“Declan’s deception?”
“Do exactly as I say.”
“Will Kylie be okay?”
“You’re about to find out. Now tug up your hood and let me do what I do best.”
“What is that?”
“Pay close attention and you’ll find out.”
He slows the car, pulling off the flat dirt road. The car’s engulfed by heavy-limbed walnut trees, which scratch the bejesus out of the red paint. No one in their right mind would venture down this single-lane road. In a Ferrari. Yet apparently, he will.
Steering with one hand, he withdraws a pair of leather gloves out of the center console, then slides them. As we continue on, he silently stares ahead, deep in thought. Leaving me to wonder where we’re going and just what he means by Declan choosing me over an order.
He lifts a finger to his temple and taps his head. “Think like Kylie and you’ll get through this.”
“Did you read that on a greeting card somewhere?” I reply, my nerves getting the best of me. He hits the gas pedal and then we’re flying down the narrow roadway. I’m so preoccupied with his horrific disregard of the limbs wreaking havoc to his car, I miss the true implications of what he means until roughly ten minutes later, when he pulls to a halt in front of two armed men.
Both men step into the road.
Hayden rolls down his window. “Ciao, io sono qui per vedere il signor DiCapitano.”
My eyebrows arch but I keep my chin down and face hidden as I piece together his Italian. Ciao . . . hello. DiCapitano . . . Franco DiCapitano . . . Shelby’s resident lowlife mobster. Until now, I wasn’t certain it was his men who took her. His man I shot between the eyes.
“Hai un appuntamento?”
“Ho un regalo per lui.” Hayden turns toward me. “Flash them a smile.”
I frown.
“Do it.”
I grin, halfheartedly.
Both men peer into the driver’s side window at me, assessing me.
What the hell did Hayden say to them?
“Ti informiamo signor DiCapitano del vostro arrive. Guidare.” They step back and usher us on.
“In case you’re wondering what I said, I told them I have a present for Mr. DiCapitano.”
I stare at him.
“You,” he continues.
“Me.”
“Sorry. But you’re the perfect excuse I need to gain entry into Franco’s goddamn fortress.”
Think like Kylie and you’ll persevere. Great advice. How would he react if I slammed the heel of my hand into his nose?
Terrific. Nothing like a monster like him to bring out the devil in me.
But Kylie would bide her time, patiently wait until the bully’s guard is down. Then she’d strike. Just like she’d done with my three tormentors on the school playground oh-so many years ago.
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling like the air-conditioning has been replaced by the Ferrari’s heating system.
I catch his nod but ignore him.
We pass three more pair of armed guards, the last waving us through a thick wooden gate. Fortress is right. Hayden takes the horseshoe-curved driveway far too fast for comfort, then pulls to a screeching stop, sending pebbles flying. Could there have been a bolder announcement of our arrival? In a scratched-up red Ferrari, no less.
“Declan?” I ask, searching around for him.
“You won’t find him.”
But is he here? Somewhere nearby? Close enough to . . . protect me.
I grimace. Protect? Or use?
Hayden squeezes my arm. “If you call me anything other than Lorenzo, I’ll shoot you in the head.”
I jerk away, scramble out of the car, and hurry to follow his long strides up the marble stairway.
We’re led into a room full of about a dozen men. All wearing dark expensive suits, though not quite filling them out as nicely as the bastard beside me. “Lorenzo” doesn’t remove his shades. He doesn’t need to: they recognize him anyway. A few men jump to their feet and approach to shake his hand.
“Signor DiCapitano’s not present?” he asks in that far-too-casual way of his.
“He’s . . . tied up,” the largest man in the room replies, then snorts. He’s easily six feet five.
Laughter fills the room, and I swallow hard. Whatever’s going on isn’t good.
It doesn’t take us long to find out. A man stalks into the living room and I have to clasp my hand over my mouth so as not to gasp.
He’s in a tailored black suit like the rest of the men. Except the suit jacket’s gone, his crisp slacks are torn from his pant pocket down to his knee, and his starched white-collared dress shirt is ripped apart, missing a few buttons, and soaked with rich patches of . . . blood?
My eyes lift to his face.
Holy hell. Has he just lost some kind of boxing match? Both his eyes are swollen and bruised, one with a cut that is slowly dripping blood onto the Persian carpet.
“Signor,” Hayden—no, “Lorenzo”—greets him with an unintentionally hard thump on the back—unintentional, my ass. “You’re looking well.”
The Shelby mob boss winces. “Cogliona,” Franco DiCapitano grinds out, touching the bruise on his cheek. He turns to one of the men. “Get me a drink.”
The man does his biding, bringing him a scotch. Not offering us a drink? Or even cleaning up from whatever street fight he’s just come from before greeting us. A lowlife, tried and true.
“A real bitch, huh?” “Lorenzo” says.
I frown.
“She must have you quite upset?”
I freeze. She? Oh, no. No. It can’t be.
Blood drips from Franco’s nostril and into his drink. He tosses it back anyway. A broken nose . . . care of Kylie . . .?
“Why are you here, Lorenzo?”
“I’m here to make amends.”
“Amends.” Franco spits on the carpet then turns his full attention toward “Lorenzo.” “Novák not keeping you busy enough running his social-media campaign?”
“It’s tedious work.”
“It was my goddamn idea.”
“I did you a favor. Shouldn’t you be trafficking drugs and increasing the money you pay out to him? Everyone can be replaced, my friend.”
“You forget who I am. Non rompere i miei coglioni.”
“Lorenzo” sighs, exaggeratedly. “I’m not fucking with you. And you shouldn’t be wasting your time fooling around with some whore. What would Novák say to that?”
“He’ll applaud me. That bitch has been spying on us. She’s setting us up. And maybe even Novák.” He hurls his scotch glass into the wall. Everyone stills as Franco looks at his empty hand then marches across the room to get a new drink.
Hayden leans into me. “No matter what happens, what situation you find yourself in, make sure that traitor gets my note. Remember what I told you. Now hood off and chin up. If all goes my way, you’re about to find out how deeply lover boy loves you.” He turns and hollers loudly to Franco, “Like I said, I’m here to make amends. I’ve brought a present for you.”
Franco stalks back over, fresh drink in hand. “Screw with me one more time, Lorenzo and you’ll get a taste of what that bitch just got.”
I gasp as he pulls back my hood.