Page 138 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“And I was sitting in a dark room waiting to be rescued while you were being all badass Black Widow. Like, how are you even that woman?”

“I dunno,” I smile. “Might have something to do with the company I’m keeping these days.”

I look up at Dante, watching the expressions playing on his face as he gestures wordlessly to one of his men. My finger traces over the bold slash of his eyebrows, down the side of his face and his sharp jaw covered in stubble. I push a lock of hair that’s escaped from his bun behind his ear, then trace the shell of it down to the small steel ring in his pierced earlobe.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” I murmur.

“Uggggh, cringe. Can it stop already?” Kira grumbles, while still clinging to Sal like a baby koala. Her arms and legs are tightly wrapped around him, although I’m pretty sure she can walk.

I can’t help the small giggle that escapes me. “Dante, am I being cringey?”

His lips quirk up in that devastating half-smile that never fails to make my insides melt. “Not at all, tesoro. I’m obsessed with you, too.”

The world narrows down to just us as he leans in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s equal parts tender and possessive. For a moment, I forget about the blood coating my skin, the ache in my shoulder, the horrors of the night. There’s only Dante, his solid presence anchoring me in the storm.

Dante breaks the kiss, then rests his forehead against mine for a moment before he pulls away and murmurs, “Let’s get you away from here.”

When we reach the van, Dante gently sets me on my feet, keeping one arm around my waist to steady me. The cool night air hits me, and I shiver, a reminder of how little I’m wearing. He removes his tactical vest then reaches behind him, fisting his T-shirt and pulling it over his head.

I watch, mesmerized, as he rips apart the shirt and then he’s making it into some kind of sling for my arm. Heat radiates off his bare torso and suddenly I can’t wait to be pressed close to him again, drowning in his fragrant warmth . . .

Just as he’s tying off the makeshift sling, a tall figure approaches us from the periphery of my vision.

I tense instinctively, my fingers digging into Dante’s biceps.

“It’s okay, baby.” Dante gently uncurls my fingers from his arm.

The man who steps into view is older, with graying hair and a weathered face that speaks of years of hard living. His light eyes—I can’t quite make out the color in the dim light—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. There’s something familiar about the set of his jaw.

He takes off his suit jacket and offers it to me, his voice gruff but oddly gentle as he asks, “If I may?”

I glance at Dante, uncertain. He gives a slight nod then takes a step away.

Taking that as reassurance, I allow the older man to drape his coat over my shoulders. The garment’s warmth envelops me immediately, carrying the scent of gunpowder and mint, but it’s the man’s touch that truly captures my attention. His hands tremble slightly as he adjusts the coat, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

As he steps back, I catch another glimpse of his face. His eyes are surprisingly glassy. He turns abruptly and leaves, his shoulders shaking slightly as he walks away.

I look up at Dante, a suspicion forming in my mind. “Is that . . .?” I ask, my voice hushed.

Dante nods, his eyes following the retreating figure. “Yes. That’s your father.”

The words hit me hard. My father. The man I’ve wondered about my entire life, now just feet away from me.

“He’s . . . um, very sweet,” I manage to say, though the word feels inadequate.

Dante’s chuckle is low and warm as he helps me into the bench seat, then follows me in. “He’s very dangerous.”

“How?” I ask, curiosity piqued. The emotional whirlwind of the night leaves me craving comfort, and I find myself leaning into Dante’s warmth.

Noticing my restlessness, Dante gently pulls me onto his lap, then reaches into a compartment and retrieves a dark brown bottle.

“Here,” Dante says, offering me the bottle. “Take some of this.”

I eye the container warily. “What is it?”

His fingers brush mine as he hands me the bottle, sending a familiar tingle up my arm despite my exhaustion. “Liquid morphine. Just something to help you sleep until I can sort out your shoulder.”

I take the bottle from him, our fingers lingering together for a moment longer than necessary. The liquid inside is sweet, almost cloyingly so, as it slides down my throat. Almost immediately, I feel a heaviness settling over me.

---