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Good, that jealous, possessive part of me whispers. But I push it aside, carrying Mila to her room and gently laying her down in the bed.
She wakes up, just a little. “Lorenzo,” she whispers, her hand pressing against my chest, and the urge to stay with her flares up, rearing its head as I look down at her delicate form. She’s never looked more frail, more in need of protection than she does at this moment.
But if I stay, Egor might get away. It’s a strange feeling, having my duty as a Campano war with my feelings for someone. It’s nothing I’ve ever encountered before. But it’s not just my duty to my family that demands I do something about him. I still don’t know exactly what he did to Mila, but I have enough of an idea that just the thought makes that hot rage in my gut burn anew, my hands clenching into fists.
He needs to be dealt with. For the good of my family and our business, and for Mila. He poses a threat to all of us, while he’s still alive.
“I’ll be back,” I murmur softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I promise.”
Federic sent me the address. I tug a blanket up over Mila, closing her door quietly behind me as I walk down the hall and back out into the living room. “Can you stay with her?” I ask Darcy, who is still perched on the edge of the sofa, wide awake and looking at me with that same suspicion.
“I hadn’t planned on leaving,” she says tightly. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“She had an accident outside of the club. Fortunately, I was there to get her to the hospital. Her ankle is broken.”
Darcy’s face goes white. “Fuck,” she whispers. “Oh my god?—”
“The doctor said it will heal, if she follows instructions and goes to physical therapy.” I rub a hand over my mouth. “I told Mila I’ll take care of her while she recovers. But she’s stubborn, so she’ll need more than just me to make sure she doesn’t overdo it.”
Darcy’s mouth is already set in a stubborn line. “I work at a physical therapist’s office. I’ll make sure she doesn’t. And I can help her with all of that.”
I feel an instant flood of relief. “Perfect. I’ll be back soon. I need to go handle some things, and then I’ll come back to see her.”
Darcy raises an eyebrow. “She hasn’t mentioned you,” she says casually, leaning an elbow on the back of the sofa. “Are the two of you?—”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair. “We’re figuring it out.” I hear myself as if I’m outside my own body, saying things to someone I don’t know that I could have never imagined saying out loud. It’s as if Mila has completely undone me. “It’s not important right now. What matters is that I care about her. And as soon as I handle some business, I’ll be back.”
“Business.” Darcy echoes it, her expression unreadable. “What’s your name, by the way? I’m Darcy.”
“I know.” I glance at her once more. “I’m Lorenzo Campano.”
And then I duck out of the doorway, heading back out to my car.
It takes thirty minutes to get to the address that Federic sent me. I have the driver park a block away, behind an alley, stepping out of the car and sticking to the shadows as I approach the building. It’s a low, squat, concrete block of apartments, and I manage to finagle the lock on the outer door with no trouble, slipping inside.
With the collar of my coat up to somewhat conceal my face, I move up the stairs to the third floor. Quietly, I touch the gun under my jacket, both wishing I hadn’t left it in the car when I’d encountered him at the club, and glad that I did. If I’d had it, Egor would be dead now. But since I left it, he’ll die more slowly, and that gives me a rush of adrenaline.
I don’t usually enjoy blood, torture, or murder. Killing is a necessary, but dirty part of our world. But for the first time, I find myself anticipating what I’ll do to this man who dared to frighten Mila, to hurt her, to jeopardize the thing most important to her in the world, other than Niki.
Carefully, I pick the lock on his door. I open it slowly, silently, seeing the sliver of black that tells me the lights are out. He’s in bed, likely, asleep or with a woman, and I’ll be able to sneak up on him.
The apartment is silent when I slip inside. I close the door carefully behind me, moving through the apartment on quiet feet, my hand on my gun. Each room is dark and empty, but it’s a small apartment, and as I move back to the bedroom, I prepare to spring on him. The quickness matters—if he gets the upper hand on me, it will be a fight. Fortunately, I don’t think he’ll be in much shape to fight, after what I did to him earlier.
But when I slip into the bedroom, it’s dark and empty. The apartment is empty.
My gut tightens. It’s possible he slunk back to someone else to nurse his wounds, or went to answer to the pakhan. Probable, even. But instinct tells me something is wrong. And I’ve never found a reason to fault my gut feeling about something.
Quickly, I leave the apartment, shutting the door behind me with the lock turned. I’m wearing gloves—no reason to worry about fingerprints—but leaving a trail is the last thing on my mind right now. I think of Mila, fragile and unprotected in her apartment, with only Darcy and her brother there, and I pick up my pace.
“Back to Mila’s,” I tell my driver urgently, before I’m even fully in the car. “Hurry.”
I’ve never had to concern myself with getting pulled over before, even when my driver speeds. It’s hard to speed at all in the city, with traffic being what it is, but at this hour, it’s possible. Still, as soon as any cop runs my plates, they don’t bother turning their lights on. They know there’s no point.
Which is why I’m startled to see red and blue police lights flashing behind us.
“Mr. Campano?” My driver turns slightly, clearly asking what to do. I consider telling him to keep driving, but I don’t want a cop car chasing us. Part of the agreement with the LAPD means paying lip service to their rules, even if it means an irritating exchange with an officer who clearly doesn’t understand that I’m not to be stopped or interfered with.
“Pull over,” I grind out between gritted teeth, my hands curling into fists. I can feel precious seconds ticking by, panic coiling coldly in my gut. There’s every reason to think Egor has slunk back to the Bratva headquarters to lick his wounds and fewer to think he’s gone after Mila again already, but that fearful instinct raises its head, and I lower my window with a sharp movement as my driver obeys my instructions.
