Page 39 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
I stalk toward them as they scramble to get up. I could pull my gun and end this, but the noise would draw attention. Right now, we’re alone in this parking lot—no cameras, no witnesses. I’m free to do whatever I want to these fuckers.
The man who landed the hit has a scar running along his cheek. Scarface. I grab his collar and pull my fist back. He tries to block,but I’m too fast. His nose explodes under my knuckles, blood gushing down his face in a crimson waterfall.
He twists away, and I turn to his friend. The guy’s ugly as sin, made worse by the sneer contorting his face as he lunges. I sidestep easily, sweeping his legs and shoving his back, sending him face-first onto the asphalt.
I could play with them longer, draw out the pain, but my patience has evaporated. Before Ugly can rise, I straddle his back, place my hands on the sides of his head, and twist violently. The crack of his spine snapping is oddly satisfying.
One down. One to go.
Scarface shows no reaction to his companion’s death. His eyes are fixed on me with cold determination as he approaches. I stand, smirking at the blood covering his lower face and his already-swelling nose.
“That looks like it hurts,” I taunt.
“Fuck you!”
His rage makes him sloppy. He swings wildly, making his fist easy to dodge. Another blow to his face has him grunting in pain, but the bastard stays on his feet, grabbing my shirt and yanking me toward him.
Big mistake. I use our closeness against him, driving my fist into his gut repeatedly.
“Why are you here? Who sent you?” I demand between blows, taking him to the ground.
I feel time slipping away, the risk of discovery growing with each second, but I need to know who sent him before I end this.
At least, that’s the plan, until Scarface pulls a knife. The blade catches me by surprise, slicing across my bicep before I can react. I barely register the sting as I grab his wrist and twist until it snaps like kindling, the knife clattering to the ground.
My blood roars in my ears, and instinct takes over. I snatch up the knife and plunge it straight into his heart. His body goes rigid, eyes wide with shock. I wrench the blade out and step back, watching his life drain onto the asphalt.
I sweep the area, ensuring we’re still alone. So far, I’ve been lucky. The sun set while I was inside, and I’m parked at the back of the lot, but I need to move fast. I call Rocco, who lives nearby, while searching the bodies for wallets and phones.
“Yeah, boss,” he answers immediately.
“Come to the Cornerstone Gym. Be quick.” I hang up without elaboration.
I drag the bodies next to my SUV, grateful for the empty space on one side and the large van on the other. Still, my skin crawls as I wait for Rocco. This is sloppy work, not my style. Too public. Too risky.
This has Bratva written all over it. Those reckless fuckers.
I flip through the wallets—a couple hundred dollars in one, which I pocket. Scarface’s real name was James. Ugly’s was Blake. Not Russian names, but that means nothing. These are hired muscle, disposable.
Their phones are locked, but our tech guy will crack them open like eggs. I toss everything into my gym bag as Rocco’s car pulls up beside me.
He’s a good soldier. Loyal. Doesn’t ask questions.
We load the bodies into the back of my SUV, and I’ve just slammed the hatch when the gym door opens. Two women emerge, yoga mats tucked under their arms, chatting and sipping from water bottles.
They don’t even glance our way, but ice slides down my spine. That was too fucking close. I might have taken out my attackers, but they nearly screwed me anyway.
I dismiss Rocco and head for the crematorium my family owns. They unload the bodies without comment, and soon the only evidence of my attackers will be the wallets and phones in my gym bag.
Fury rides me hard as I drive home. I expected the Bratva to make a move, but sending two bottom-feeders to attack me in public? The insult stings worse than the knife wound.
When I step into the apartment, Alessio rises from the couch, immediately reading the tension in my stance. Paige is nowhere in sight.
“She’s taking a shower upstairs,” he explains, answering my unspoken question.
Good. She doesn’t need to hear this.
“I was jumped outside the gym,” I say, peeling off my jacket. I didn’t want my neighbors seeing the blood. The shirt follows.
