Page 69 of One Savage Union

Now I need him.

I would have been taken from my life, one way or the other, but at least with a monster like Leo, I would have known what I was getting from the start and never tossed my heart into the ring.

The two men who should care for me the most have lied to me. Their cruelty is harsher than that filthy man calling me a whore. They called me their princess and queen, only to both use me as a bargaining chip in their violent aspirations.

If I ever get out of here, and I hope I do, I’ll know to keep my heart in my chest, locked behind self-preservation, caution, and restraint.

Because I know Rocco is coming for me. At least I pray he is.

I could never trust him as my husband again, but I damn sure can trust him to get me out of this cage.

Does he even know I’m here? By now, he has to know. Enzo can track me, right? My phone was taken, but there’s got to be some hidden microchip in my skin or something.

Lord knows, Rocco and Mario drugged me enough to get it done. That’s how all the mafia romances on my Kindle end: with the hero miraculously tracking down the heroine against all logical odds.

Except, this is not a story. This is my life, and right now, a bright light is shining on me so harshly I can’t see a foot in front of me.I’m fucked.

The unmistakable boom of a gun shakes me from my despair. Then another. The spotlight shining in my face cuts off, and I welcome the darkness as I hear the scuffles and screams of men.

Loud gunshots echo around the room. I scramble to get to my feet, but it makes no difference. I'm still kneeling and chained inside this cage. I shiver in the pitch-black room. It sounds like the world is ending around me.

25

ROCCO

The G-Wagon screeches to a halt in front of Matteo Ricci’s Manhattan fortress, and I’m out before the engine finishes dying.

We had eyes and ears inside through a small, remote drone that Enzo managed together. The last thing I heard before we arrived was that cartel bastard calling my world a whore.

He’s dying first.

There are guards at Matteo’s door. We expected that, and immediately, gunfire erupts like thunder around me.

The sharp, acrid scent of cordite and copper blood slams into my senses—metallic, thick, and familiar as breath. I inhale it like oxygen, like war. I push forward with a fury I don’t bother to contain.

Behind me, my army of one hundred fans is out, a black wave of death cresting against the manicured estate. Each man bears the Roman crest across his chest. Each man was forged by loyalty, hardened by loss, and baptized by the promise I made when they touched my ring.

They came for blood.

I came for her.

This isn’t a rescue.

It’s an eradication.

I lead the charge, eyes cold, heart burning. We breach the doors, and hell follows us in.

By the time I enter behind my men, the auction room is chaos incarnate—gilded chandeliers swinging wildly, smoke curling in tendrils across the velvet-draped ceiling, men screaming over the cacophony of bullets and death. Ricci’s men, the cartel muscle—they’re caught off guard. They die screaming.

A body charges me from the side. I barely glance before my knife finds his throat—a geyser of blood arcs through the air. I step over the twitching corpse like it’s nothing because it is.

None of them matter.

Only one face lives in my mind. Only one heartbeat calls to me through this madness.

Lucia.

I scan the chaos—firing, killing, moving—and then I see her.

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