Page 54 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
When I finally stop, my breathing is ragged, and my knuckles are split raw. His blood drips from my hands onto his ruined face.
I stand slowly, trying to catch my breath. Trying to remember who I am when I’m not consumed by the need to destroy anyone who threatens what’s mine.
That’s when I look up and see her.
Mia stands pressed against the brick wall, one hand covering the cut on her neck. Her skin is pale, her eyes huge and dark with something I can’t quite read.
Fear, certainly. But not of the dead men.
Of me.
I take a step toward her, hands outstretched, and she flinches back. Her gaze drops to my blood-soaked fingers, then back to my face.
“Mia—”
She shrinks further into the shadows, and something inside my chest cracks clean in half.
Fuck. I got rid of the threat, but she’s still terrified.
Of me.
21
MIA
Turnsout there’s a massive difference between knowing your husband kills people and actually watching him do it.
The blood is everywhere. Even in the weak light from the single bulb above the club’s back door, I can see it spreading across the concrete. The metallic smell hits me, mixing with garbage from the nearby dumpster.
That wet crack when the man’s skull met pavement keeps echoing in my ears. My stomach lurches.
Lorenzo straightens, and I watch a drop of blood fall from his knuckles.
Those hands.
The same hands that had me trembling an hour ago, fingers buried inside me while he whispered dirty promises against my ear. Now there’s blood under his nails.
He takes a step toward me, and my body jerks backward without permission. The brick wall scrapes against my shoulders.
Something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe. But it’s gone so fast I almost miss it.
Fuck. Now I feel like complete shit.
This man just saved my life, and I’m cowering from him like he’s the monster.
“Uh, boss?”
I jump. Matteo emerges from the shadows, his heavy footsteps crunching on broken glass.
“They took out Costa and Bianchi,” he says. “Left their bodies in a heap along the side of the club.”
Lorenzo’s hands curl into fists. “I’ll inform their families. Call a cleaning crew to come out here and take care of the mess.”
A groan cuts through the night. The van’s driver staggers out, one hand pressed to his bleeding scalp.
“And take this piece of shit to the safe house,” Lorenzo orders. “We’ll question him later.”
Question him.
