Page 24 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

Delilah . . . Clemenza . . . betrayal on all sides. It’s all too much. Impossible.

The hallway tilts and sways, and I lean back against the closed door to steady myself. Doubt gnaws at my insides.

Could he be right? Could Delilah really have been grooming me for sale? She works for me! Unpaid, yes, but isn’t that because she believes in my brand?

And Clemenza . . . what reason would he have?

The smaller elevator dings, ushering in a woman in uniform pushing a laundry cart. Suddenly remembering Rocky’s warning to bypass the lobby, I slip inside the elevator. My hands shake badly as I punch in the code, fumbling a few times before getting it right.

As the doors slide shut, a feeling of numbness settles over me. Rocky’s presence, heat, and scent still cling to me, but they’re drowned out by something far more familiar—the taste of betrayal, bitter as bile in my throat.

My hand trembles as I clutch the gold rune on my chain, letting the cold hard edge dig into my thumb and ground me.

Delilah, my best friend, could be a liar and traitor. Again.

Clemenza, who is like a father, may have betrayed me.

And Rocky Savage, a flesh peddler, may have been the only thing that stood between me and slavery.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

9

Cade

What the fuck just happened?

I stare at the door Luna disappeared through, my body humming like a live wire. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, each beat echoing in my ears.

The longer I wait for my pulse to slow, the faster it races. It’s as if her touch triggered something primitive inside me.

For a moment, I wonder if I’m having a goddamn arrhythmia. I rub the spot where Luna’s touch still burns, as if to erase the memory of her skin against mine.

My real father—Thomas Quinn—used to get these heart flutters after he’d snorted too many lines of coke. He’d died of an overdose, right on the morning he was supposed to ride out to save his wife. Ex-wife, I correct myself.

I push the thought away, not in the mood for drug-related heart conditions or fucked-up family trees.

Another minute passes, and my pulse is still thundering in my ears.Un-fucking-believable.

Annoyed at my reaction, I stalk to the bathroom to splash water on my face. A stranger stares back at me in the mirror—face flushed, chest heaving like I’ve run ten miles. I look like a man riding on a high.

What the fuck did you snort, Cade Quinn?

The woman is unpredictable as hell. Brazen one minute, shy the next. An unholy poison that sets my teeth on edge.

I hate it.

Because she won’t let you pay for it, a voice in my head mocks.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter to my reflection, but the truth stings. I don’t do emotional entanglements. I don’t do romance. And I don’t do Mafia princesses whose touch hit harder than crack.

Certainly not one whose father I intend to kill.

Returning to my uneaten breakfast, I’m about to reach for a piece of now-cold toast when my phone vibrates. The name on the screen makes my jaw clench.

Hawkins. Again.

Three times in less than twelve hours. My momentary calm evaporates like morning dew.

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