Page 65 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

“Whose?” he finally grits out.

“Yours, ideally. But I’ll settle for Clemenza Brando’s if you’re not feeling that generous.”

The pause that follows is long and calculating, his mind no doubt working, weighing his options and testing for any sign of weakness.

“You clearly don’t know what I can do to you. Your entire generation.” His voice carries the weight of decades in the business.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Focus, Alfred. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what I can do. What Nico Vitelli is capable of doing to your precious Luna.”

That gets his attention. “Explain to me what myConsigliere’sdeath has to do with my daughter’s return.”

“Funny you should ask. You had your chance to find out this morning when she tried to talk to you. As usual, you blew it.” I pause, letting each word sink in. “So here’s your second chance of ever seeing your daughter again: Kill Clemenza. I’ll let Luciana walk free. You have seven days.”

When he speaks, his voice carries the chill of a man who’s ordered his share of deaths.

“You expect me to murder my right-hand man on your say-so?”

“I expect you to make a choice. And just so you know, if you don’t, I’ll introduce you to the grave I’ve dug for you.”

I snap the phone shut just as a sharp knock echoes through the room. My muscles tense, and I glance at my watch. No one should be here right now. Sophie couldn’t have pulled strings this fast. Unless . . .

I cross to the window, push the curtain aside, and groan when I see the sleek black Escalade sitting in the driveway.

There’s only one person who would bring an armored tank on a simple errand.Dumber.

Myjaw ticks as I wonder what kind of favors Sophie had to call in to gethimout here so fast.

I open the door, already regretting it. Dante Vitelli stands there, looking every bit the Underboss—second-in-command—of the Chicago Outfit with his flinty gray eyes and pretentious bun. Of course, he’s wrapped in a suit that costs more than most cars, looking like he’s heading to a board meeting—or a funeral. Probably both.

“Jesus, Dumber,” I mutter, letting the disdain drip from my voice. “What’s with the penguin get-up? Can’t even drop off a package without decking out in your Sunday best?”

Dante flashes a mocking grin. “I didn’t dress up for you, Quinn. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Romano princess. Word on the street is that Luna leaves quite the impression.”

He cranes his neck as he peers past me into the house, and I clench my fist to stop them wrapping around his throat. It doesn’t matter that the fucker is hopelessly devoted to his wife—just hearing Luna’s name on his tongue sets my blood boiling.

“You gonna invite me in, or do I have to stand out here like I’m selling Bibles?” he drawls.

I plant myself in the doorway, arms crossed, wordlessly telling him where he’ll stay.

His smirk widens. “That’s probably the smart call. Best keep her away from us Vitellis. Although technically, I’m not the one holding the grudge.”

True enough. It’s his brother, Nico—the Don—who harbors a special hatred for Luna’s uncle.

“I’m surprised they’ve got you on errands duty, Dumber. A recent demotion?” I snort.

“Nah, still calling the shots. I volunteered for this particular errand.” He dangles the shopping bag from its braided handles, eyes gleaming with mirth. “I had to see up close what ‘pussy-whipped’ looked like on you.”

My blood spikes hot, my hand already darting toward his throat before my brain catches up. But Dante is ready. Steel flashes in the light and his blade kisses my knuckle, leaving a thin red line.

He slides the knife away in one fluid motion, that shit-eating grin still fixed in place. “Oops. Force of habit. You know how it is with us brothers.”

I flex my fingers, letting the sting remind me why I shouldn’t kill him. Yet. “One of these days, Dumber.”

His gaze drops to my rosary, and his eyes narrow with that nosy bastard look I can’t stand. “Ever consider retirement?”

My gut coils tight.There’s no way he knows what I really do.

I lock down everything but the irritation. “Get to the point,” I growl.

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