Page 60 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

***

Two hours later, I’m in my house.

My sleeves are folded, and my chest is heaving. My knuckles are bruised from hitting bone so hard they shattered, and two men are on the floor of my living room, begging for their lives.

“You touched her,” I shake my head as a mean smile curls my lips. “You laid your filthy hands on the woman I like!”

“Boss,” one of them scrambles to his knees, begging with a scratchy voice. “We didn’t know she was yours. We thought she was for Anthony. I promise you—” he pauses to wipe blood from his mouth, “when we found out, we didn’t do anything after. I left her alone. We all did.”

It doesn’t matter.

The fact that they touched Natalie is enough grounds for me to make them beg for death.

But I feelguilt, too, knowing that she must’ve thought I allowed something like that to happen, that she hung around, probably hoping I would provide answers.

For the first time, I feel failure. The realization almost brings me to a staggering kneel.

“Get out,” I exhale. “Get out, or I’ll make it impossible for you to leave.”

Somehow, they slink away, leaving me alone in the silence. The moment the door shuts, the weight of everything crashes down on me.

I drag myself to the couch, but my knees give way before I make it, and I sink heavily. My battered fingers rake through my hair, and in my chest, an ache—raw and unrelenting—gnaws at me.

I pushed Natalie away at first and judged her unfairly. Then I let her in, took more than I had any right to, only to pull back when it suited me. And now, when she needed me the most, I wasn’t there.

No more.

I push to my feet, grab my car keys, and head for the door, my mind fixed on one thing.

I have to make this right.

Chapter Nineteen

Natalie

“Please tell me she didn’t quit her job?” I slip into a pair of indoor slippers when I hear the knock on the door and drag my feet from my bedroom, holding the juice carton closer to my body.

I’m wearing a large shirt with a pair of cotton shorts—not covering anything—underneath. But it’s Danielle, so it doesn’t matter.

“I don’t think I have enough money to take care of two people,” I grumble under my breath. Determined to be a supportive friend no matter what, I stop to take a chug of orange juice.

I’ve been drinking it nonstop for three days in an attempt to convince my mind that it has enough serotonin to be happy. It hasn’t worked well, though.

A single slipper slides free, but I ignore it—and the sight of my living room in disarray to open the door. The carton falls from myhand, and the juice spills to the floor. None of it matters, though, because my mouth is hanging agape.

“Natalie.” He says my name first.

I still can’t believe he’s standing outside my apartment, so nothing forms in my head or on my tongue.

“Natalie?” Ethan’s next word is more in worry and he glances at the spilled juice. “Are you alright? Do you—do you need me to get that?”

“Why?” I find a word. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t ask, “Howdid you find my apartment?”even though I’ve never told Anthony where I lived, and it wasn’t a requirement of our contract. Ethan is the type of person who gets whatever he wants—I already know that.

He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

I squint in confusion. “Sorry? Why?”

---