Page 98 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I lean closer to him, noting Sal instantly on high alert. I put up a finger to stop him. Owen can’t do much right now.

“Who, Owen? Give me one name.”

“P-p-pa . . .” He trails off again

“Who motherfucker!” I roar.

Owen gasps, then goes still.

“No, no, no. Not yet!” I jab him with the epinephrine.

His head falls back, his face a grotesque mask of blood and flesh, irises dilated in death.

It’s over.

“Fuck!”

“Any point in CPR?” Sal suggests, already cutting his binds.

I look him over and sigh, shaking my head. “Nah. He’s a mess. His ribs are broken, lung punctured . . . It’s no use.”

For a moment it looks like Sal still wants to go for it but then realizes it’s pointless. Even if we restart his heart, he’d be brain-dead. Owen Novak will not be talking anymore.

“I should have gone slower,” I mutter.

“And he wouldn’t have broken,” Sal says. “He’s a ghost, Dante. Only you could make him even begin to spill his guts.”

I toss the syringe and vial onto the metal table and head to the sink mounted on the far wall to wash off the blood and grime. A weary fatigue descends on me. This is one aspect of our lives that I loathe. But without it, we’d all be dead.

For the last thirteen years, every time I’ve taken a life, it’s been to protect what I’ve sworn to protect: Blood. Duty. Honor.

And recently, a fiery redhead who embodies all of that.

Fuck, I needed that name. I have to find out who they are and stop them before it’s too late.

We might have found a way to stop Orlando’s rebellion, but I am still fighting on two fronts:

One enemy seen and the other unseen.

***

The smell of blood and fear still clings to my skin as I stride into the mansion. My muscles ache from the tension of the past week, but there’s only one thought in my mind: Addy.

The marble foyer echoes with my footsteps, the surroundings a stark contrast to the grimy warehouse I’ve just left behind. Aydin appears from a side corridor, her expression brightening.

“Signor Dante,” she greets, then adds without me having to ask. “Addy is by the pool with Signora Sophie.”

My heart rate quickens at the mention of her name. It’s been a week—a long, grueling week—and the need to see her, to touch her, is almost overwhelming. But I force myself to nod calmly.

“Thanks, Aydin. Any other news?”

She shakes her head. As much as I want to rush to the poolside, I know I need to shower first. The stench of violence clings to me, and I won’t bring that to Addy.

I climb the grand staircase, my hand sliding along the polished banister. The house is quiet, but I can feel the undercurrent of tension. Everyone is forced to stand by while the Irish make moves, but we’re on very high alert.

My suite door opens silently, and I’m immediately enveloped in Addy’s sweet vanilla scent. My body responds instantly, a primal reaction I can’t control.

I strip quickly and step into the shower. As hot water cascades over my skin, the tension from this gruesome afternoon ebbs away, replaced by a different kind of urgency.

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