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“Okay, so Ciro is a bigot,” I said, my tone still disturbingly mild. “It still doesn’t make sense that he would target us. My father has made it clear that I’m dead to him. Ciro has nothing to gain by killing me. It won’t be a power play, because my father won’t care if I die.”
“Exactly.” Rafael rushed to agree. “You’re the perfect targets for Ciro to make his point. You hold no value, but we know who you are. We know why your father exiled you and cut you out like cancer. Killing you won’t provoke a war. Ciro doesn’t want a war with Dominic Russo. He wants his people in Boston to understand what will happen to them if they don’t toughen up.”
Behind me, Marco’s phone chimed. “Joseph,” he said, his tone heavy with urgency. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”
Hearing him say my name made reality hit me like a bucket of icy water. My identity slammed back into place, forcing its way into the hollow nothingness I’d carved out at my core in order to question Rafael.
My hand dropped from his hair, and I stepped back from him on shaky legs.
Marco addressed him. “Tell Ciro we were here. Tell him to leave us alone, or things will get bloody.” He ended his message with a sucker punch. Rafael’s head snapped back, and blood sprayed from his split lips. He went limp in the chair, held in place by the makeshift rope I’d procured.
Marco turned to me, keeping his gun at his side, just in case. “We have to go.”
He showed me his phone. Ashlyn’s text made my blood freeze in my veins.
Ugh. This gross guy keeps staring at Jayme and me. He just sent Champagne to our table and won’t take a hint. Come to the bar and scare him away please?
I rushed out of the apartment, every cell in my body screaming for me to get back to the woman I loved.
Chapter Eight
Ashlyn
“Come on, Ashlyn, can’t we drink the Champagne?” Jayme asked, eyeing the bottle of Veuve Clicquot with longing. “I know that guy’s a creep, but they already popped the bottle.” She gestured at the ice bucket on our table. “I can practically feel the bubbles tickling my tongue from here.” She tucked her long blond hair behind her ear and sniffed delicately.
“Marco says we shouldn’t,” I told her, my voice uncharacteristically stern. Jayme loved to flirt, but she agreed that the middle-aged man at the bar was gross. Neither of us had any interest in his very blatant attention, and I didn’t want my best friend to get mixed up in anything unpleasant. Accepting the Champagne would give him a reason to approach us.
Marco had been right to advise me not to drink it. He’d replied to my text with a clipped response that betrayed his worry: Don’t touch the Champagne. Don’t leave Jayme for any reason. I’m on my way.
My friend pouted her cherry-red lips. “You have two hot guys who adore you. I want to have some fun, too.”
I smiled, despite the prickling awareness of the man’s eyes on my skin. I could still hardly believe that Jayme fully accepted and supported my relationship with Marco and Joseph. When we’d first moved to Boston together, I’d worried that she wouldn’t understand. But I’d refused to hide our love. It meant the world to me that Jayme had responded with enthusiasm rather than disgust. She was open-minded and had a good heart. I never should’ve doubted her.
“But you don’t want to have fun with that guy, do you?” I offered an exaggerated cringe, and she giggled.
She dared one glance at the man who’d bought the Champagne, shuddered slightly, and turned her green eyes back to me. “Definitely not. He’s way too old for me. And not a silver fox.” She frowned, considering the bubbly. “More like a rabid wolf. Ugh, I can feel his eyes on me. So gross. No means no, dude!” Before I could stop her, she shot him a rude hand gesture over her shoulder.
“Jayme!” My gasp was caught somewhere between exasperation and laughter. We were nearly finished with our own bottle of prosecco, and we were both feeling a little silly.
She laced her fingers together and propped her chin on them, batting her long, dark lashes in a mockery of innocence. “What? Did I do something wrong? He’s the one being rude. We made it clear that we weren’t interested, and he’s not backing off. Now that delicious bubbly is tempting me right in my face, but I can’t touch it because that will be an invitation for him to come over here. So annoying.” She glanced at the untouched bottle again, then looked back at her nearly empty glass of prosecco.
“We agreed no more than one bottle between the two of us,” I reminded her. “You have an early flight, remember? Just think about all the hotties you’ll meet in Cancun and forget about that old creep.”
