Page 60 of Devil's Tulip

“What crime?” Aldo bites out. “Having an altercation with his cousin—my niece? That’s beyond the Nightshades’ jurisdiction. It’s a family affair.”

Michael smirks, tossing the bloodied wipes onto the study floor. “Not if the cousin in question ismybride-to-be.”

“What?” Aldo and I snap together, making my uncle immediately turn his glare at me like I had anything to do with this.

Michael doesn’t answer either of us. Instead, he pulls out a gun from the small of his back, cocks it, and points it straight at Uncle Aldo who stumbles back fearfully.

“Michael don’t—”shoot him.But the rest of my words are swallowed by the deafening crack of the gunshot, the tip of the barrel smoking. I glance at my uncle, now on the floor, clutching his leg.

He shot him in the knee.

Relief floods me—then shame for feeling relieved. I really shouldn’t care if he dies or lives. The man put me on the butchering block himself by engaging me to Carlo. And for as long as I can remember, he’s treated me like trash, a human punching bag for him and his son.

“That’s for not stopping your son from hitting your niece you should’ve protected, and for betrothing her to a man like Carlo.” Michael tucks his gun back into the small of his back and turns to me. “Let’s get out of here.”

I hesitate, years of failed escape attempts making me wary. Could it really be this easy?

“Gianna.” The way he growls my name sends a shiver down my spine. His hand closes around mine, linking our fingers together, and tugs me with him, leaving no room for second-guessing.

I glance back once—at Uncle Aldo, still writhing on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Then I follow Michael out the door. Behind us, Lorenzo and the rest of the men march out with us.

Outside the office, Aunt Marie is pacing the length of the hallway, looking nervous as hell. The second she sees Michael, she stiffens and stumbles back, giving him—and me—a wide berth, refusing to meet my gaze.Funny how power changes things.

Michael leads me through the big house, to the front door and the familiar Cullinan parked right in front, amidst a trail of four other expensive-looking SUVs, where the men who took Dario earlier are waiting. He helps me into the backseat, then slides in next to me.

The familiar leather interior embraces me, but I stay rigid, half expecting any second for my uncle to come limping out of the house, blood splattering everywhere as he yells at his men to stop us. But instead, the engines roar to life almost in perfect sync, and we pull out of the house in a slow procession.

We drive past the gate without a hitch and head northeast towards 6th Avenue. I stare out the window, a little dazed, as the city blurs by. But it isn’t until we’re on the highway, passing signs for Interstate 95 N, that it sinks in: I’m free.

Reallyfree from Uncle Aldo this time.

“Are you okay?”

Michael’s concerned gaze draws my attention. I study him for a moment, then decide to ignore his question. He can stew in worry for all I care—not that I’m deluded enough to think he might actually be worried about me. I turn back to the window, and his sigh tells me he gets the hint that I don’t want to talk.

There’s too much going on in my head right now. And at the forefront is anger, so much anger at him. Because how dare he?

How dare he play with me like this?

First, dragging me to that Rafael’s place where Aldo was waiting, dashing every ounce of hope I had for freedom. Andus—not that there was any us beyond my own delusions. And now, what? He thinks he can swoop in like some goddamn hero, save the day, and I’ll just fall gratefully into his arms and forget everything?

Fuck. That.

I remain stubbornly silent as we turn onto a street with the sign ‘North Avenue’. Here the cityscape changes, going from the glistening skyscrapers to sprawling mansions tucked back behind thriving greenery.

We’re in the suburbs.

I shift in my seat, eyeing the tasteful, expensive houses as we cruise through the quiet neighborhood. Michael Hart lives in the suburbs? I never pictured him—or any person linked with the mafia, really—living somewhere so… serene.

I wonder what the people living in these houses would think if they happened to glance out the window and see this convoy of heavily tinted luxury cars rolling past.

Our cars finally slow as we approach an ominous-looking pair of gates that part for us automatically as we get closer. I steal a peek at Michael, who looks for all intents and purposes, cold.

He’s different from how he was in Seattle when it was just the two of us. Could it be the company?

My gaze drifts to Lorenzo in the passenger seat. Who is he to Michael? A relative? Colleague? Employee? They seem close, but I can’t tell in what way.

As if sensing my stare, the man glances back at me. I don’t bother looking away. Instead, I raise both brows at him. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smirk before he turns to face forward again.

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