Page 53 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
I slam through that door with rage.
The alley behind the club is all shadows and stale piss. A white van sits idling with its back doors wide open. Two bastards are wrestling Mia toward it while a third waits behind the wheel, engine running.
The one holding her has blood streaming from his nose. Good girl, she got a hit in. His arms are wrapped around her torso while his partner grabs at her flailing legs. She’s fighting like hell, but they’re stronger.
Only until I get there.
The first guy doesn’t even see me coming. My fist connects with his temple in a right cross that sends him sprawling onto the grimy asphalt. He tries to scramble up, dazed and shaking his head, but I’m already on him. One quick twist of his head and the sharp crack of vertebrae echoes off the brick walls.
He’s not getting up again.
Tires screech behind me. The van lurches forward, desperate to escape with its prize. I draw my Beretta and put two rounds in the rear tire. The van spins out of control, slamming into the brick wall on the far side of the alley with a satisfying crunch of metal and glass.
Steam hisses from under the crumpled hood.
But when I turn back to finish this, my heart stops.
The remaining bastard still has Mia, but now there’s a knife pressed against her throat. Her dark eyes find mine, wide with terror but fierce. So fucking fierce.
“Drop the gun,” the man snarls in heavily accented English. Russian, of course. Kozlov’s rats.
“Let her go and I’ll let you live.” The lie slides off my tongue.
He’s not buying it. His grip tightens on the knife handle
“I said drop it!” the Russian snarls.
The gun hits the concrete with a metallic clatter. I kick it away, raising my hands in surrender. Every instinct screams against it, but I won’t risk her life. Not for pride, not for anything.
“Smart man,” he sneers. “Now we’re going to back out of this alley nice and slow, and you’re going to watch your little wife disappear.”
Over my dead fucking body.
Movement in my peripheral vision—Matteo charging into the alley, probably drawn by the crash. The Russian’s head swivels toward the sound, and that half-second distraction is all I need.
I move like lightning. My hand clamps down on his wrist, twisting until I feel the bones give way with a sharp crack. The knife clatters to the ground as he screams, releasing Mia to cradle his mangled hand.
She stumbles away, gasping, and I catch a glimpse of the blood trickling down her neck.
He cut her.
This piece of shit actually cut my wife.
The rage that follows isn’t controlled or calculated. It’s primitive. Animal.
I’m on him before his scream dies out. My fist connects with his face once, twice, until the cartilage in his nose gives way with a wet crunch. He goes down hard, and I follow him to the ground, straddling his chest while my knees pin his arms.
My knuckles are split, and his face is a bloody mess, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I just keep thinking about what they would have done to Mia if I wasn’t able to get to her fast enough.
But it’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
This bastard thought he could take what’s mine. Thought he could hurt her and walk away. The knife at her throat plays on repeat in my head, that thin line of blood a brand burned into my retinas.
I lift his head and slam it down against the concrete with all the force I can muster. Once. Twice. Three times.
I don’t stop until his skull cracks and there’s no longer any life in his eyes. I’m panting from the exertion, my body aching and my thoughts jumbled.
