Page 127 of Scorned Obsession

I checked my phone. No text from Al or Miller.

Damn you, Bianca.

Belatedly, I noted that Dom hadn’t finished talking. “And…?”

“You need to calm down.”

Fucker. He knew that was the last thing he should say, and he was just trying to get me worked up.

“What. Happened?”

“Bianca twisted her ankle when the asshole tried to stop her from leaving the dance floor.”

I didn’t wait for him to say more and strode past him. “Someone’s dying tonight.”

“Dammit, Rossi.” Dom caught up with me and kept stride with me toward the elevators.

I stopped short of calling the cars and faced him. “Give me an alternative. But I’m getting my hands on that prick. Tell Trevor to find out everything on that guy.”

“You don’t give me or my men orders, Rossi,” Dom warned.

I invaded his space and that was when the elevator doors slid open.

“What the fuck?” Matteo and Nico said at the same time.

“What’s going on?” Nico asked.

“Someone harassed Bianca on the dance floor, and Sandro wants that someone’s head to roll,” Dom said.

Matteo and Nico both checked their phones.

“Is that why our wives are not responding to us?” Matteo mused.

“They’re probably deciding how to keep their stories straight so Sandro here won’t have to kill someone,” Dom said with amusement, as if he was used to dealing with this.

“Wrong thing to say.” The restlessness in my fingers needled for action. “I want that man in a room.”

“Jesus,” Matteo muttered. “We’re doing mob justice here?”

“What would you do if a fucker harassed Sera on the dance floor and, when she tried to leave the situation, dragged her back and she hurt her ankle?”

“I’d kill him.”

I crossed my arms since I made my point.

“Wait, Smurfette wouldn’t take that lying down,” Nico said.

Dom was chuckling while he was typing on the phone. “Nope. She kneed him in the groin. According to my security guy, that man asked for ice after he left the dance floor.”

“Let him suffer.” I was losing patience. “Where to?”

“Basement,” Dom said.

Zachary Hellman was an investment banker. He was twenty-eight years old, with a salary of three hundred grand a year. Not shabby for making the move from a tiny Indiana town to a midsize Manhattan investment firm. He had also developed a cocaine problem. We found a baggie on him. It was a problem typical of these high-strung financial types I’d seen at my club.

He was not high tonight. He was simply high on making loads of money for a client, which meant he was on track to make a hundred percent of his salary in bonuses this year. Unfortunately, that rush made him think he could hit on any woman.

Right now, his hands were tied behind a chair and he was mouthing off.

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