Page 9 of Veil of Vengeance

“Um...sir, this is the women's restroom. The men’s is down the corridor,” she tries to explain to me, her voice sweet like summer fruit, soft like silk, almost seductive. For fuck’s sake, I need to get laid if I’m getting distracted by the enemy’s voice. I give her a pointed look, and in response, she raises a black eyebrow at me. Reaching into my suit jacket pocket, I pull out my phone, calling Romiro without taking my eyes off her.

“Target secured.” I speak loud and clear enough for her to hear what I said as my eyes travel down her short black dress, leaving her tan legs on display. I can see her taking in my appearance as well. A scowl transforms her expression as she directs it my way, which almost makes me laugh. She resembles an angry puppy.

“If you're one of my dad’s bodyguards, you need to wait outside, not in here.”

I don’t reply to her assumption, but I give her a twisted smile. The lights in the restroom finally go out, and if the guys did their job right, they should be out in the whole damn building. I can’t see her face, but I can feel when she realizes who I really am. The enemy.

I take three silent steps to where I know she’s still standing and grab her arm, pushing her into the wall. I put my left palm over her mouth before she can scream and lean over to speak near her ear.

“Be a good girl and I won’t have to hurt you.”

She smells of amber and sweet cinnamon. I feel her nod, so I draw myself back from her, but I don’t let my grip go and my palm remains on her lips.

Dragging her out of the restroom, we hear the commotion down the hall. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder and, as expected, she screams.

“Mom! HELP ME!”

I roll my eyes at her dramatics. What else did I expect from the Moretti girl? As I walk toward the back exit, I don’t rush myself, but I feel tiny hits on my back. What. The. Fuck. Is she seriously hitting me?

“Stop it,” I command, but she doesn’t listen, so I smack her upper thighs just under her ass. That gets her to stop and curse at me.

“Fuck you, asshole,” she seethes, and I inhale through my nostrils and pray to God for some patience. I’ll need it if I want to leave with her alive.

We reach the back door and find Romiro waiting for us. His eyebrows reach the top of his hairline, and I shake my head at him, jerking my chin at the door, which he opens. The door leads us to the alleyway that’s secured by my men, a car is waiting for us.

“Romiro, the cloth,” I say to him as I put Valentina down. He passes me the cloth, which is doused with chloroform. She tries to push me, and Romiro and Silvio try to grab her.

“Touch her, and I’ll cut off both your hands,” I growl at them, and they both step back. I grab her by the waist and put the cloth over her mouth, and within seconds, she is out. Putting one arm under her head and the other under her knees, I walk over to my car with her in my arms. I turn toward Romiro when I hear multiple footsteps coming from down the walkway.

“The Morettis seem to have pulled their heads out of their asses and figured out their daughter was gone,” I say before I slide into the driver's seat and promptly drive out of the other end of the alleyway, heading towards the highway. Romiro should be on his way behind me so we can board the jet at Columbus, Ohio.

I call Romiro once I’m on the highway. “Are you on the highway yet?”

“No, not yet,” he says, and my eyebrows pull together.

“Why the fuck not?”

“It turned into a bloodbath. We lost two of our men and Moretti’s son was shot.”What?

“Isn’t he five years old?” I ask, trying to maintain a calm voice.

“Yes,” he confirms. Fuck.

“I instructed everyone to keep the fucking women and children out of the fucking shooting. Who the fuck shot a child? Is he dead?” I hit the steering wheel, nostrils flaring.

“No, he’s not. He was shot in the shoulder. I’ll have Beneditto, Luigi, and Tito in the cells in the OX once we’re in New York. I’ll deal with them,” he promises.

“No. I’m dealing with them myself.” I cut the call without waiting for a response. It wasn’t a question; it was a command. I scratch my throat while trying to clear my mind enough to focus on the road.

* * *

It’s beenan hour since we left the city, when the Moretti brat decides it’s time to open her eyes. I watch as she tries to get up in the back seat, looking confused and disoriented.

She runs her palms sluggishly over her dress, as if to check for any signs of force—as if I’d assault her. Her breathing picks up as she tries to sit up once more with effort, shifting back and forth in her seat.

I’m hoping to drive her to the brink of madness.

She’ll probably be easier to control like that, and once she returns to the Outfit, they’ll have lost whatever deal they had with the Colombians. Who’d want a crazy woman?

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