“Nothing, I swear. A friend of mine was hired by him to fuck up some businesses, but I had no part in that.”
I consider sparing this guy’s life, not wanting unnecessary bloodshed, but the thought of him taking my woman, scaring her and tying her up, has me putting a bullet in his skull. He did two jobs for this guy, and with him being broke and an addict, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t take another job.
“You got his phone?” I ask Bosco.
“Yeah.” He hands it over to me.
“Thanks. Call for a cleanup.”
I tap on his phone, but it has a password. I’ll have to get Eddy to crack it open.
Dominick and I walk out, and once we’re in the car, he says, “Whoever this is, they aren’t going to stop until they get what they came for.”
“They want Harbor Point.” I glance at him. “You willing to give it up?”
He swallows thickly and then shakes his head. “We’re in too deep. We can’t just walk away. They know this. I don’t believe they want Harbor Point.” He locks eyes with me. “I think they want a war.”
30
Daniella
Since Matteo pickedme up from Peyton and Dominick’s home, he hasn’t once looked at me. Not when he told me we needed to go home. Not during the car ride back to our condo. Not when we walked inside and he asked if I would be okay alone because he had shit to take care of, and then he disappeared down the hall.
I don’t know if he’s mad at me for getting taken or if he’s pissed that he didn’t get to fight. Or maybe it’s all just too much, having to protect me while dealing with whatever the hell is going on.
According to Peyton, someone is coming after their family, and they don’t know why.
When I told her and Bri what the person had said to Matteo over the phone—that they want Harbor Point—their eyes went wide. Bri cursed under her breath, and Peyton excused herself to check on her babies.
I don’t know what’s going on, but what I do know is that Matteo is my safe place, and the fact that he’s retreating is breaking my heart.
He’s done this before, I remind myself.
He pushed me away, wanting to protect me, and if I were to guess, that’s what he’s doing again. But I’m not going to let that happen.
I go in search of him and find him in the gym. It must besoundproof because from the outside, I couldn’t hear a thing, but inside, the sound of him laying into the punching bag reverberates throughout the otherwise quiet room.
His shoulders are tense, his neck muscles bunched. His arms repeatedly fly into the punching bag with so much force that I’m shocked he hasn’t put a hole in it or torn the anchor right out of the ceiling.
“Matteo,” I call out, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he doesn’t stop hitting the bag.
So, I step farther inside, coming around so he’s forced to look at me.
“Please,” I whisper, my eyes locking with his, “talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say?” he huffs, continuing to beat on the bag. “I let you out of my sight, and you could’ve been fucking killed!” He emphasizes the last word with a punch to the bag that sends it flying even further. “I was supposed to protect you, and I failed! What the fuck was I thinking, telling you that I might want a baby? I can’t even protect you!” He hits the bag again and again. “I’m a goddamn fuckup!”
My thoughts go back to our conversations regarding his emotional dysregulation.
“I’m either fighting or fucking to keep my emotions in check. Not exactly husband or father material.”
He’s scared and angry and having trouble with his emotions, and because he’s afraid to hurt me, he’s resorted to taking it out on the bag.
“Matteo”—I step closer—“I’m right here.”
“Only because that psycho wanted to send a message. If she’d wanted to kill you, she could have, and it would’ve been my fault. This life—fuck!”
