Page 77 of His Assistant

I stare at it. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “You need to stay hydrated.”

I pick up the bottle and throw it across the room. “Fuck you,” I scream.

He smiles coldly. “Have it your way. I’m not allowed to hurt you, but I’m in no position to stop you if you hurt yourself.”

He goes to sit in another chair, crossing his arms and watching me closely. I turn away from him and stare at a wall.

Sitting here now, I finally understand Dominic’s overprotectiveness. Every time I thought he was being dramatic or controlling, he was just trying to prevent this exact thing.

I’m the one who screwed up his plans.

I’m the only one to blame for the position I’m in now.

28

DOMINIC

Tomasso doesn’t go to Withers Street. That gives me a small sense of satisfaction. At least one plan tonight is working.

Rafe and I ride in the back of the town car, watching the tracker crawl across the screen in his hand. Tomasso heads into Brooklyn, but not toward the club we fed him. He cuts east, takes two turns that make no sense unless he’s trying to lose anyone stupid enough to follow too close, then slows near an old industrial block with more dark windows than streetlights.

“There,” Rafe says.

The dot stops. I stare at it. Sofia is in there. Marco too. It’s also where Tomasso takes his last breath.

Rafe slips his gun from beneath his jacket and checks it once. “How do you want to play this?”

“Your team takes the front. Make it loud enough to hold attention there, but don’t be sloppy.”

He nods. “I’ve got you covered. Go get your girl.”

We leave the car before Bradley fully stops. Tomasso’s car sits parked half a block down, empty. I keep walking.

The back alley is narrow and poorly lit. Rafe’s men fan out without needing orders. Two go toward the front. Three stay with him. Bradley follows me, close and silent.

We find Tomasso by the side entrance, talking to a man at the door. I don’t call his name. I don’t give him the gift of a warning. Bradley grabs the doorman first, one hand over his mouth, a blade at his ribs. I step behind Tomasso and press my gun to the back of his head.

He freezes. “Open the door,” I say.

His shoulders go stiff. Slowly, he turns his head just enough to see me from the corner of his eye. For the first time all night, he looks afraid.

“Dominic,” he says quietly.

“Door.”

The doorman is shaking now. Bradley tightens his grip, and the man fumbles with the keypad. The lock clicks.

Tomasso swallows. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“I let you lead me to her. Don’t bother lying to me now.”

For a second, the old resentment flares. The same bitterness I’ve caught in pieces for years, always dressed up as concern or advice or family obligation. He thought he should have had more. More power. More respect. More of what my father left behind.

“You should have never gotten involved with that girl,” he whispers.

I drive the gun harder against his skull. “Move.”