Page 85 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

CarmellaLambretticlutches her sister, her body curled around the frail woman, shielding her fromthe night’s cold. Aemelia’s brother, Carlo Junior, pale and gaunt, is crouchedbeside them, his arms wrapped around himself, shaking with either fear orwithdrawal—I don’t have the patience to figure out which right now.

I approach slowly, hands visible, voice lowbut firm. “SignoraLambretti.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wild, rimmed withexhaustion. “Venturi—”

“We’re taking you somewhere safe. Come withme.”

She tightens her grip on her sister. “Whyshould I trust you? Where is my daughter?”

I crouch beside her, meeting her eyes. “Becausemy brother warned you that Enzo sent men to kill you. If we wanted you dead,you wouldn’t still be breathing.”

Her thin lips part as a shuddering breathescapes. She glances at her son, then at her sister, before nodding. “Okay.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

I help her stand, my hand firm but careful onher arm. Leo lifts the sickly woman, carrying her as gently as possible, whileNico steers Aemelia’s brother toward the waiting vehicles. He stumbles butkeeps moving. His weakness disgusts me.

As we make our way back to the SUV, Carmellagrips my wrist. “Aemelia?”

“She’s safe,” I assure her. “She’s the reasonwe’re here.”

That seems to ease some of the tension in hershoulders, but she doesn’t speak again.

We urge them into the vehicle, and I’m justabout to slide in next to Carmella when a white van creeps to a stop across thestreet. Its engine ticks once, twice, then goes still. The windows are tinted,making it impossible to see who’s inside, but every hair on my body stands onend. A low, instinctualprickle of awareness scrapes down my spine.

Vito and Andre pull up at the curb, ready tofollow us back to the penthouse. Vito’s half leaning out the window. “You okay,boss?”

“The van,” I hiss, voice low and sharp. Theair thickens, heavy with the promise of violence.

He glances over, his eyes narrowing intoslits. Then they widen. His hand is already slipping inside his jacket, fingerscurling around the grip of his Glock.

“It’s him,” he hisses, his voice dripping withvenom.

My grip tightens around the handle of my gun.“You’re sure. The one who bought the roses?”

Vito’s already sliding out of the vehicle, hisknuckles white on the weapon, the fury in his eyes cold and raw. “That fuckingcock-sucking piece of shit.”

“Keep talking,” I growl, pulling out my phone.

Without missing a beat, Vito straightens,squaring his shoulders, and launches into a bullshit story about how his wifewants him to take her on vacation to Florida and how she’s picked a five-starhotel that’s going to bleed him dry. His tone is casual, almost bored, his freehand gesticulating, but his other hand stays steady on the gun.

While he talks, I dial Matteo. The moment hepicks up, I cut straight to the point.

“The white van. Box it in.”

I hang up and slam my hand against the side ofthe vehicle carrying Aemelia’s family.

“Drive. Up two blocks.”

Nico doesn’t hesitate. The car peels away fromthe curb, separating them from the imminent storm.

Engines roar as Matteo and Sandro’s SUVsscreech onto the street. Tires scream against the pavement as they block thevan in from both ends, cutting off any escape.

Before the van’s engine can so much assputter, my men swarm it, yanking open the doors and dragging the lone hoodedman out.

I move fast, crossing the street in long, furiousstrides, flanked by Vito and Andre, guns drawn. The pavement thuds beneath myfeet, but it’s my pulse that thunders louder.

Matteo slams the man face-down onto theasphalt, planting a knee between his shoulder blades. The man lets out awheezing grunt, his cheek scraping against the rough concrete. Matteo’s Glockpresses into his skull, waiting for my command.

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