Page 14 of King of War

“It’s ‘Pink Pony Club’, asshole. It’s a song.” I glare at him. “Of course, you wouldn’t recognize it because it was made after the Vietnam war.”

He rolls his eyes. “Give me the purse.”

“If I had a gun, Enzo, why wouldn’t I have taken into my meeting with the mob instead of leaving it in the trunk of my car?”

“Give. Me. The. Purse.” He says the words through gritted teeth.

“Fine.” I hand it to him and he opens it up, peering inside. There’s nothing in there I don’t particularly want him to see: my wallet, house keys, lip gloss, epi-pen, a couple of tampons, and all of the other random things that a girl might need. But a girl’s purse is her sanctuary, you know?

He fishes something out and holds it aloft. “Pepper spray?”

I nod. “Every woman should carry it. And I’m nothing if not prepared.” Who knows when you might be kidnapped by a hot Italian mob boss who hates your guts.

He pockets it. “You won’t be needing it now.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “I think we’ll agree to disagree on that.”

He ignores me, shoves my purse back into my hands, and closes the trunk. Then he holds out his hand. “Cell phone,” he orders, making a give it to me gesture.

I’d like to give him a punch in the mouth. But instead, I take it from the pocket of my jeans and place it in his outstretched hand. Not like I have anyone to call to tell them I’m about to be kidnapped by my psychotic ex.

He slips my phone into his jacket pocket and then, without another word to me, he takes out his own phone and calls someone.

Whoever it is answers quickly, and I listen to the one-sided conversation.

“We hit a snag or two. I need you and Luca to meet me here. We have a car to get rid of. Yeah. Bye.” He ends the call but keeps his phone out, looking like he’s typing out a message.

“That’s a rental car. You can’t just get rid of it.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off his screen. “Then we’ll return it to its rightful owner.”

“And me? How long before you return me to my rightful owner, Enzo?”

The atmosphere changes so fast it feels like the temperature drops twenty degrees. Too late, I hear the very poor choice of words I just used. And while I don’t intend making this easy for him, I know better than to provoke his jealous possessive side and expect him not to react.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Eyes darker than the deepest pits of hell. His jaw flexes and the vein at his temple throbs.

Oops.

“And who exactly would that be, Rayne?” His tone drips with chilling menace, the kind that sends a shiver of excitement racing up my spine because, clearly, I am a masochist when it comes to him.

“I don’t belong to anybody.” And I never will again! I don’t add that second part.

He snarls, sounding feral and unrestrained. “Thought so.”

And just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Does he think I’ve gone short of offers these past six years? I don’t ask him though, refusing to let him know he’s gotten under my skin in any way. “So, what do we do now?” I ask instead.

“We wait for Rafael and Luca. Luca will take you to my place while I have the pleasure of telling Carmine his only son is dead.” He says that like it’s an accusation, like somehow I’m responsible.

Rafael Medici was once one of my favorite Medici brothers but is now simply a man I hate and distrust almost as much as Enzo. Luca isn’t much higher on my list of favorite people either, but I’ll take him over Rafael any day of the week. He was always the strong and silent type—let’s hope he’s maintained that silent persona. “Well, good luck with that,” I say, shuddering internally when I think about his conversation with Carmine Falcone, a man who always made my skin crawl. We were forced to go to his house sometimes, when he invited the family for a barbecue, and as I was considered one of them—which seems laughable now—I was always invited too. But I never liked being there. His house was far too grand and showy for my taste, always filled with too many people.

Enzo steps closer, too close. Instinct makes me want to take a step back, reclaim my personal space, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. “I don’t need luck, Rayne. The fact that I’ve been loyal to Carmine for fifteen long years will be enough.”

I snort. “So loyal that you just decorated Bertelli’s club with his son’s brains?”

He’s saved from answering by the sound of screeching tires as a classic silver Mercedes comes to a halt a few feet away from us.

Rafael leans out of the driver’s window and stares at me, mouth hanging open like a dead salmon. “What the actual fuck? Is that⁠—”