Page 88 of Trapped

He was right. I just needed to hear it again.

I sighed, trying to steady my nerves. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when everything feels so overwhelming.”

“That’s why I’m here, principessa.”

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease.

We spent the rest of the evening enjoying the food and company. Santino and his brother shared stories from their childhood, and I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time.

As the sun set, casting a warm glow over the yard, we gathered around the table for dessert. Violet served homemade apple pie, its sweet aroma wafting through the air. We were all relaxed and content, and it felt like a real family gathering.

Just as we were finishing up, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and saw a voicemail notification from an unknown number. My stomach twisted as I excused myself and walked a few steps away to listen.

Santino followed. “What’s wrong?”

“I think he sent me a message.”

His face darkened. “Play it.”

I hit the button, and Dimitri’s snarl erupted from the speaker.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you don’t come back to me. I will hunt you down, and when I get my hands on you, you’ll beg for death. This isn’t over, bitch.”

TWENTY-NINE

SANTINO

Stay away from Delilah.

I thought I’d driven that point home with a mock execution, a brutal beat-down, and thoroughly humiliating him before I dumped his ass on Mikhail’s doorstep. The dumb fuck couldn’t take a hint. She walked out on him on his wedding day, and he still wouldn’t leave her alone.

It pissed me off.

I’d been willing to let him live. But now, I was going to decapitate him and punt his head into the harbor. The next day, I drove past his house in Providence, a Sig in my lap, but he wasn’t there. Delilah had given me the names of some businesses he owned. No dice. So I made a detour to my future father-in-law’s house.

One didn’t simply walk into a Pakhan’s home without getting shot by bodyguards, so I called Mikhail. Told him I was in the area and wanted to talk.

The gates opened after a thorough inspection of my car and a pat-down. Mikhail’s estate was a fortress. More cameras than a celebrity rehab center.

Guards led me through a manicured garden where Mikhail waited for me on the veranda, looking like the dictator of a small, corrupt country. He wore a black satin robe, his expression wooden.

Mikhail nodded. “Costa.”

“Thanks for meeting me.”

One of his men opened the door to his house, and he waddled inside. I followed, feeling naked without my piece. The house reeked of cigar smoke and old money. Heavy velvet drapes cast a dim pallor over everything, and the walls were lined with dark wood paneling.

Mikhail led me to a study. He gestured for me to sit, and I took the chair across the desk. Mikhail took his time, slowly making his way around, the desk chair groaning as he sat down. He made a show of arranging papers and stacking them before he finally looked me in the eye.

“I never thought my daughter would be involved with one of you.”

I sat down. “An Italian?”

“A Costa,” he spat.

“Maybe you should’ve taken better care of her.”

He stabbed his finger in my direction. “Watch your mouth. You’re inmyhouse. If you want to leave in one piece, you’ll speak to me with respect.”

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