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Squatting beside me, Conner dropped his head back on a long inhale. “Not exactly. One’s dead, and the other ran.”
“Do you know who they were or what they wanted?”
When our gazes collided this time, wrathful vengeance was staring back at me.
“Albanians.” The word was spat with noxious disdain. I wasn’t sure of their past, but one thing was clear. Conner hated them. “Get back in the car. I’ll put on the spare and get you home.”
I did as he instructed.
While I waited for him to change the tire, the car filled with a suffocating uncertainty that bled to awkwardness. My emotions were a jumbled mess. No matter how hard I tried not to think about it, my mind kept returning to Conner’s hands on my face, his eyes inches from mine, and his words a balm to my aching heart. He’d been so incredibly sweet.
Shh, baby. It’s okay … I’ve got you.
His words played on an endless loop in my head. I’d been totally hysterical. It made perfect sense that he needed to calm me down before we ended up shot, but my heart wanted to read into his actions. I wanted him to care.
I could only imagine what he thought of me now that he’d seen me completely lose my shit. I’d been a total basket case.
Sighing, I rested my elbow on the door and placed my hand over my eyes, praying the day would soon be over.
By the time Conner slid into the driver’s seat, his cobalt eyes had completely iced over. Whatever the nature of his volatile thoughts, I wasn’t going to interrupt. We were both silent for the rest of the trip.
For the first time in six months, I was relieved to arrive home. Conner walked me to the door. I expected him to leave once Umberto answered, but he asked for my father and instructed me to go upstairs. I didn’t have the fortitude or desire to argue. However, once I reached my room, I realized there was more than one reason Conner might have wanted an audience with my father. I’d assumed he meant to discuss our near-death experience and had forgotten about what we’d been discussing minutes before it happened.
Would Conner confront my father about hurting me?
An overwhelming surge of panic washed over me, and not for my own safety. For the second time in so many hours, I was worried about Conner.
“There a reasonyou’re covered in blood?” Fausto Mancini asked casually when he joined me in the entry of his home.
I’d already killed one man today, and my hands were aching to squeeze the life from another. Seeing Fausto when I knew he’d been roughing up his daughter brought a murderous rage to the surface. It took everything I had to force a calm façade. “Ran into a little trouble on the way back here.”
His eyes drifted toward the stairs. “I take it my daughter was returned safely?”
“She’s unharmed but shaken up. I sent her to her room.” I slowly stepped closer with my gaze lowered to my hands before me. “Things could have gone very differently. Noemi could have been hurt, and while we aren’t technically married yet, I consider her my responsibility.” I lifted my gaze to his, leveling him with a vicious stare. “If anyone ever harmed a woman under my protection, I’d tear that fucker to pieces. I put a bullet through one of those men today, and the other will wish I had when I catch him.”
“And you’re telling me this why?” Fausto asked, his lip starting to curl.
“Just thought it would be good for you to know, as my future father-in-law. I protect what’s mine.” I hadn’t called him out in so many words, but I had no doubt my message had been received. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” I gave a curt nod and let myself out. The last of my civility expired.
It felt good to confront him. I wanted the bastard to know that I was watching him. It was the only way I felt comfortable leaving Noemi in his care. If he knew I was onto him, he’d know he couldn’t get away with any bullshit.
Just to be safe, however, I decided it would be best to reach out to the head of the family for a meeting. The Italians were all about structure and rules. As a mere capo, Fausto wouldn’t be able to make any crucial decisions about the alliance. It would be prudent to ensure I kept the Moretti boss informed of my perspective in case Fausto started spreading any lies. I didn’t want this skirmish to devolve into a war.
* * *
Two hours later,I’d dropped off my car at a repair shop and borrowed Bishop’s obnoxious yellow Mustang to meet Renzo Donati at an office by the docks. Each of the Five Families specialized in specific fields. The Moretti family was all about the blue-collar worker—steel plants, teamsters, and dockworkers.
Renzo’s father, Agostino, was the head of the organization. The Don or boss or whatever they wanted to call it. I would have liked to have spoken with him, but an audience with the boss was rare. I would have to make do with his son, the underboss.
I’d never met the man before, but my first impressions assured me he and I spoke the same language. In fact, the perceptive gleam in his eye reminded me of Keir.
Renzo was shrewd.
That was clear from the expensive cut of his designer suit to the casually assertive way he carried himself. Not pompous or flashy, just confident authority.
“This is rather unorthodox. You must know that,” Renzo said by way of greeting.
“I’m aware it would normally be my uncle reaching out as the head of our organization, but this matter was somewhat delicate. I opted for discretion over formality.”
