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Stalker: In case of what?
Trouble.
The three dots appear and disappear multiple times. I don’t get a true response until I leave the mansion, phone vibrating. Ello stands at the car, glaring at Freddie’s smug face, the door open. The air is charged with something I can’t place, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on edge.
Stalker: Fine, Sunshine. I’ll follow your lead. But if he does anything I don’t like, I’m talking a fucking look… I’m not holding back. I said I’d protect you—and I will.
Why?
Stalker: Because you’re mine. And one day, our last names won’t matter.
They already don’t—not to me. I’ve made peace with it. Freddie sits beside me, knee brushing mine, but doesn’t touch me further.
“Did Roman allow this?”
Freddie snorts, throwing his arm behind us. “Roman can’t say shit. You’re going to be my wife.”
Bile rises up my throat. “He was mad that we went to the club.”
He rolls his eyes. “He acts like it was the end of the world. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, we would’ve had fun.” Tapping his leg, he seems to say to himself, “I must’ve been exhausted to pass out like that. Had to have been the blood loss.”
If the stupido thinks that’s what happened, fine with me.
The car swerves to the right, and I watch the surroundings. I expect to go downtown, maybe to another of my brother’s clubs. Freddie frequents them enough—he should have a punch card.
Instead, we go toward the water, near neutral space. There’s a bar that’s used in deals where men on both sides unwind.
Ello opens the door, allowing me out. He tugs on my hand, drawing my attention.
“I don’t like this,” he signs.
“I don’t have a choice,” I respond, hands jerky. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“No. But it reminds me of when your mother—”
“Hey, enough of that,” Freddie interrupts, slapping our hands. He shakes his finger disapprovingly. “You know the rules. Words, bimba. Now, c’mon. We’re late.”
He grips my elbow, and I stumble, falling against him. He doesn’t care, tugging me toward the bar.
Ello tries to follow, but he holds up a hand. “Nah, big guy. You’re out here. Scipione family only.”
My guard glowers down at Freddie. Something dark flashes in his eyes and his hand falls to his gun on his belt. “Miss Bruno doesn’t go anywhere without me.”
“Except tonight.” He pats his chest condescendingly. “She’ll be out shortly.”
Ello gives me a hard look, conveying something, before his gaze falls to my purse. My new knife sits inside, and I pat it lovingly.
Inside the Black Rose, the air smells like old briny water, dry wine, and fried food. The black-and-white tiles are scuffed, and the dark-painted walls close in on me. Glancing up, my eyes trace the rustic chandeliers and flickering light bulbs. Dread drops into my gut.
Across the back is a long ebony bar. A few patrons sit on the tattered barstools, glasses before them. A mirror reflects their drunken faces, rows of alcohol lining the shelves. No music plays, and the clinking of glasses echoes in the silence. My fingers twitch to turn my implants down, but I don’t. I’m not sure how Freddie will react to any movements.
We stride past the bar, the bartender’s head down. Freddie pushes open the swinging kitchen doors, shoving me through by force. He leads me around the stainless steel tables to the back corner. Blue and orange crates of mismatched glasses line the walls. Smelly, dirty dishwater hovers in the air like fog, and I cover my nose.
Three men stand there, my heels slipping on the wet red tile. Two are guards, with buzz cuts and dark suits, and stoic faces. My eyes lift to the man in the center. Recognition flashes through my gaze, and I take a step back.
He looks identical to Freddie, only older. Same wide shoulders, warm skin, and his hair is dusted with gray. His expensive suit is tailored to his form, and the designer dress shirt is freshly pressed. I glance down at his polished shoes and spy the gun on his hip and ankle.
Marco Scipione.
