Page 26 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

For weeks, I tried to process what I was feeling, and I was horrified to realize that the deepest, darkest part of me liked it. A lot. I liked the way the air around him crackled. It was like watching a paranormal being shift. I found his dominance riveting, and his readiness to kill to defend my honor warmed me in a twisted way.

And that’s the part that scares me.

Dante swears under his breath. “Addy, you know I’d never hurt you.”

I do know he won’t hurt me. But I still don’t say anything. Instead, I study his profile, the strong line of his jaw, and the curve of his lips. Even the blood trickling down from his temple to his jaw. I want nothing more than to catch it with my thumb and then . . .

What? My brain screams at me.

I tear my gaze away from him and ask, “How do you know where I work, Dante?”

Dante responds with a question. “Tell me who sent you to Chicago.”

I hesitate, but something in his eyes, a glimmer of genuine concern, compels me to tell the truth. “My boss. Jim Pearson breathed down my boss’s neck, and he sent me here.”

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “You came for the sample.” It’s not a question. I remain silent, but I don’t need to say anything because he asks, “Why you, though? Why didn’t they send someone from logistics? And where’s your security detail?”

I shrug. “There wasn’t time to do things by the book.”

“Fuck,” he swears again, dragging a hand down his face. “Why couldn’t you just move to some small town and become the bounty hunter you always dreamed of?”

My lips twitch involuntarily. I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. “I never said that, jackass.”

The grooves in his cheeks flash briefly. “Might as well. You’re obsessed with digging into crimes.”

“And you live to create those crimes, don’t you?” I retort dryly, and then it hits me: pieces of the puzzle falling into place and Kira’s theory about the mafia funding Tommy Martelli’s defense.

“Oh my God. The fire starting on the sixteenth floor, the fire unit’s response . . . it wasn’t a coincidence. You did that, didn’t you?” I accuse. “You’re sabotaging the Martelli case.”

Dante doesn’t deny it. He just keeps driving. When he finally decides to say something it’s to ask, “Does your father know where you are, Addy?”

“I told you, Dante, I don’t need his permission—”

He interjects, “I hear you. But does Benjamin O’Shea know where you are right now?”

I roll my eyes at his persistence. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms, but yes, I mentioned it to him.”

“Why aren’t you speaking to him?”

I hesitate, considering whether to tell him, then I blurt, “Because he’s a criminal.”

Dante tenses beside me, wordlessly asking me to elaborate. And I find that I do. Like old times I used to be able to tell Dante anything.

“He . . . um. See, I found out that he deals with counterfeit money.”

“And?” Dante seems to be waiting for more.

I snap, “What, like that’s not enough? He’s always been a man of high morals and brought me up to detest crime. How could he just turn around and do that?”

Dante huffs a disbelieving breath. “That’s the reason you stopped talking to him?”

Irritation makes my fists clench. “I know for someone like you, that’s like a kid taking candy from a shop, so I completely understand how you can be dismissive of what he’s doing.”

“Someone like me, huh . . .” Dante murmurs, then suddenly pulls the car over to the side of the road. He turns to face me, his gaze hard and searching.

“Addy. I and the Irish Mob are enemies. Did you know that every time you’ve come to Chicago, the Mob has deliberately trespassed on my turf? Now, if I were a man given to superstition, I’d conclude that you bring them with you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not superstitious then,” I snap, feeling a sudden urge to smack his too-handsome face. Insinuating that I might somehow be involved in a criminal gang just because of my Irish heritage makes me see red.

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