Page 50 of Dirty Delivery

Rylan

I’m sending an Uber to pick you up. We’ll have an early dinner. Be ready in 30 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in my chest. I quickly save my work and dash upstairs to get ready. I do my hair and makeup, then choose a simple yet flattering sundress that makes me feel like I’m reclaiming another piece of my old self. By the time I hear the low rumble of a car engine outside, I’m practically glowing.

When I step outside, the sleek black town car parked in the driveway makes me chuckle. Of course, Rylan would send an Uber Black. Nothing less would do.

The driver steps out to open the door for me. He’s tall, with tan skin and sharp features that seem oddly familiar, though I can’t place him. His eyes flicker with something unreadable as he gestures for me to enter.

“Thank you,” I say politely, sliding into the car. The leather seats are cool against my skin, grounding me in this sweet, unexpected stretch of pure bliss. Honestly, I’ve been walking around like the star of a feel-good rom-com, half-expecting upbeat music to start playing every time I so much as smile. Life feels safe, steady, and delightful—like the universe decided to throw me a bone for once. I’m about to buckle my seatbelt, humming to myself like the carefree main character I’ve become, when I’m stopped suddenly, and the universe decides it’s had enough of my happiness.

A hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off the scream before it can even think about making an appearance, and a hood is yanked over my head so fast it’s like I’ve been drafted into some twisted magician’s disappearing act. Panic floods my system, sharp and cold, as my heart does its best impression of a drum solo. I thrash wildly, kicking and jerking, but it’s like fighting a brick wall that’s grown arms and a grudge. My mind races, instincts screaming louder than a bad karaoke singer to fight, run,do something,but my body is embarrassingly outmatched.

The hood scratches against my face, rough and suffocating, and the grip holding me still doesn’t falter for a second. Mybreathing comes in shallow gasps, amplified in the suffocating darkness, while muffled footsteps and faint metallic clanging fill the air around me. Every nerve in my body is screaming for escape, but no amount of writhing gets me anywhere. It’s disorienting, terrifying, and utterly helpless.

Great, this is how I go—hooded, muffled, and flailing like a poorly programmed robot. Just yesterday, I was the picture of rom-com bliss. Now? I’m starring in the horror movie nobody asked for.

“Stay still,” a voice growls, gravelly and threatening.

The air inside the hood feels suffocating, each breath bouncing back hot against my face. Panic claws at my chest as I thrash, desperate for fresh air. Suddenly, a chemical scent seeps through the fabric, sharp and cloyingly sweet, like almonds gone wrong. They must have soaked the hood itself.Are you kidding me? A pre-soaked hood?My lungs betray me, dragging in the tainted air no matter how hard I try to resist. My thoughts spin out in a chaotic tangle of terror and disbelief:This can’t be real. Am I seriously being taken out by a hood that doubles as a portable chloroform trap?

The world starts to tilt, my limbs grow heavy, and the last thing I feel is the terrifying certainty that I’m about to disappear without a trace.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Rylan

The package from Declan feels heavier in my hands than it should, considering its contents. A couple of small handguns, a few knives in various styles, tranquilizer darts, and smoke bombs—just in case. It’s a stark reminder that the Castillo mess isn’t over, and until it is, I can’t let my guard down.

After loading the gear into the Range Rover, I swing by the market, because nothing saysI’m totally into youlike overpriced produce and a bottle of wine that cost more than my first car. I pick out the best ingredients for a fancy dinner—fresh herbs, hand-cut pasta, the works. Savannah deserves more than just a meal; she deserves an experience. The thought of her sittingat the table, her auburn hair catching the light, and her smile lighting up the entire room makes me grin like an idiot. I probably look like the poster child for "hopelessly smitten," but honestly, who cares? If this is what it takes to see her melt over a perfectly cooked carbonara, then consider me Gordon-freaking-Ramsay.

Everything feels different now. She’s not just someone I’m protecting—she’s someone who’s burrowed her way into my every thought, someone I can’t imagine my life without. It’s not just about keeping her safe anymore; it’s about keeping her, period.

Golden rays glow over the landscape on my drive through the coastal town, cascading through the windshield, but I barely notice. Savannah consumes my thoughts. I want this chaos to end. I want normalcy, quiet nights, and mornings where we don’t wake up fearing the worst. I’m ready to build a life with her, to leave the darkness of my family’s world behind.

The moment I pull up to the house, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. The golden rays from the easy drive home have dipped below the horizon, and the windows are dark. I step inside while balancing the grocery bags on top of the box from Declan, and call out, “Savannah?” The only response is my own voice echoing through the empty house.

After setting all my supplies on the counter, I flick on the lights. The silence presses against my chest like a weight. “Savannah?” I call again, louder this time. Still nothing.

My pulse quickens as I move through the house, each step echoing louder than it should in the silence. Growing up in a mob family, learning how to clear a room is like a right of passage–right up there with your first suit and learning how to spot a lie. Living room, untouched. Office, exactly how we left it. Kitchen, not even a crumb out of place. Still, unease claws at me, making my chest tighten.

I stop by the box of supplies Declan sent me, yanking it open and grabbing the Glock he so casually included, because when you’re in hiding from a rival mafia family, a little firepower is as essential as milk and eggs. The weight of the gun in my hand steadies me, a reminder that while we’re lying low, we’re far from defenseless.

I take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding like a war drum, every nerve on high alert. Each step feels heavier, every creak of the wood beneath my feet like a gunshot in the silence. My grip tightens on the handgun, and my jaw sets. If someone’s here—if they’ve managed to track us down—they’re about to learn the hard way I’m not just the guy who cooks fancy dinners and picks out expensive wine. I’m the guy who finishes what others are foolish enough to start.

Her bedroom looks undisturbed, exactly as we left it last night. The bed is unmade, the sheets still tangled from where we slept. Her clothes hang neatly in the closet, her shoes lined up so perfectly it’s borderline intimidating. Nothing is missing—not a single thing out of place. If she’d run, she would’ve taken something. Savannah’s not the type to go full spy movie and vanish without a trace.

I clench the gun tighter and mutter a curse under my breath as I head back downstairs. In the kitchen, I yank open the drawer where I keep a small stack of cash—just in case. It’s still there, untouched, the bills practically smirking at me like,Not what you’re looking for, huh?My stomach twists, cold and heavy, as the truth crashes over me: the only thing missing is Savannah.

“She wouldn’t leave,” I mutter, pacing the kitchen like a man two steps away from losing it. My mind scrambles for answers, desperate for anything that makes sense.Maybe she needed air. Maybe she went for a walk and lost track of time.But even as the thoughts form, I know better. Savannah wouldn’t step outside without telling me—not with everything going on. Andafter last night, after the way she looked at me like I was the only safe thing in her world? No, she wouldn’t just disappear. Something’s wrong—so, so wrong.

I grab my phone and text her.

Me

Where are you? Call me.

The message goes unread. My stomach churns as I call her number. It goes straight to voicemail. The knot in my chest tightens into a fist.

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