On The Ropes (Tapped Out 3)

“I didn’t see you at the fight.” My gaze pingponged between Marco and Z. “Either of you.”

“We sent an emissary. Unfortunately, we were needed here. Bas, come here and meet Gio.” He gestured behind him toward the circular booth in back. I couldn’t tell for sure how many people were seated there, because the seatback was high enough to impede my view. My best guess was only a couple, which made the count in the room much more manageable. “Tell him what you thought of the fight,” he added as the taller man joined us.

“Amazing.” Bas tipped his head in appreciation. “It’s an honor to meet you, Costas.”

“Likewise.” I shook his outstretched hand because not to would be a death sentence. I might end up writing my warrant for that tonight, but I wasn’t quite ready to whip out the pen. “Bas, it is? Short for Sebastian?”

“Short for Bastard.” He grinned and showed off his perfect dentistry. “I’ve tried to shake the name, but it sticks around.”

“That’s because you’re very good at your job. You do whatever is necessary for the Andrettis, don’t you?” Marco shot me a glance that was about as subtle as an arm bar.

Bas cracked his knuckles. “The family is everything.”

Your family maybe, I wanted to say.

The Andrettis weren’t his, no matter how he deluded himself. He wasn’t a man of honor, just a foot soldier. A bloodthirsty one at that. He even had the tiny tear tattoo under his eye that indicated being imprisoned for murder. Men in the family usually weren’t so stupid to wear their crimes on their face, but there were always exceptions.

“That it is,” Marco agreed gravely before giving me a grim smile. “We hope you agree, Giovanni.”

“I do.” The lie came to hand readily. I’d been saying versions of it for months.

“Good. Then tonight, you will prove it. We look forward to you being one of us. The benefits, as you know, are substantial.”

Women. Money. Drugs. Three things I had no use for. And if I did, I sure as fuck wouldn’t turn to these assholes to get them.

But I only smiled. “I do. It’s an honor to get the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

A soft sound came from the back, one I couldn’t quite identify. A gasp or a moan, startled. Pained.

That pit in my stomach turned into a chasm and I fisted my hands at my sides.

Marco gestured toward the circular booth. “Speaking of enjoying, let’s get to it, shall we?”

Before I could respond to his sly question, he and Z flanked me, with Bas bringing up the rear. With effort, I made my feet move forward. I tucked my fists in my pockets, keeping them at the ready. If I had to fight my way free—or fight for the way of another—I would, without hesitation.

Even if it meant I wouldn’t see Emilia’s death avenged. Even if I lost my own in the bargain.

Some costs were simply too high to pay.

At the end of the booth, our caravan of four stopped. Two men sat at either side of a brunette with her head tipped down. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t revealing any fear at all. Her only minute tell was the quiver of her chin before a deep, inward breath quelled even that.

She was dressed like one of the dancers—white shirt over a bright red bra, tied over her perfect midriff, indecently short schoolgirl skirt. Big gold hoops dangled at her ears. While I watched, one of the men cupped her cheek and ran his thumb over her pale pink lower lip. Instead of flirting with him or cowering in terror, she bit him hard enough to have him releasing a slew of curses before grabbing a fistful of her short dark hair. She yelped and I stepped forward, going still when the faint light flitted over her gorgeous features.

Features I could sketch from memory, because they appeared in my mind every night before I went to sleep.

Another tug and the short dark wig came off in his hand. He grunted in disgust and heaved it across the table, where it skidded off and onto the tips of my boots.

Heart pounding like fists on wood in my ears, I stared at the lump of hair, unwilling to look up again and make this nightmare real.

She couldn’t be here. I’d done everything I could to keep her safe. I’d driven her away, denied myself, and gotten Brenda killed in the process. But it hadn’t been enough. Brenda had died in vain, and she was still here.

Still surrounded by two men with murder in their eyes and their mouths curled in tight, leering smiles as they tagteamed staring down her revealing blouse.

“Gio,” she whispered, and I had no choice but to look at her. To meet those gentle blue eyes that weren’t only my undoing, but the visible proof of the unraveling of my life.

Carly Anderson was the price I refused to pay.

Three