Page 52 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
“Amanda.”
“Whatever.” The fact that he doesn’t even remember her name shouldn’t make me this happy, but here we are. “She noticed the staff jumping when we arrived. Saw the expensive suit and the VIP treatment and saw dollar signs. They all do.”
“How do you know I’m not like that?”
“You wouldn’t have run away if you were gold-digging. You would’ve been thrilled to wake up married to me.” His mouth quirks up. “Besides, I know you.”
Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. There’s a weight to those words, a certainty that doesn’t quite match our brief history.
“But we’re still getting to know each other. We met less than two weeks ago.”
“I know you better than you think.”
There’s something he’s not telling me. I can see it in the way his expression shutters, the careful neutrality that slides over his features. But this isn’t the time or place to push for answers.
I file it away for later.
The night continues with more drinks and dancing, and I’m finally ready to head home when nature makes its demands known.
The restrooms are in the back of the club, down a hallway that ends at an emergency exit.
Lorenzo walks me to the entrance of the hallway like the overprotective husband he’s becoming. I should probably be annoyed, but it’s not like he’s wrong to be cautious.
I take care of business quickly, already planning how I might convince Lorenzo to join me for a midnight swim when we get home. The pool at night with all those underwater lights...
My happy thoughts disappear the second I step out of the bathroom.
A hand clamps over my mouth before I can even process what’s happening. Raw panic floods my system as I’m dragged backward against a hard body, away from Lorenzo and toward the exit where another man waits.
For a few precious seconds, my body freezes. By the time my brain catches up, I’m already halfway to the door, and I know with bone-deep certainty that if they get me outside, I’m dead.
That thought unlocks something primal and desperate. I drive my spiked heel into the thigh of the man by the door, and he stumbles backward with a grunt of pain. The arms around me tighten, and the man holding me says something in what sounds like Russian.
But I’m not done fighting. I slam my head back as hard as I can, and the satisfying crunch tells me I’ve broken his nose. His grip loosens just enough for me to turn my head and suck in air.
Then I scream like my life depends on it.
Because it does.
“LORENZO!”
20
LORENZO
I’m not knownfor being sloppy. Men in my position die that way.
But here I am, standing in this crowded nightclub like some amateur, checking my phone while my wife uses the bathroom. The smart move would be keeping my eyes on every exit, every face, every potential threat. Instead, I’m texting Matteo like I’ve got all the time in the world.
The message is simple;Pick us up out front in five.
My thumb barely hits send when Mia’s scream cuts through the pounding bass.
“LORENZO!”
The world tilts. My blood turns to ice, then fire.
I spin toward the sound and catch a glimpse of her terrified face as two men drag her through the emergency exit. I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, my dress shoes fighting the sticky club floor as I charge forward, but the door’s already swinging shut.
