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Garrix
Maddalena Vettore holding a gun is the fodder of my wet dreams. Thoughts of the first time I visited her in her brother’s guest room flood my mind and I have to hold back a groan. The gun may not be pointed at me this time, but seeing it in her hand as she scans the hallway for targets—taking measured steps as her face scrunches in concentration—it’s stoking the deep-seated urge I have to claim her. She’s like a real life Black Widow, and my dick is painfully hard.
Thankfully all the patrons are gone from the main showroom. The oval stage is empty, with the top of one of the poles ripped out of the ceiling. Tables and chairs are scattered everywhere, with broken pieces of furniture and shattered glass on the floor. Bullet holes and sprays of blood pepper the walls. Her face drops when she sees it all, but she schools it when a Russian charges her, yelling something in his mother tongue I can’t understand. She sidesteps him, pistol whipping him with lightning reflexes. Then she uses the heel of her boot to smash his balls.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” she grouses.
A wounded Vettore bouncer huddles into a corner, trying to stop his wound from bleeding. I shoot a Russian in the kneecap who’s trying to leave out the front door, then take the liberty of shooting out his other kneecap—Maddalena can question him later. Another comes at me with his weapon pointed, but he drops like a sack of bricks when I put a bullet in his forehead. Then two in his chest for good measure.
“Nice shot,” she says, winking as she takes the knife from her boot again and slashes her attacker with it.
She cuts him on the forearm before knocking him down with a roundhouse kick to the face. He whips back up, and she brings him to the floor. They grapple with each other, and I aim right for his face. That takes him off guard enough that she can stab him in the throat.
The blood splatter on her face and in her hair looks like war paint. “Not sure how it’s possible, but you’re even more beautiful covered in the blood of your enemies.”
She blushes, then rolls her eyes. My girl loves to hide her feelings behind snark and sarcasm. Soon she’ll know it’s useless to hide from me. I see you, my little killer.
“Dave, can you get Boris and bring him out here?” she asks the bouncer.
He drags Boris around the corner, the latter opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. I guess seeing all your buddies dead or knocked out on the floor is a reality check.
“P-p-please,” he begs me, ugly-crying all over himself. “I told you everything I know!”
“I’m not sure why you’re begging me, she’s the one who’s going to kill you,” I remind him.
He peers over at Maddalena, his eyes wide when he sees the dead look in her eyes. He may be a moron, but even he knows he’s done.
“This is your last chance. Tell me everything you know, and I’ll make your death quick.” She’s so generous. I’d have tortured him for days, regardless of his decision. Just for the hell of it, no ultimatum.
He scoffs. “I don’t know the specifics, but I know Dmitri is coming after you and your family. You should have just married him—it would have saved everyone the trouble.”
I pull my gun from its holster and shoot him square in the left eye. His brain explodes onto the couch behind him. Fuck him. No one will marry Maddalena Vettore, except me. She’s mine, every infuriating, resistant piece of her.
She looks at me, a stunned expression on her face. “Triggered much?”
I stalk over to her, pulling her against me as I bury my fingers in her hair, tilting her face up so I can kiss the fucking daylights out of her.
“I don’t want to hear about you marrying anyone who isn’t me, little killer. I don’t want to think about that disgusting prick standing at an altar with you or kissing these lips, because they’re mine.” I kiss her again, teasing my tongue into her mouth and tasting her decadent, rich flavor. She’s a fucking addiction I never want to overcome.
“What’s going on here?” a male voice yells in an accusing tone.
I cut our kiss short and see her douchebag brother, John Carlo, stalking toward us with a furious scowl on his face. The sound of his voice irritates me, and I have to remind myself he’s her brother so I don’t permanently silence him.
“You would waltz into the club you manage, after the dirty work is done, and blame me without any prior knowledge of what happened.” Maddalena rolls her eyes, looking at me with an incredulous look on her face.
“I can’t help but notice that whenever you’re involved, shit goes to hell. You made a fucking mess, Mads. There’s blood everywhere. You’re not even supposed to be out of Max’s apartment.” A low growl rips from my lips, and he turns to me with some wise-alec look on his face, like I’m some random guy her sister picked up off the street. “Who the fuck are you?”
I hit him with a left hook he doesn’t see coming, then follow it with an uppercut. He stumbles back, narrowly avoiding meeting the blood stained floor beneath him before catching himself on a chair.
“I’m Garrix Cameron, Second in Command of The Brigade, and I don’t like you talking to my woman that way. I don’t give a fuck if you’re her brother, you’ll talk to her with some respect or I’ll knock your ass out.”
Dave tries to intervene, but Maddalena waves him off. “It’s fine, Dave. If JC is going to poke the bear, then he’s gonna get mauled.”
I take my phone out, sending a text to Whit.
Me: Please scrub all the footage from The Vixen for the last two hours, not just the feed from the private room we were in. Also, send a full clean up crew. Shit went down.
Whit: Will do.
