The moment I saw her, I took her in my arms and almost crushed her to my chest. She wasn’t the only one who still had nightmares.
* * *
We argued. In the end, though, I broke. I had meant to keep her home with me after what had happened earlier—the thought of leaving her sent a ripple of unease through me. Her defense had been that the girls had decided to put together an impromptu lingerie party for Juliette, and it was my duty, as Romeo’s brother, to be there forhim.
With her guilt trip successful, I agreed, again, to the plans. She didn’t press me to share with her what was going on, and I didn’t press her either. We had a silent understanding that when one of us felt lost from the other, we just held on.
The boxing match at Madison Square Garden wasn’t even sufficient to keep my attention. My phone lit up during the last round, and the text was from a number I didn’t recognize.
It’s late. Do you know where your wife is?
I cursed underneath my breath as the crowd roared around me. An instant vision of Scarlett being abducted, taken into the sewers to live with Nemours assaulted me, like a fist ripping out my heart. Just as I was about to lean over to tell Rocco it was time to go, his phone rang.
“Rocco,” he answered, curt. A few seconds passed. Then he glanced at me, listening to whatever the voice told him on the other line. “How?” He started to stroke his bottom lip, concentrating on the boxing ring. “Awhat?”
Tito shot up from his seat, clapping with the rest of the crowd. Then he started to throw his fists around, attempting to give his boxer directions.
“Rocco,” I said. A cold sweat had started to snake its way along my neck. My heart pumped so hard that it jumped in my throat.
He held a finger up. “No. No. We will be there.” After he hung up, he sighed, long and hard. Then he looked at me. He gave me the gist of the situation, and fear turned into pure anger.
The men, all fuming because we had to leave, were informed of the situation once we all loaded up—five cars deep—into Rocco’s fleet of Rolls-Royce Phantoms. Donato had gotten the call first, but he had redirected it to Rocco because he was too stunned to process the situation.
“Tell me again,” Romeo said, leaning forward in his seat. “Who tasered who?”
“My wife,” Donato said, emphasizing wife. “Had too much to drink.”
“They all have,” Rocco said, attempting to help but not.
“It seems Chiara thought it would be fun to taser Giovanni. When he hit the floor, she started to scream that he had passed out. Every man in the house crowded around him—that is when the women ran. The group of men were not able to stop them safely, but they were able to follow them to The Club.”
Rocco picked up his phone, dialed a number, and then started talking in Italian to a man who went by the name Macchiavello. Rocco was making arrangements for us to get inside of The Club. It was an exclusive nightclub that no one got into unless they had the right credentials. The Faustis were overqualified.
Macchiavello was a mean motherfucker, and he was as smart as he was ruthless. His story was one for the books. He dealt with the Faustis on a regular basis, because he was related to Tito. More than that, though, he had been connected to a family in New York until things went sour, and then he became a hired hand for the Faustis. That was a simple explanation of who he was and what he did, but it was what it was. His girl, Mari, sometimes came over to our place when the women got together.
“They need to be spanked. All of them,” Mitch muttered to himself. “A good spanking never hurt anyone.”
“Come on,” Mick said, punching him in the leg. “They probably just wanted to blow off some steam.”
Mitch gave him a blank stare. He turned to Tito. “I was the one who was spanked. He never was. Make sense now?”
I tried to reason with myself—I reminded myself that she had no idea Ettore had been taken off his leash, that earlier I had a literal vision of Nemours shoving her through the streets, forcing her along. But she knew damn well how I’d feel about this. How I had felt earlier. I’d made myself clear enough. Then there was the text message from the unknown number.
It’s late. Do you know where your wife is?
No, I fucking didn’t, and I wasn’t all that pleased to find out.
I said nothing as the driver navigated the streets. If I opened my mouth, fire was going to blow out. Snow was coming down hard, the roads before us nothing but glistening slush and dirt.
The chatter in the car died down as we pulled up in front of The Club. Three men ran outside, opening our suicide doors first. A line snaked around the building. Clouds of hard alcohol wafted out in the cold. Music bumped from inside.
As I exited the car, I secured the button on my coat. Women whistled at us as we filed inside, one behind the other.
“It’s the Faustis!” a particularly loud woman screamed out. Another rush of screams and applause was met by more bouncers rushing out to keep the line back.
The ruckus lingered behind as I stepped inside. The smell of drink was even stronger, and the music rattled teeth. A man appeared to my right, asking for my coat.
I slipped out of it, handing it over. My blood ran hot and fast. One minute inside of this place was enough to thaw and overheat. I rolled up my sleeves; the signet ring on my little finger glinted in the glow of the pulsing lights.
