Theirs to Protect (Mafia Menage Trilogy 3)

I gritted my teeth and embraced the rage that’d been ignited by the man’s disgusting threat. It hardened my resolve, fiery purpose burning through my dread at the prospect of what I had to do next.

There was only one person I could contact to get more information about the people hunting us; the one person I hated more than anyone else in the world.

I stepped off the bus at the stop closest to our house and dialed my father’s number. I’d erased his contact details months ago, as though that would somehow purge him from my mind, my blood. But the information was still readily available, his number memorized from hundreds of cold, resentful calls during the worst years of my life.

Leo De Luca picked up on the third ring. “Who the fuck is this?”

My muscles tensed as the familiar, cruel voice lashed me like a whip. Unlike him, I had a new number with a Boston area code. Although, I doubted he would’ve recognized my old one if it came up on caller ID. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d have bothered to save the contact info. He’d thrown me out of New York with a curse on my name and enough money to make sure I’d never have any reason to return. I took the cash settlement as my due, payment for the thirty years of my life that I’d wasted serving him.

“Do you know anyone who might be targeting us in Boston?” I asked the question without announcing my identity. He’d end the call as soon as he heard my name. Blindsiding him was my only shot at shocking a response out of him.

“You’re still alive.” The statement dripped with contempt. “I don’t know anything about what’s happening in Boston. I don’t know anything about you. My son is dead. He died four months ago. Whatever happens to you now is none of my concern.”

My fingers curled almost tight enough to crush the phone in my hand. “I was dead to you long before that. Don’t pretend you’ve ever been a father to me.”

“You’re right.” The whip cracked across my chest again. “My son died when he was eleven years old. Along with my wife, whom he killed. After he killed his baby brother. You are poison, Marco.”

“And you will burn in hell right alongside me, you sadistic bastard,” I hissed, a curse and a vow.

Three low beeps sounded in my ear. The fucker had ended the call.

I ran a hand through my hair, tugging hard enough to prickle my scalp with an edge of pain. My lungs burned, and my chest heaved as though I’d just sprinted a mile.

A moment before I smashed my phone on the ground in a burst of rage, it vibrated with a text alert.

Joseph: Did you go all the way to Belgium for those fucking waffles? Hurry up! Ashlyn isn’t the only one suffering here.

A picture of our girl filled my screen. Her curvy little body was bound to our bed, her breasts and inner thighs painted bright red from Joseph’s wicked games. A pink satin blindfold covered her lovely eyes, and her lush lips parted on a wordless cry. Joseph’s hand was visible in the shot, his fingers hooked through a delicate chain that connected the pretty silver clamps on her nipples.

The heat of my fury evolved into something possessive and hungry, and my need for Ashlyn was suddenly fire in my veins.

Another text: There. Now you have blue balls too. Get your ass home.

No teasing emojis. Joseph was done with lighthearted banter. The kind of play he craved now was dark and nearly as savage as the need that sank its claws into my insides. Suddenly, I was running, my long strides closing the distance between us. I passed the bay windows set into the orange brick frontage of our townhouse, and our front door appeared before me. As I slid my key into the embossed brass lock, I briefly caught my reflection in the double windows set into the dark, aged wood. The art deco-style geometric patterns that bisected the glass refracted the harsh angles of my face, making me appear almost as beastly as I was on the inside.

The door flew open, and I slammed it shut behind me, dimly noting the click of the lock sliding back into place, securing our home. I raced across the black and white tile floor in our front hall, and the twine handles of the paper bag containing our waffles dropped from my fingers. I didn’t have room in my brain to worry over my babygirl’s ruined dessert. Nothing mattered except getting to Ashlyn and Joseph.

I shrugged out of my leather jacket and bounded up the curved staircase, yanking my shirt over my head. I stripped as I raced past my framed drawings of Ashlyn, making my way to our bedroom. I tossed the clothes aside somewhere in the hall, toeing off my boots at the same time. When I finally reached my family, I was down to just my jeans, and the confining pressure against my dick added an edge of pain to my burning need for Ashlyn.