Page 82 of Offside Bride

“I’m not asking for joy,” Sawyer retorts. “Just a little patience. The goods are here, just like we promised.”

The other Italian mobsters shift restlessly. I’m pretty sure I see one of them fingering something in his pocket that I really hope is just a rosary.

“Patience?” Gustavo scoffs. “We’ve been plenty patient. Now, where’s our shipment?”

Uncle Whitey pipes up, his Irish brogue thicker than a pint of Guinness. “Aye, the lad’s tellin’ ye the truth. Let’s not get our knickers in a twist.” He grins, revealing a set of teeth that have clearly seen better days. “We’re not here to pull the wool over yer eyes. We’ve got what ye want, fair and square.”

Gustavo’s eyes narrow. “If this shipment ain’t exactly what we paid for, there’s gonna be trouble. Capisce?”

“I need proof of life,” Sawyer says. “Where’s my wife’s bird?”

“Give him the damn bird,” a commanding voice echoes through the warehouse.

Then a man emerges from the shadows, moving with the grace of a panther, all fluid motion and controlled power. The warehouse suddenly feels ten degrees colder, and I swear I hear dramatic music swelling in the background.

He’s pure elegance in a tailored suit that fits him like a glove—and devastatingly handsome, with golden skin, and eyes dark as espresso and twice as intense.

“Mr. Fiorentino. I didn’t expect you to come,” Gustavo stammers, suddenly looking like a schoolboy.

Mr. tall, dark, and dangerous scans the room, and I swear they linger on our hiding spot for a heart-stopping moment. I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t see us. I feel Siobhan suck in a sharp breath beside me, eyes wide as saucers.

Trailing behind him is another man, equally impressive, in a rougher way. He’s built like a brick wall, with tattoos snaking up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His suspenders stretch taut across his broad chest, and let’s just say if danger and sex appeal had a baby, it would be this guy. He’s got that whole silent and broody thing going on, with a side of ‘I could kill a man with my pinky finger.’ It’s like someone cranked up the danger dial to eleven.

The two men’s arrival has everyone on edge. The other Italian mobsters are suddenly standing straighter, like they’ve all been zapped with cattle prods. Even Uncle Whitey looks a bit green around the gills.

Mr. Fiorentino moves toward Gustavo, each step calculated and smooth. A single beam of hard light halos his perfectly styled black hair and dramatically casts a fierce shadow on one side of his face. I swear his cheekbones could cut glass.

When he speaks, his voice is smooth as aged whiskey. “Gustavo, I believe I gave you an order.”

Gustavo looks like he’s about to wet himself. “Y-yes, Mr. Fiorentino. Right away, sir.”

Mr. Fiorentino, looking like he’s one eye roll away from a migraine, pinches the bridge of his nose. I half expect him to start handing out time-outs.

“For the love,” he mutters, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Is it really this difficult to produce one measly bird?”

One of the goons scurries out like his pants are on fire, probably grateful for the excuse to escape Mr. Fiorentino’s deathglare. A few moments later, he returns, panting like he’s just run a marathon, with a covered cage in his hands.

Mr. Fiorentino gives a curt nod, and the goon whips off the blanket like he’s unveiling the Mona Lisa. There’s Otto, looking ruffled but alive.

“Swim with the fishes,” Otto squawks, and I swear Mr. Fiorentino’s nostrils flare.

His face morphs into a mask of anger and stern elegance—an expression that says, “I’m furious, but make it fashionable.” Like a terrifying Gucci ad.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “I was in the middle of a multi-million dollar art gallery negotiation, and I had to hear second-hand that your goons kidnapped a parrot.”

Gustavo gulps audibly. “Well, sir, you see?—”

“Squawk off!” Otto interjects helpfully.

I can’t help myself any longer. My legs are moving before my brain can catch up, so it’s not my fault really. I dash out from behind the crates and oil drums like a mom reuniting with her long-lost toddler, and I throw my arms around the cage.

“Otto!” I cry. “Oh, my feathery baby!”

Sawyer’s face goes from shock to exasperation faster than you can say “busted.”

“Maggie, I thought I told you to stay behind,” he groans.

Before I can respond, Siobhan emerges from our hiding spot with an air of casual indifference only seen in magazines. Sawyer’s eyes widen even further.

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