We break away at the same time, breathing a little too heavily, considering we’re talking about people hurting people. But this is their world. And mine now too.
I might have come into their world from a different angle, the “right” and “proper” side of society, but I would much prefer to live the way Pack De Luca does—with honest brutality—rather than the games the “good” people play. My father is the epitome of that high moralistic standing, despite being the snakiest snake in the snake pit.
“The way his hands are tied downward is also confirmation. The missing fingers, well, there are a few ways to interpret that, but I’d say he was touching something he shouldn’t have.”
“Or touching someone,” Valentine adds, his eyes looking a bit shielded when they land on me.
“That’s a bit of a jump, though. No one knows I’m here with you.”
“Did you find his fingers?” Matteo asks Dante.
“No.”
During the entire conversation, Valentine holds my gaze, and I can see the argument growing about Rocco’s fingers being removed. But instead of him getting caught up in an Alphamoment and needing to know he’s right, Valentine urges me to continue my version of what I think of the scene.
“I’d say Rocco was dead before he was transported and dumped because those photos show early rigor mortis. The way his arms are set show he was tied and hung on a rack, or something similar, and held in the position while he was being tortured. Maybe they even left the bar in place when he was being dumped.”
“One hundred percent,” Valentine agrees, before he sits down and we move away from the body of evidence to what is always more difficult to solve—the reason. “He was associated with the Bratva, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what the detective said. I pressed for a bit more information, but he was reluctant to share. I was pretty anxious to leave, too, so I only got the basics that Rocco was in a gang with association to the Bratva. But he was not Russian, unless I missed his accent, on top of everything else about him.”
“Doubtful, Mrs. De Luca,” Dante says, tipping his head to the side. “You wouldn’t have missed that. Either way, he was an asshole who died too quickly and without enough pain, in my books.”
We kind of make heart eyes at each other before we get back to discussing the other aspects.
Valentine uses his laptop to stream more photos to the TV for comparison. “And the images we got from camera feeds across our territory show that Rocco and a few of his friends were the people responsible for the hit on Gambrillo property. In light of his death and punishment, it would be easy to assume Rocco was acting on his own, and his attack was unsanctioned—without the blessing of the Pakhan. Dumping his body in our territory is a sign from them that the person responsible for making waves has been dealt with, and they’re aware they shouldn’t be but are making amends.”
We spend a few more hours talking about business. Valentine checks his watch, then excuses himself and Matteo to do a favor for a friend of his, the same guy who called this morning.
Dante looks at me and says we’re training. The hint of trouble in his eyes doesn’t seem all bad.
32
Layne
Ihad all these ideas of how Dante and I would spend the afternoon, and a lot of them ended up with us being sweaty and panting. But not like this.
“Come on, baby.” He stands in front of me, clapping his hands and counting down the timer on the treadmill.
My lungs are burning, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to punch him in his pretty face. But he’s so sure I can do this. I mean, I know I can, too, but I’m still annoyed I’ve been doing a full cardio circuit.
I make a point of not glaring at him, instead focusing on the countdown and all but yelling at myself to keep hauling ass and not fall into a heap.
Dante slams his hand down on the stop button once I pass the ten-mile mark.
“Walk it off around the mat,” he says, already striding away.
As I go one way and he goes the other, a sharp whistle cuts through the abuse I’m internally flinging at him. I watch as he sends the dogs out of the gym. Before I can ask what he’s up to,he switches the music off and turns on a few monitors, and it takes me a second to realize they’re streaming zones from inside their home and from outside their building.
Of course, he’s right that I feel better the more I walk, my heart rate dropping back to normal and my breathing becoming a hell of a lot easier within a couple of laps. I’m pretty proud of myself, actually, and my heart rate and breathing leveling out this quickly is a good sign my fitness hasn’t dropped too bad.
Being able to work out in a gym was a luxury I couldn’t afford when I was only working in coffee shops, but I always did what I could to stay as active as possible.
“Weight session?” he suggests, coming over with a fresh towel for me and a bottle of water.
I glare at him, but he laughs it off and waves me over to the first piece of equipment. It’s huge and is a combination of a Smith Machine and cable weights. He sets up one side of the weights with a bar for squats and the other for lat pulldowns, and then we do a couple of sets together. We don’t talk much, but the way his Amaretto scent gets an edge to it as he works out is as good as incentive as any to stay in the moment with him.
“How are your arms?” he asks, a smirk on his face because he knows the last set had my arms wobbling.
