey wanted to be on his wedding day.

Yet, there he was.

Ryoma met them in what passed for a front room, furnished and generally kept clean. He offered Mikey a grin. “Sorry to put a damper on your big day.”

Mikey grunted. “It’s not like we rushed the ceremony. He still breathing?”

“Congratulations, then,” Ryoma said, grinning wider for a beat before his expression sobered. “Breathing, yes. It’s a raspy, gurgling sound, you can’t miss it. Conscious is a different story. That comes and goes. I’ve been letting him rest.”

“Fantastic.”

Cristiano rolled his neck, stretching. “We should be able to keep him awake for a few minutes if we need to. But the sooner we start, the better.” He nodded to his friend. “You’re on guard duty.”

Mikey let his cousin take the lead into the back of the house. Interrogations weren’t usually his thing. He’d been brought in on this one because Ramires was rumored to be the Ink Blots’ tech brain and no one wanted to lose a lead because something he’d said had gone over their heads. Whether or not Ramires would say anything coherent, let alone start speaking in code, Mikey had no idea. He would have been fine sending one of his men for the job, even, if not for the one other detail he didn’t know how to put into words.

Ramires had tried to turn Brandi against him, and when that had failed, he’d taken a shot at her. He’d had a better line of fire on Cristiano, or the two men who’d shot him, but he’d aimed through a windshield—ignoring two guns already pointed at him—and pulled the trigger. Was it as simple as blind rage over the failure of his plan? Or was there some other reason Ramires had chosen to try and take Brandi out with him rather than any of the armed men flanking him?

Getting him talking was the only way to know. Mikey understood that. He also understood that of all the questions, that couldn’t be priority. No matter how angry it made him.

“There’s our patient,” Cristiano said as they stepped into a brightly lit room with a beeping heart monitor.

Mikey’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the furniture placement and making note of the man in the bed. The quilt was folded down to just above Ramires’s waist and his upper body was bare, revealing a seemingly random design of tattoos forever marred with scars from bullets and fresh incisions. His eyes were closed, but any rest he was getting was fitful if the rapid movement of his eyes beneath his lids were any indication.

Cris moved up to the supplies the doctor would have left behind and picked up a prepared syringe. “You want to wait out in the hall until I get him talking?”

Mikey scowled. “I’m not a kid.”

Cris paused and glanced over at him. “I know that.” His eyes crinkled with an invisible smile. “Didn’t want to assume what happened with Richardson wasn’t a fluke.”

Mikey rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re proud of me for fileting a man.”

“Of course I am.” Cris stepped up to the IV and carefully placed the needle into the attached port. “I have a whole new respect for you after witnessing that. Doesn’t matter if you only did it to protect a specific person or because he interrupted your day off. You had the nerve to see it through and did it like a fuckin’ pro.”

“I’m going to suggest to Big Brother that we retire you. The way you talk is starting to concern me.” Mikey let his gaze shift to the heart monitor in time to watch the rate spike.

Cris chuckled, set the syringe aside, and positioned himself so that he and Mikey would both be in Ramires’s line of sight. Not that that was hard in the small room.

There was a delayed second in which Gustavo Ramires stared blankly out at them, his eyes only half open. In an instant his demeanor changed and he jerked up, attempting to throw himself backward, only to be stopped by obvious pain and the oh-so-ironic shackles around his wrists. He let out a breathless grunt and collapsed onto the mattress. “Just … fucking … kill me.”

“Now, why would we do that, Gus?” Cris asked. He reached out and clamped a heavy hand onto Ramires’s ankle. “We’ve waited so long to meet you.”

Mikey walked around to the side of the bed, bringing himself approximately back into Ramires’s periphery. “You fucked up, Ramires. Tell me what the hell you wanted with my woman.”

Ramires made a sound like an attempt at a chuckle, his lips contorting. “Don’t you mean fiancée? She’s not so good with secrets, that one.”

“That was yesterday,” Mikey said, rolling the metal he still wasn’t used to wearing between his fingers. “And if you thought mine and Brandi’s relationship is supposed to be a secret, then you’re the one who was misinformed.”

Ramires’s chest heaved. “Your bad taste, De Salvo.”

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