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Jealousy—not for her body, but her brain—spiked his veins when he was reminded who she shared a bed with. Those pesky Irishmen couldn’t keep their dicks to themselves. He’d wanted to kill Jack O’Connell the moment Emma had asked for his amnesty.
Feeling anxious—something Luca never did—he slid the drive into the slot on his personal laptop. He clicked on a folder titled NATE.img.
An image appeared on his screen, but not the one he’d been expecting. Instead of Nate’s suicide note, he was greeted with two middle fingers. It was Nate and Emma, but years ago. They were teenagers, sitting on the edge of a pool, the clear water lapping at their legs. Their bodies were tan, the whites of their teeth gleaming. Nate had his arm draped over Emma’s shoulders. Emma had a bottle of lemonade in hand. They both grinned at the camera, hands out to flip its user off.
There was a caption.
In bocca al lupo.
Luca bit the inside of his cheek, eyes brimming with hate. His lips worked their way into a malicious smile. It was an expression that had his men running in opposite directions if he ever graced them with it. He leaned back in his leather chair, dialing the number on his cell. It was answered in a single ring.
“The Emerald Devil,” Luca ordered, his voice in no way betraying the fury simmering beneath the surface.
“Of course, Don Luca.” The man on the opposite line hesitated. “Respectfully, no one has been able to identify him. I’ll need a rough sketch at the very least, sir.”
Luca removed a frame from his desk drawer, brushing his thumb over the glass. Amara had been a loose cannon in many ways, but her greatest gift to him was a result of Emma’s negligence.
The picture he held in his hand was priceless. Jack and Emma were dressed in leathers, leaning against a unique motorcycle. Emma gazed at Jack, glowing with admiration. Jack smiled crookedly at the camera, his relaxed body language portraying a false sense of security. A rare shot of the devil himself.
Jack O’Connell was no longer untouchable—no longer a shadow.
Luca slid a razor blade down the middle of the glossy paper, separating the happy couple. He tossed Emma’s side back into the drawer, holding the solo image of Jack between two fingers.
“You will have a photo within the hour.”
“Absolutely, Don Luca,” the man gushed, apologizing for his doubt. “How much?”
“Five hundred thousand,” the don answered, unfazed.
“Done.”
Luca ended the call, setting his cell phone on the desk with a macabre grin.
Oh, little one, he thought. And just when I was beginning to like you.
He was going to obliterate Emma Marshall. He would take everything from her until she came to his doorstep, begging for death.
That was a promise.
