Page 63 of Ruined By Protection
"By handle, you mean...?" Damiano lets the question hang unfinished.
"Whatever's necessary." I meet his gaze without flinching. "He won't stop. Men like him never do."
Damiano's eyes darken with an emotion I recognize all too well.
He places Sofia gently in her crib, tucking a blanket around her tiny form. When he straightens his face has hardened into the expression his enemies fear.
"After what happened to Lucrezia," he says quietly, "I made a promise. No one touches our family. No one hurts the women under our protection."
Zoe moves to stand beside her husband, her hand on his arm. "Evelyn brought her to us for help. We don't turn our backs on that."
Damiano nods, his decision made. "Handle Montgomery. Whatever means necessary."
Relief floods through me, though I try not to show it. "I'll take care of it."
"No loose ends," Damiano adds. "Nothing that comes back to the family."
"Clean and quiet," I agree. "He won't be a problem after today."
I pull out my phone and call Fabio as I head back down the stairs. He answers on the third ring.
"Yeah, Matteo?"
"Where are you?" I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Chelsea. A new art gallery on 24th Street. The one with all the weird shit hanging from the ceiling."
I can picture it. One of those pretentious places where people pay millions for splattered paint and call it genius.
"Are they still with you? Both of them?" My boots slap marble as I stride through the foyer.
"Yeah, yeah. Lucrezia's talking to some artist guy with blue hair. Mrs. Montgomery's looking at paintings on the far wall."
My jaw clenches at the name. Mrs. Montgomery. Like she belongs to that piece of shit.
"Listen to me very carefully," I say, my voice dropping. "I need you to stick to them like glue. Don't let either of them out of your sight. Not even to piss. You understand me?"
"Got it."
"I'm on my way. Twenty minutes, tops."
"Should we leave? Head back to the mansion?" Fabio asks.
I consider it for a moment. Moving targets are harder to hit but the mansion is secure. "No. Stay put. Too exposed during transport. Keep them inside until I get there."
"Copy that."
"And Fabio?" I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. "If anything—and I mean anything—feels off, you call me immediately. Someone looks at them wrong, someone follows them around the gallery... anything."
"I got it. Nothing's gonna happen on my watch."
"It better not." The threat in my voice is clear. "I'll be there soon."
I hang up and head for my bike.
The Ducati roars to life beneath me, the vibration traveling up my spine. I weave through traffic with single-minded focus, cutting between cars and running yellow lights.
Elliott fucking Montgomery is a dead man walking.
