Slowly, with deliberate, punctuated movements, I plucked each finger encased in leather until the glove slid off my hand. I held the damaged appendage to her, letting her see what kind of vile beast she was selling her soul to to pay for her loved one’s lives.
Her delicate hand grasped mine without hesitation.
We shook.
But as she tried to let me go, I tightened my hold. I yanked her to her feet, bringing our faces directly in front of one another. Her secrets would be mine.
Finally.
“Go home,” I ordered. “Tomorrow night, have dinner ready by seven.”
Gabriella shook her head. Panic laced her voice. “What? Dinner? Why—what?”
“Do it.” I dropped my gaze to her bottom lip, which was red from her teeth. I wanted to kiss it more than I wanted to breathe.
But there was work to be done.
“Seven. On the dot.” I released her. If I didn’t, there might not be a chance for her to escape.
Gabriella faltered. Unbalanced, she managed to stumble to the door.
“Be prepared to pay, little bird,” I called after her.
Those whiskey eyes snapped to mine. They widened, just a fraction. And then she bolted.
“Buongiorno, Signor McDonagh,” Don Morelli emerged from his house, waving back his security detail. The fact that he had one at all was surprising. Their organization wasn’t flashy, and the single guard posed as a servant rather than hired muscle. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I stopped mid pacing, the worn plank under my heel groaned as I faced the don. “You have a problem in your ranks.”
“Intriguing.” Don Morelli held out a bottle of low carb beer.
The grimace twisted my lips before I could stop it.
The don only laughed. “I hate this shit too, but my wife says it’s better for me.”
He patted his stomach.
I clenched my fists at my side to keep from snatching the bottle and breaking it over his bleeding head. How could he stand there, laughing at me, when one of his men—his captain, no less—was currently committing domestic assault?
He doesn’t know.
That was the explanation I hoped for. While ignorance wasn’t an excuse, it was the best-case scenario.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, ragazzo?” he encouraged, setting my bottle on the porch rail and twisting his own open.
The rehearsed, polished response evaporated with my next breath. What I said instead was, “This is a formality. I’m going to teach your dog a lesson.”
The don cocked his head. “I haven’t had a dog in twenty years.”
This wasn’t a laughing matter. My restraint snapped, and my fist flew into the side of the house.
“Dio mio!” The don reared back. “What’s gotten into you?”
Shaking out my hand, scrapes leaking blood over the bare skin, I glared at him. “Deluca has been physically, verbally, and mentally abusing his wife and daughters, and you make jokes.”
To his credit, Don Morelli didn’t waver. He looked me up and down, gaze sharpening. That was the leader of the mafia. He might be a chameleon, polished when necessary, hoodlum when he was with his crew. But underneath was the sharp mind that kept him out of jail and ran the most profitable black-market deals on the east coast.
“That is a very serious accusation,” he said, voice hard and cold. “What proof do you have?”
