Page 89 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

Luca fixes the gun in one thigh holster and lets me check another weapon. I holster this one myself, then secure the knife he gives me close to one of the guns. My heart is beating a million miles a minute, and having weapons strapped to my body is not helping.

Satisfied we are fully armed, he closes up the rest of the weapons, and they disappear into the closet like they were never here. “Come on.”

He heads for the stairs and goes down them quickly, his pace brisk as the minutes tick by.

We head to the kitchen, and he grabs a spatula from the jar of utensils, giving it to me with a roll of his eyes. “For luck.” He winks at me when I grin at him like an idiot.

I do feel better having this silly thing in my hands, and I’m not sure what it is about this trauma-fest of a week that has gotten me so attached to a fucking spatula, but there is no time to ponder it.

Luca presses a combination of keys and buttons on the double oven, and it swings open like a door—a thick-ass door made of metal.

“No way!” I gasp, following him in. “This is just like in the movies.”

“Yeah, except we very well may die, Lenny.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, that part sucks.”

He walks me back to another door, and we step into a hidden room at the center of the house. The rest of the home seems built around this, its sole purpose to conceal it. I suppose when your family has a long history of associating with the mob, things like this are pretty standard.

The room’s lights turn on automatically when we enter, and screens flicker to life.

I avert my eyes quickly, accidentally glancing at the goddamn murder-barn scene of bloodshed. I think I see a finger falling tothe ground, and Marco now looks more like aMarc-oh-fuck-no. “Oh, my fucking God.”

There was a large dark hole where his ear should be. Blood caking his shirt on both sides so I can only assume his other ear has been removed too, van Gogh style.

He’s definitely lost some skin on his hands and forearms. The thought of what else is something I try to push out of my mind.

“Sorry, Lenny.” Luca’s fingers fly feverishly across the keyboard, and the screens change in an instant. A red light in the top corner of the room starts blinking silently.

“What is that?” I ask, my voice tight.

“My silent alarm. I need to call Jax and Enzo up here.” He’s still typing furiously, his frustration mounting. He suddenly slams his hands on the desk. “Motherfucker! I’ve got you now.”

“What?” My stomach knots, the fear growing more tangible by the second.

I mean, I was scared before, but you know... if Luca wasn’t worried, I wasn’t worried. But now? We’ve got a SWAT team of assassins descending on us, I’ve got guns strapped to my legs, and my other boyfriends are torturing someone in the murder-barn completely oblivious to the situation.

So, we can agree I was at least pretending not to be worried.

“Where are you?” Luca’s blue eyes scan each of the screens quickly, searching. “I know you’re here, you bastard.” His gaze fixes on one screen, and it seems the figure in the frame knows it. A masked man, rifle in hand, is staring directly at us.

“Luca, who is that?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Nico Santoro,” he growls, curling his lip as anger burns in his eyes.

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “Nic.”

Luca’s old roommate in college. They were always neck and neck in everything—top of their class, best friends, constantly in competition with each other.

“He’s the one I taught how to do a blackout net.”

“And you’re not friends anymore?”

“I outgrew his childish need to compete.” Luca sits up and opens a drawer beside the desk.

Surprise—it’s full of guns. We’re all shocked.

He takes a silencer from the top and screws it onto his gun. Then he grabs a pair of brass knuckles, slipping one into each pocket.

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