Page 64

Paulo slapped a hand over his face, groaning. “A mafia boss and a labor lawyer. This marriage is going to kill me.”

“Or make you respectable,” she teased, nipping at his jaw.

“Respectable?” he muttered, dragging her beneath him again. “Not a chance. But unforgettable? Absolutely.”

Chapter 40

Ronan watched from his vantage point, scanning every familiar face. Men from his past, ghosts he’d long forgotten. Some enemies. Some allies. All of his employees marching dutifully into the pub across the street. Even a few unexpected mourners, people he hadn’t thought would dare to show their faces.

It was a grand showing. Almost flattering. He was proud, in a way, proud that so many people had gathered to drink, curse, and whisper about him.

But the pride curdled quickly. The one person he wanted to see, the only one who mattered, wasn’t there.

Where the hell was his daughter?

Madelaine should’ve been the first to arrive. She should’ve been inside, ensuring everything was perfect. The drinks flowing, the bartenders attentive, the food worthy of the powerful men paying their respects. She should have been here.

Damn her. Where the hell was she?

At last, a line of SUVs rolled up, and Ronan leaned forward eagerly, pulse quickening. Maybe she was late. Maybe she was about to step out, ripe for the plucking. He had it all planned. Tie her up and get her on the plane before anyone noticed. Clean. Quiet.

Instead, Paulo Ruffino emerged with his entourage, armed, and dangerous.

Ronan’s jaw clenched. If Madelaine had been at Ruffino’s house the other day, why wasn’t she with him now? Where was she hiding?

The realization struck hard. If she wasn’t here, then maybe she was still at the house. Alone.

And vulnerable.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he spun to glance at the clock. The wake had only just begun; plenty of time. He could be at the house in fifteen minutes, get in through a back window, and have his stubborn daughter trussed up and on the plane before the whiskey was poured at the pub. Then he’d waltz back here and watch their faces when he walked into his own funeral.

Grinning, Ronan shoved away from the desk. The cramped office stank of stale liquor and sweat, the only blessing being its single window. He stormed past the half-dressed women, their laughter and perfume barely registering. His thoughts were on Madelaine. On silencing her defiance, on making her finally understand who controlled her fate.

He shoved open the back door and stepped into the sunlight, squinting hard as he reached for his sunglasses.

“What the hell?” he bellowed, as he was abruptly picked up, then slammed face-first into the gravel. The stink of old beer and piss from decades of strip club patrons filled his nose.

Cold steel bit into his wrists, tightly enough to immediately cut off circulation to his fingers. He thrashed, but two police officers hauled him upright with practiced efficiency. Their words, “You have the right to remain silent…,” blurred into meaningless noise.

It was a trap!

As his eyes adjusted, he saw him. Ruffino. Standing across the lot, his expression carved in triumph. Watching. Waiting.

Ronan’s blood boiled. “I’ll get you for this!” he roared, as the cops picked him up. The cops shoved him into the backseat, and he caught the sickening sight of one officer crossing the lot to shake Ruffino’s hand.

His heart pounded, but not from fear. From rage. From hatred.

They thought this was over. They thought they’d buried him.

But if they knew the things he’d done, the hidden bodies, the broken women, the drugs that had poisoned entire neighborhoods, they also had to know he’d never stop.

He might be caught. But he wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

And Paulo Ruffino would be the first man he carved off the face of the earth once he clawed his way free.

Chapter 41