Playboy Billionaire

“I’ve got weapons in the trunk. That's all we got.”

“Shit. Okay.” My heart is beginning to race, thinking about what they might want with Stella. Of course, I’m fucking pissed to know that they even thought it was remotely intelligent to take the only person I’m pretty sure I’d die for. I don’t understand why almost dying made me realize it, but I would. I would die for Stella Lombardi. Kill for her, too, so they better be ready for us because I’m not backing down until they pay.

We speed around a narrow bend that I’m barely thinking about because I’m locked into my fury. Then the questions set in as we enter the city. What if she doesn’t want me that way? She was the one that left.

I’ve never been good at relinquishing control to someone, especially not when that someone holds the power to my happiness. Since the moment I met her, she’s been the center of my world without me even realizing it. It’s not even remotely fair— the hold she has on me.

I know now why I want her. Not just in the way that gives me pleasure for a night or the tension that builds when I look into her impossibly captivating eyes… I want her in the mornings when I wake up, at the end of the day when our lives are too busy to imagine, but we’ve survived it because we love the thrill of getting to see each other again. Long days with only her as my trusted companion, sleepless nights talking about the scariest depths of our thoughts, rainy weekends trapped in a house with only our company to soothe the drag of the day.

It’s a sappy, stupid, horribly inconvenient type of want that makes your stomach sick and your head hurt. Your beliefs turn on themselves until they’re buried so deep they’re unable to see reason.

I think I’m there— without reason. Because every reason I have for not being with her falls flat the second we’re in the same room, and that’s the fucking scariest shit of all.

With guns and highly misplaced superiority complexes, no mobsters could change the gravely ill mistake they’ve made by getting on a San Giovanni’s bad side. As far as I’m concerned, they’re dead the moment I look at the perpetrators of such a twisted plan.

“Are we almost there?” Jack calls from the back, and Tito checks his watch that I can now see has some sort of tracking dot blinking on it.

“About five minutes. I’m going as fast as I can.” He calls back, eyes shifting to the road as we turn down a city street and head up a San Francisco-sized hill.

“Jack, grab the weapons.” I turn my head to him, and he unbuckles his belt, curling over the back seat to the trunk and pulling out some .22s, knives, and an ice pick. I look at Tito to question his choice with such an outdated weapon of choice, but he’s too focused on the road, and it’s better not to break that concentration if it will cost us precious time. Why would they take Stella to a city? I can’t take time to imagine scenarios that only make my blood boil because I need some level-headedness to fight well.

We come to a screeching halt at the top of the mountain where a tall glass tower stands, palm trees almost as tall as it, surrounding the lot.

“This is it.” Tito nods. “This is detecting height… looks like…” he scrolls through his watch’s touch screen and raises his arm to the building, holding it there for a second before checking the screen again. “Top floor.”

“Are you certain?” I ask, taking a knife and gun from Jack.

“Almost positive.” He takes his weapons as well, and we strap up, concealing our guns in our suits— Jack, in his hoodie and sweats. We hop out of the car in unison, and Jack hands me the ice pick as we walk up to the entrance. I conceal it under my arm inside my jacket just as we walk through the entrance. A long hallway with a woman at a round desk stands to greet us, but Tito takes the lead, walking right past her and heading to the elevators.

“You have to check in!” The woman calls after us, and we ignore her. Don’t even glance, though Jack might be shrugging at her. Maybe that’s why she picks up her phone and calls security, who begins to run for us as we wait for the elevator.

“Fuck.” I clench my jaw tightly as the doors open, and we sprint in. Jack rapidly clicks the button for the doors to close, and they thankfully do, just before security can stop us. I hit the button for the top floor, and we begin to rise to it.

“What room?”

“I think the top is the roof,” Jack says as the doors open to a sunny rooftop wedding.

“Oh shit.” I nudge Tito for us to turn back because it’s clearly not the right floor. There are flowers hung from canopies of woven wood, a rectangular space with a small stage next to the brick walls aligning the edges of the roof. Whitewood chairs overtop of very realistic turf, might be real. The upper deck of the roof has a short ladder going up to it where it seems other guests are standing. It looks like a wedding. Which means we just interrupted the ceremony. Damnit, Tito.

Each of us appears to realize this at the same time because we turn around quietly, attempting to not be any further of a distraction. But something catches my eye. Call it fate, destiny, I don't know, but it's glowing like I should have seen it before. Illuminated in the sunlight beaming down onto the roof. There she is, standing on the stage, eyes wide when she sees me too. The bride is Stella.

Oh, fuck no.

I whip around, gun cocked, as I approach the aisle. Tito and Jack are right behind me, picking up on what’s happening. I notice her tears, her shaking frame, and the looks on the men surrounding her. They all have weapons, and they’re now turning them to us. Stella shakes her head at me, lip quivering. Kias Mikhailov is across from her, the son of the boss of the Russian mafia. This is a fucking joke. Because they’re pointed at me, I know I can do this without hesitation.

I shoot each of their hands with quick precision, but as I do this, they begin shooting at me, and as a result, I miss the last one’s hand. He is red-faced, popping off at all three of us now. He’s running for us, and we back up for cover, looking for somewhere to shoot behind, when Jack steps forward, hitting him in the leg just as one of the goons' bullets whistle through the air, plunging into his arm. Blood splatters instantly.

“Fuck.” He hisses and grabs it tightly. Tito and I step back to the front of our little triangle just as another goon jumps off the upper part of the roof, cocking his gun at us. His feet pound to the roof, and we begin to shoot, no longer aiming for hands. Whatever is open, that’s where we fire.

More men begin to follow behind the jumping legend who thinks he has something on us. We’re shooting with precision, but the more bullets that fly, the higher risk we are of fucking up our rescue. If we die, Stella is left alone. No one will come for her, and the Russians will win. I glance at her, guns still pointed in her direction, as the men file in like floodwaters overtaking us. We dive behind a small metal barricade on the far right of the roof just as more bullets fly, now pinging off the barricade.

“I need to get to Stella,” I call to Tito, whose eyes go wide.

“You can’t–” I grab his arm for him to shut the fuck up.

“If she dies, or- or fucking marries some sadistic half-twit, I will literally fucking kill every single person in this place.”

“Antonio–”