Page 70 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

“Okay.”

Half an hour. This is real. I’m actually choosing Cade Quinn. A trafficker.

He pauses at the door, sighing when he realizes Saint hasn’t budged. “Move your fucking ass, St. Michael, and stop making eyes at Luciana!”

The sound of my full name in his rough baritone feels like a stroke along my back. I open my mouth to tell him to call me Luna, but the words stick in my throat.

After a moment, Saint heaves himself up and slinks past Cade. “Suck-up,” he mutters as they disappear through the door.

The silence settles like dew, and I let out a shaky breath, wrapping trembling arms around my knees.

Luciana.He even calls it the proper—the Italian way.

To everyone else, I’m Luna. Party girl. Wildcard. Family disappointment. But on Cade’s lips, Luciana feels like something sacred. Desirable. A deliberate claiming as . . . his.

I groan.Oh for fuck’s sake, Luciana, pull your shit together. Next, you’d be swooning at his feet. And honestly? You’d deserve the swift kick he’d give you for it.

But a sister, though? Didn’t see that one coming.

What kind of woman is she? And what can she tell me about the man I’ve promised to trust?

I push off the bed and scan the room. It’s minimalist with a soft pastel palette. Absolutely nothing like the luxury dripping from the clothes she bought for me.

Anticipation courses through me with every step as I cross the room to her closet.

Time to see what other secrets you’re hiding, Cade Quinn.

23

Luna

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the closet door knob.

Crossing this line feels wrong, but since I doubt Cade will be offering the answers I need anytime soon, I shove my conscience aside and pull the door open.

The walk-in closet stretches deeper than I expected—and it’s almost entirely empty, save for a few plain scarves hanging on the rack.

One wall is dominated by a vanity, its mirror framed by a chaotic constellation of Post-it notes. Wedged into a corner is a squat, overflowing bookshelf.

Jackpot.

Want a glimpse at someone’s demons? Start with their reading material.

I ease the bookshelf out. Psychology textbooks, criminal justice manuals, true crime paperbacks. But it’s what’s inside the books that makes me smile.

Most of the margins are crammed with notes and several paragraphs are underlined. A single name seems to recur.

Nico.

Sometimes it’s written with flair, other times violently scratched onto paper.

I flip through a well-used psychology text and see a roadmap of infatuation warring with frustration. And then—there it is, in a cursive hand.

Mrs. Sophie Vitelli.

I stare at the words until they swim.

Three years ago, Don Vitelli shocked the entire Outfit by marrying an American woman. Her initial reception was cold, but as she was found to be the only soft spot the Don possessed, she quickly became the most powerful woman in Chicago.

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