Page 83 of Salvatore

All eyes shift to Salvatore.

“Brother?” Matthew warns. “What happened when you returned to her apartment?”

Salvatore removes his baseball cap, discarding it between his feet, and ruffles his hair. “I got her out alive. End of story.”

Remy groans.

“No, that’s not the end of the goddamn story.” Matthew pivots his entire body to face us. “Do you think I didn’t notice the blood on your gloves? What the fuck are we dealing with here?”

“We’re dealing with the aftermath of our baby brother’s romantic whims.” Salvatore’s expression holds offensive nonchalance. “Olivia wanted Ivy rescued, and now here she is… after a slightly violent intervention.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bishop mutters.

Matthew glares, then turns to face the road ahead. “You’re such a reckless, self-centered piece of shit, Salvo.”

I flinch, not understanding the venom, but Salvatore doesn’t acknowledge the cruelty. The only hint that he even heard his brother’s malice is the flex of his tightening jaw.

“Can you at least elaborate onviolent intervention?” Remy grates under his breath.

“The details don’t matter.” Salvatore straightens the lapels of his jacket, relaxed and demure, the gesture a clear provocation. “What’s done is done. I’ll handle the repercussions.”

Matthew scoffs. “You’ll handle Lorenzo wanting to kill us for taking out one of the cartel in their own home, under circumstances that have nothing to do with the family, without his permission?”

Alarm bells ring in my ears.

“Three,” Salvatore states.

“What?” Remy and Matthew snap as my heart plummets.

“I killed three of the cartel.” Salvatore lazily peers out his window. “In their own home, under circumstances that have nothing to do with the family, without Lorenzo’s permission.”

The tension inside the vehicle turns volcanic. Curses are shouted. A heated argument erupts.

Salvatore and I remain silent. Me—highly anxious and on the verge of meltdown. Him—chill with no fucks to give.

Accusations are leveled, the brothers and Bishop raising their voices in a battle to be heard.

I drag in a measured breath, ignoring how it feels like I’ve been slingshotted from the frying pan and unceremoniously dumped into the fire.

Warm knuckles graze my thigh as Salvatore rests his hand on the seat space between our legs. The contact is a disconcerting balm. A subtle tether of strength.

I focus on those knuckles. The tanned skin. The warmth.

The last thing I should do is seek comfort from him. Yet in the same heartbeat, all I want is to glide my touch over his and squeeze until our fingers fuse.

He tilts his face toward mine, his exhale gently brushing my ear as he murmurs, “You’re safe,” through the building argument.

I’m no criminal profiling expert, however I sincerely beg to differ.

The vicious volley of hostile words continues as we’re driven into the deserted streets of the Canton industrial area. “You never think of anyone but yourself.” “So fucking careless.” “Abri owes me more than a blowjob for putting up with your shit.”

That last one came from Bishop, his statement putting an end to the witch hunt and earning a cringe from Remy.

“What have I told you about discussing your sex life with my sister?” Matthew snarls.

“You clearly told me I’d live to regret it,” Bishop mutters. “And what did I tell you I’d do if your brother dragged me into shit that could risk the lives of said sister and our fucking daughter?”

Matthew cuts his gaze away to stare at the traffic.

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