It’s not lust.
It’s something worse.
It’s the beginning of caring. I know that if I’m not careful… It’s going to be the end of me.
Tonight was supposed to be my chance to move up in the ranks again, to stop being nothing but aglorified babysitter. Tonight, I'm supposed to off some jackass who thinks he can encroach into the family's territory without asking: Gerald Moody, the owner of this bar, and a pain in the ass to my boss. Rumor has it that several high-profile socialites have vanished from this club and that Gerald is holding them in one of his whorehouses. It's not that human traffickingisn'tdone by La Famiglia, but that's the point. It's not donewithoutLa Famiglia's consent, and Gerald failed to obtain it.
No one cares about my opinion, but for the record, killing someone who thinks selling humans, especially women, is okay? That’s something I’d actually pay to do. I stare at the dancefloor and blink my eyes a few times, but the girl in the tight black dress that exposes way too much flesh is still Sophia. The bane of my existence. The curse that follows me everywhere—into my thoughts, even my dreams.
She's too young for me to even notice. I'm almost ten years older. But Ihavenoticed, especially on nights like tonight. I see the way she moves like a runway model and the way her clothes hug her long, slim body. She’s got curves in just the right places and the waist of an hourglass. Her long, glossy black hair is set in curls, cascading down all the way to her hips.
A mirrored pillar by the dancefloor gives me just the right cover to keep staring at her body moving sensuously to the beat of the music. Fuck, I must really be some kind of pervert, because my dick is hard as a rock. It's not helping in figuring out what to do next. How to get the girls out of here and finish my mission. The easiest way would be to call Rufus and have him come get them. I'm just about to lift my phone from my pocket when I notice another girl sidling up to Sophia, her silent laughter visible only in the curve of her smile as the speakers drown out her voice. She leans in, says something to Sophia, and gestures toward a booth in the corner, where a guy is slipping into the seat beside the rest of Sophia’s group. I only catch a quick glimpse, but it's enough. The kid looks just like what the girls would be fawning over.Probably twenty, maybe twenty-two. Blonde hair that looks too messy to be an accident. A wide smile on a charming, all-American guy. He looks like a fucking Ken doll. Even from here, I can see that he's high on something. I narrow my eyes and push away from the column. I don't like this.
A waiter approaches with a tray filled with shots.
I know all these girls. I was just cursing them earlier. They're Sophia's regular gang. Guiliana DeLuna starts to pull Sophia to the booth, where Isolde Sartori and Camilla Giordano sit, staring at the unknown man, hanging on every word he's saying. The principessas of La Famiglia, daughters of four of the five most powerful capos in New York City. So this is what Sophia was up to. I should have known. She must have snuck out and… I take another step forward as I watch Guiliana drag Sophia the rest of the way to the table.
I can't hear a word being said, but I don't like the way Romeo Blondie is sitting with them at the table. Casually, he drapes an arm around Camilla while he drinks in Sophia as she approaches, an appreciative smirk sprawled across his face.
The girls each take one of the shots, and so does Ken doll. That's enough. I pull my phone out to call Rufus. Let him deal with this mess. I have other worries. Namely, my target, Gerald Moody. As if I had called Beetlejuice three times, the fucker materializes as if out of thin air, followed by two other men.
Change of plan. Rufus is not who I need; it's time to put in a call to Nestor, Carlos's second-in-command. He’s so far up the food chain that I don't think he even knows my name. However, this situation requires not only immediate attention but also the regard of higher-ups. If I had Carlos's number, I'd call the boss myself, but he makes a point of ignoring the lower made men in his organization. Men like me.
I’ve spent years as nothing more than a shadow in this world—raised to be useful, never important. Raffael the soldier, the disposable weapon. And yet here I am, about to step into something that could put me on every radar in La Famiglia.
It's too late, though, shit's about to go down. The three men approach the table of giggling girls, all too smitten with the attention of the Ken doll lounging with them. One flashes his weapon; it's subtle, but the message is clear. The giggling stops, and the girls stare from one to the other.
Sophia drives her hands to her hips. I still can't hear her, but the words are as clear as if I were standing right next to her: "Do you have any idea who we are?"
Gerald laughs and grabs Sophia by the arm, and I see red. I start moving forward before I can catch myself. I'm already halfway there when I force myself to stop. Not in here. Too many witnesses. I grind my teeth. Gerald laying his hands on her is more than I can take.
The two other men approach the table and grab the remaining girls by the arms and force them to get out of the booth, moving toward the back exit. My anger is near a boiling point. Why hasn't anybody made these girls understand how much danger they're constantly in? That losing their bodyguards is not a game?
Shit, I'm going to have to go in blind to stop the girls from being trafficked. I have no idea how many more men Gerald has waiting outside, at least one, I’d bet, a driver. But there is no time to call for backup; they wouldn't arrive in time to stop this. I could follow them on my bike and call in the location, but the risk of the girls being moved while I run to where I parked is too high to entertain.
Don’t miss. Don’t screw this up,I remind myself, slipping along the edge of the crowd like a shadow. No one gives me a second glance—just another guy in a black button-down and jeans. Tonight, I ditched my leather jacket for a suit coat to blend in. My hand is already wrapped around the Glock’s grip. Keeping low and silent, I trail the men and the girls, thumbing off the safety as I angle toward the employee corridor that leads to the rear exit.
The alley door yawns open, and humid night air hits me like a fist to the face. I wait two heartbeats, then move—flat to the brick, forcing my breathing to slow, keeping my gun ready. Finger on the trigger. All my life, my jobs have been simple: find the guy who skipped town, break his fingers, collect. Put pressure where the ledger says to. This isn’t that. This is girls in the back ofa van on the way to a life from hell. This will turn a dirty street job into a war movie, and war movies leave bodies. I don’t flinch at the idea of killing—it wouldn't be my first kill—and I don’t expect anyone to mourn me if I don’t come back. But Sophia Orsi in a whorehouse? That’s different. That makes me see red. She is a mafia princess so far above these assholes—and me—that none of us should even be breathing the same air. Men like me aren’t supposed to touch women like her. We’re not supposed to even look. I’ll paint this alley with blood before I let them lay a hand on her. I was raised to be useful, not noticed—raised to be the blade other men hide behind. La Famiglia taught me how to shoot and how to be silent, but training is drills, and adrenaline is a different animal. And I'm a realist enough to get that. These bastards are not even trying to be subtle about the trafficking. Right in front of me is a pedo van—white with blacked-out windows and plates just smeared enough to make some of the writing illegible. It’s parked thirty feet away at the mouth of the alley, and the engine is idling, waiting to swallow the girls whole. One man stands by the sliding door, while another one sits in the driver’s seat. There could be more inside.
Sophia sees the van and freezes. The flicker of panic in her body language is unmistakable. She twists, elbowing the guy holding her. He grunts, she must have gotten him good, and snaps something at her—loud and threatening—but she only fights harder. The other girls are screaming now, their heels slipping on the greasyconcrete. One of them tries to run but is stopped by a sharp backhand that drops her to her knees.
I move.
I know I have to make this quick and clean, that’s how it’s supposed to be. In and out, a name on a list, a body in the dirt. I never thought much about the ones I put down. They were marks, debts, obstacles. Nothing more. But this… this is different. Watching their hands on her, hearing her fight, that flips something open inside me I didn’t even know was there. A darker part. A hunger. Deep and relentless. This isn’t about the job anymore or even the rules of La Famiglia. It’s abouther. And forher, I don’t just want them dead, I want them toknowit’s me ending them. I want them tofeelevery ounce of terror they tried to lay on her.
I already sense that it will be much easier to let that demon run loose than it will be to shove it back in its cage once it tastes blood. But tonight, for the first time, I’ll stop killing like a soldier and start killing like a man possessed. And once I start, I'm pretty sure there’ll be no going back.
The first guy—closest to Sophia—takes a bullet through the base of the skull before he can turn. The bang of the shot echoes through the dirty back alley. His body crumples to the ground, but I don't wait to see her reaction. I'm already aiming for the second asshole dragging Guiliana.
He shouts—too late—and reaches for his gun, also too late. I shoot him through the throat.
He gurgles and drops. I don't look; there's no way he's going to get back up. Not unless there's a zombie apocalypse I wasn't told about.
The third guy spins and opens fire. I duck behind a dumpster as bullets zing past the metal edge.
"Stay down!" I shout at the girls.
The other girls scream and scatter—like prey—but Sophia doesn’t. For an eighteen-year-old girl, she shows impressive composure as she crouches, wide-eyed, hiding behind the dead guy I dropped first. Smart girl. I peek around the corner and pop off two more shots. One hits the third guy in the shoulder as he stumbles back toward the van.
