Page 253 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

I grin at her. “Good. That’s good to know.”

“Just so I’m clear, was that a hypothetical? Or something else?”

“Definitely a something else.” I wink at her. “See you around…?”

“Eleven o’clock,” Chella says.

“I’ll be here.”

“Me too.” She claps a hand against her forehead and rolls her eyes. “That was stupid. I mean, obviously, I’ll be here.”

“Until eleven.”

“Until eleven,” she repeats, backing toward the dining room with a dazed look on her face. She lets out a soft chuckle and turns her back, practically skipping toward one of her tables.

Crazy, sexy, and fucking adorable at the same time.

A fucking trifecta.

I know it’s not the best timing, considering I have a bunch of people to maim in the meantime, but hey, I need to find some kind of work-life balance.

May as well start tonight.

I take a deep breath and head back outside, jogging over to the Range Rover. With blacked-out windows, I won’t be able to tell who’s inside until I am.

And that should worry the fuck out of me.

Suddenly, the saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ has a fuck-ton more meaning to me.

And I now have a date that I’d very much like to make it to alive.

I grip the door handle, pulling it open and finding Tony behind the wheel as expected. “Where’s Dario?” I ask.

Tony nods his head toward the backseat.

“Okay, pop the trunk.”

Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Paranoid much?”

“If you had the week I did, you’d understand why I’m asking.”

“And you really think I’d let someone hide back there?” he asks. “I could just as easily make sure they’re at the warehouse when we get there. That’d be easier and way less messy than in a vehicle,” he says with a wink.

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for painting that picture.” Did I mention he’s a sarcastic fuck, too?

Tony snickers and I walk around to the back of the car. I’m the behind-the-scenes guy, the one who orchestrates this kind of shit. Of course I’d ask him to pop the goddamn trunk! It opens slowly, revealing absolutely nothing. I close it quickly after catching a glimpse of Dario wiggling around in the backseat, gagged with duct tape. I jump into the front seat and close the door behind me.

“Happy?” Tony asks.

“Satisfied,” I say. “For the time being.”

“It’s not easy being the boss, is it?” he asks.

“I have a fucking permanent crick in my neck and a chip on my shoulder,” I grumble.

That’s all we say for the rest of the short ride. There’s a deserted warehouse in the Meatpacking District we use off West Street to handle situations like Dario.

That kind of damage control is my specialty.

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