Every instinct screams danger. “Get out.”
“Boss wants to have a conversation.” He takes a step forward, glass crunching under his boots.
“I said get out!” The pruning shears are grabbed from my worktable, not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. “Now, or I’m calling the police.”
“You could do that.” Another step. “But then you’d have to explain why someone’s threatening you over your boyfriend’s business dealings. Lots of uncomfortable questions. Lots of attention on Mr. De Luca. Don’t think he’d appreciate that.”
He’s right. Police mean investigations, investigations mean scrutiny, scrutiny means Alessandro’s world gets exposed. And if the movies have taught me anything, exposing a mafia boss doesn’t end well for anyone.
“What do you want?”
“Told you. Boss wants to talk.” He’s maybe ten feet away now, close enough to see the scar running along his jaw. “You can come easy, or we can make it hard. Your choice.”
My phone is still clutched in one hand, shears in the other. Fight or flight instincts war with each other. Do I run, scream, stab him with the shears and deal with consequences later? Or go with him?
But before a decision can be made, a voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
“Touch her and you’re dead.”
Alessandro.
He’s standing in the doorway or what remains of it, dressed in black, his coat open enough to show the gun at his side. His face is absolutely expressionless, but his eyes are filled with murder.
The man in the dark jacket goes very still. “De Luca.”
“You have three seconds to walk away.” Alessandro’s voice is soft, deadly. “One.”
“Boss said—”
“Two.”
“Look, we’re just supposed to deliver a message—”
“Three.”
What happens next occurs too fast to process. Alessandro moves, a blur of motion, and suddenly the man is on the ground, Alessandro’s knee on his chest, gun pressed to his temple.
“Who sent you?” The question is casual, like he’s asking about the weather.
“I don’t—”
The gun presses harder. “Wrong answer. Who. Sent. You.”
“Greco! Jesus, it was Greco! He just wanted to scare her, make her leave you—”
“Congratulations. You’ve delivered your message.” Alessandro stands, hauling the man up by his collar. “Now you’re going to deliver mine. You tell Greco that if anyone—anyone—comes near this shop again, near Elena again, I will personally dismantle his entire organization. I will takeeverything he has and burn it to ash. His men, his money, his family. All of it. Am I clear?”
“Y-yes. Crystal.”
“Good.” Alessandro releases him, and the man stumbles toward the door. “And tell him The Shadow says hello.”
The man runs. Literally runs down the street like hell itself is chasing him.
Which leaves Alessandro and me alone in my destroyed shop, glass crunching underfoot, cold air streaming through the broken window, the brick with its threatening message lying on the floor between us.
“Are you hurt?” He’s already crossing to me, hands reaching out to check for injuries. “Did he touch you? Did anyone else come in?”
“No, no one else. Just him and the brick and—” The words tumble out in a rush. “Alessandro, what the hell is happening? Who was that? What did he mean about leaving you?”
