Page 3 of Abducted By the Mafia Don
Another splatter of blood.
Then I look up in shock. The impossibly tall man, in ablack suit, his face in shadow, is gazing down at me. The thick barrel of a silencer gleams.
My scream dies in my throat.
The man puts the gun away with an elegant flick of his hand then strides over, black polished leather shoes crunching on the tarmac.
“Sorry about that,” he says in a low voice. His tone is polite and refined. With one foot, he rolls Boris’ lifeless body off me.
I’m shaking and tears are pouring from my wide-open eyes. It’s cold, yes. A spring night, and my dress is torn. But it’s the panic receding that causes my shivers.
The warm spots of moisture turn cool. I’m covered with their blood.
“Here.” The man strips off his suit jacket, and I get no more than a moment of the scent of sage and cedarwood and a flicker of a cheekbone as he kneels.
Then he offers his hand, and his white shirt pulls up to reveal a solid and expensive-looking watch, gold cufflinks, and a jagged tattoo that snakes over the back of his hand. He turns his palm upwards and waits.
Another sob escapes me, and for a second, I consider refusing. After all, I trusted one man—well, boy—tonight, and that turned out to be an error. I should have listened to my grandmother. She always says men are trouble. That’s why she won’t tell me anything about my father. Secretly, I’ve longed for a dad, or a man I could trust. And kiss.
And that was an awful mistake.
But this feels different.
I peek up at my saviour, and although his face is in shadow, a little of the confidence I began the evening with and have felt for the last week, trickles back.
I take his hand and allow him to help me to sit up.
“Good girl,” he rumbles. “Did they hurt you?” He drapes his jacket over my shoulders, covering me with his warmth, and the rich scent of him. Something green and earthy and masculine.
I make a noise to object. Maybe I use words?
“Blood, jacket, I?—”
The man shushes me and shakes his head, pulling the jacket tighter, the silky-soft interior comforting on my skin.
“You’re safe. No one will ever harm you again.” He has a rumbling voice that’s so reassuring. “What’s your name?”
“Taggie. Agatha Hayes, but everyone calls me Taggie,” I stammer, but not because I’m scared now. I’m… The relief coursing through me is a river of sugar and wine. Heady.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, Taggie,” he murmurs.
“Who are you?” My voice is weak, and my throat is sore.
“Their father’s enemy,” he says quietly as he slides his arm around my back and under my knees, lifting me.
Enemy? I squeak and grasp for his shirt, but he has me held tight. Not the bad sort of earlier, though. Nope. A warm, secure kind of hold, and I let my palm rest over his hard pectoral muscle.
“You’re coming with me.”
Probably I should fight or scream, or at least make a snarky comment. But he just shot three men who were trying to hurt me, so I’m giving this stranger leeway. Besides, his jacket smells delicious, and he’s warm and solid.
I relax into him as he carries me out of the alley, and only a few steps into the street to a sleek black limousine.
In the glow of the interior light as he lifts me inside, I finally get a good look at the man who has saved me, and jolt. He looked tall and broad and intimidating as heappeared like an avenging hero, but now I can see more details.
He’s older. He has black hair with a slight wave, and it’s shot through with silver that glints. His square jaw is hard-set and covered with black stubble. There’s a scar that runs down next to his ear.
And he has a pair of brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, with faint lines radiating out that reveal he’s probably twice my age.
