Page 88 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
Something doesn’t feel right. The fight seems almost too over the top.
A distraction, maybe?
I’m not sure if I’m being paranoid, but I pick up my pace to get back to my brothers. I don’t make it far before a strong hand on my arm pulls me to the side.
I gasp as I lose my footing, my body crashing into a large, muscular form. It happens so quickly that I’m pulled past two booths and into the narrow space between two buildings before I even get a look at the man jerking me roughly along.
Finally, the shock of being grabbed is overridden by panic.
I try to rip my arm free, letting out a cry of pain as the rough brick side of one of the buildings scrapes along my bare arm.
The man turns back to me with a snarl of anger, and I realize it’s the asshole I accidentally bumped into earlier. He’s an older man, my height but broad-chested with thick arms. When he tightens his grip on my forearm, I groan in pain.
It feels like the bone might snap.
“Let go of me,” I cry out, swinging my free hand at his head.
He dodges the hit at the last second, using his free hand to grab my wrist. Now he’s got a hold of both of my arms, and my heart sinks.
This cannot be happening again. I can’t keep being a victim to assholes who hate my husband. How did the Bratva even know I was here?
“Lorenzo is going to kill you for this,” I snap as we reach the end of the narrow opening and I’m pulled into an alley.
“Who’s that?” the man replies. He’s speaking English, but his accent is so thick I can barely understand him.
I’m thrown for a moment, confused by his response, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize that if he’s not my husband’s enemy, he must be my father’s.
Fucking perfect.
There’s a truck in the alley, already running and waiting for us. At least this asshole is alone, unlike the last ones who tried to take me. But that doesn’t necessarily increase my chances of getting away from him.
He’s so much stronger than I am.
“Let me go!” I demand again, screaming this time.
Since he has a hold of both my arms, I kick at him, the toe of my sneaker connecting with his shin.
“Bitch!” he growls, spinning us around and shoving me into the side of the truck.
It knocks the wind out of me, but at least he doesn’t have his hands on me anymore.
I look around wildly, trying to decide which way to run, but then I realize I don’t have to save myself at all.
My husband is here.
Running down the alley toward us with fury burning in his eyes and a wicked-looking knife in his hand.
I let out a small whimper at the sight of him. Relief and joy crash into the panic and fear still raging through my system, the contrasting emotions nearly too much.
I slide down the truck’s side until my ass hits the dirt, watching my husband systematically destroy the man who dared to touch me. The kidnapper pulls his own knife, but it doesn’t matter.
Lorenzo’s rage fuels him and gives him the ability to easily overpower the other man. I feel numb as I watch him disarm my kidnapper and punch him in the face hard enough to break his nose and send him crashing into a nearby dumpster.
Lorenzo is on him before he can even get back to his feet.
I close my eyes just as Lorenzo plunges his knife into the side of the man’s neck. I might feel numb at the moment, but I’m self-aware enough to know that if I watch the life leave this man’s eyes, it’ll haunt me later.
“Mia!”
