Page 14 of My Best Friend Is Broken
On my way.
“Fuck,” I breathe, scrambling for the phone.
Liam’s head snaps up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, fingers flying over the keypad. “Just work stuff.”
But even as I type out a desperate message,Give me an hour, I’ll come to you, I know it’s too late. Dante doesn’t wait. Dante doesn’t ask. Dante takes.
The aggressive pounding on the front door makes us both jump. Three sharp, demanding knocks that seem to shake the walls.
Liam’s face goes white. “Who is that?”
“Stay here,” I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear, okay?”
His eyes widen with panic. “Nicky…”
“Promise me.” I grab his shoulders, looking into those frightened blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”
He nods jerkily, already curling deeper into the sofa cushions.
I walk to the front door on unsteady legs. Through the peephole, I can see Dante’s distinctive silhouette. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing his usual black coat that makes him look like death personified.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
“Dante.” I try to keep my voice level and professional. “I was just about to call you back.”
He pushes past me without invitation, his dark eyes scanning the apartment with predatory interest. Everything about him is sharp, his cheekbones, his jaw, the way his gaze cuts through a room like a blade. Even his cologne is aggressive, something expensive that smells like leather and violence.
“Nice place,” he says, though it sounds more like an assessment than a compliment. “Very... domestic.”
I close the door and turn to face him, keeping my body between him and the living room where Liam is hiding. “What do you need?”
Dante’s thin lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so cold. “Straight to business. I like that.”
He strides into the kitchen and settles into one of my kitchen chairs like he owns it, long legs stretched out. “We have a problem with the Kozlov situation.”
My stomach drops. The Russians have been testing boundaries for months, pushing into our territory bit by bit. I’d hoped the warning we sent last week would be enough.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where they decided to ignore our message.” Dante’s voice is conversational, almost pleasant. It makes my skin crawl. “They hit one of our shipments last night. Made quite a mess.”
I can hear the subtext. When Dante says ‘mess,’ he doesn’t mean spilled cargo.
“Dario wants them reminded of their place,” he continues, examining his fingernails with studied casualness. “Permanently.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” His dark eyes lift to mine. “You’ll be driving. I’ll be handling the... negotiations.”
The euphemism sits heavy between us. I’ve driven Dante to enough ‘negotiations’ to know exactly what that means. The screaming usually starts around ten minutes in.
“I can’t tonight,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I’ve got... something.”
Dante’s eyebrows rise with dangerous amusement. “Something?”
Fuck. Dario giving me the week off isn’t going to cut it. Dante wanting me to assist him is an honor, and we both know it.
