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I went still, terror like I’d never known slicing through me at the idea there was a gun in the room with Maria. I loosened my hands on the man’s throat; he’d been moments from death.
“Let him go,” the man behind me said, but he had to be kneeling to have his weapon by my head, so I took a second to map out my plan and then lifted my hands, as if planning to surrender. I shifted in one fast movement as I’d been trained, and before he knew it, I had the 9mm in my hand instead.
He stumbled back, falling onto his ass in surprise.
“Who are you?” I barked out while standing. I stepped around the man on the floor and motioned for Maria to get behind me.
And then my world stopped when I saw Natalia walking into the living room with a gun to her back, hands in the air.
“Natalia.” Maria started around me, but I snatched her waist with my free hand, stopping her.
“We only came here for you,” the man standing behind Natalia said, eyes on me. “Hand over the gun and let my men come to me, and the women can go.”
I considered my options, and handing over the weapon wasn’t one of them. “And if you don’t want his brains all over my floor, you’ll lower your firearm,” I hissed, keeping my hold on Maria even though it seemed she was determined to trade herself for her pregnant sister.
Natalia shook her head as if in apology. “I had a craving.”
Fuck. She was letting me know Ryan wasn’t home, and he was probably buying breakfast.
“Come closer. We’ll trade,” the man offered, flicking his gloved hand.
“Who are you?” I asked again, doing my best to buy time. Calculate my options. And hope Ryan would soon show up and disarm that prick. I’d just been thinking we needed to move to a place with better security, and now this ...
I checked on the man I’d nearly choked to death, finding him trying to army crawl away. And my gaze snapped to the familiar ink on the back of his neck. The triscele, a symbol of Sicily, was there—the head of a Gorgon with serpents wrapped around it. It was the insignia for the New York division of the Sicilian mafia.
“Mafioso?” I whispered in alarm, my body somehow feeling both hot and cold at the same time.
The masked man on the floor halted, and he shifted to his side and grabbed something from his pocket. He flipped open the pocketknife as if that would somehow save him.
It made no sense. But ... “Giovanni sent you?”
“Wait, what?” The man behind Natalia stumbled back a shocked step. “How do you know that name? You’re a chef in Charlotte. You shouldn’t know his name unless ...” His dark gaze fell to the floor.
“Yes, you idiota,” I rasped. “I’m Lorenzo fucking Costa.” I knelt alongside the bastard and snatched the pocketknife from him. “Lower your weapon,” I ordered to the one holding Natalia hostage.
The man hesitantly did what I’d instructed, and Natalia rushed toward Maria. They hugged and backed away from the scene.
I could breathe again, but these three men were about to lose their ability to do so in a moment.
“Get in my office. Lock the door,” I told Maria and Natalia, and once they were out of sight, I stood tall again, lowering the firearm to my side, knowing the only threat in the room now was me.
“We didn’t know,” the man by the door said. “We’d never have taken the job if we realized you were that Costa.” He slowly peeled his mask up because there was no sense hiding his face anymore.
“Giovanni would’ve known,” I coldly remarked. “So who really sent you?” Is this about Bianca?
The man tucked his firearm at the back of his jeans and held up a surrendering hand. God, he was practically a child. He couldn’t have been any older than I’d been when joining the army.
“Tell me what’s going on or I slit his throat.” When they all remained quiet, I took a knee again and set the blade to the man’s throat, almost hoping for a reason to cut. I nicked him, drawing a little blood, my frustration growing by the second.
“Giovanni doesn’t know we’re here,” the man closest to the door shared. “We take side jobs here and there when we get bored.”
Bored? God help these men, because I wasn’t sure if their age would be enough to save them from me. “What’s your name?”
“Jensen. And the truth is, we were offered a lot of money to show up today to give you a beating. Break your arms. Fingers. Those were our instructions. We only take jobs outside of New York so our boss doesn’t find out about our side gigs.”
“Who hired you?”
“We don’t know, I swear,” Jensen replied. “Dark-web kind of thing.”
