Inked By The Mafia Man

But if he thinks I’m going to hurt her, make her suffer – like he clearly wants to do – then perhaps there’s a chance.

And if not?

I close my eyes, the sunlight blazing blood-red against my eyelids.

I can’t think about what happens if he says no.

There can’t be a war.

But I can’t let him have her, either.

For the first time in a long time, my stomach twists with nerves, my body buzzing with anxiety.

I’m going to have to lie to say things I don’t believe with a single piece of me.

I’d die before I hurt this woman.

My entire existence has become keeping her safe, keeping our future children safe, making sure she’s as free as the tattooed bird on her ankle.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Lena

“Where are we going?” I ask.

My aunt scowls at me from the other side of the car. It’s like she wants to sit as far away from me as possible, her body pressed right up against the glass.

“I don’t know,” she snaps. “Stop asking the same questions over and over. Don’t you know how boring it gets? I have no more information than you.”

I turn to the window, watching the city go by as I stroke my hand up and down Jackson’s fur. He growls softly from the base of his throat as the car picks up speed, leaving the residential areas and heading toward the docks.

He doesn’t like car rides. But they ordered me to bring him.

The driver is one of Conor’s men, a hard-faced guard who has never shown me any kindness. None of the men have, though, at times, I’ve sensed they feel bad about what they’re doing, or maybe like they think they should be handling more important business.

My aunt woke me up this morning – sleep finally took me in the end – and told me I had to go with her.

Now I have no clue what’s happening since I’m not supposed to be at the hotel until this evening.

My chest clamps like there’s a tight fist inside my rib cage.

The wedding is tomorrow.

Has Luca made his offer yet? Is he even going to?

The driver guides the car to the end of the docks to a big warehouse that looks abandoned. There are no cars parked outside and a few of the windows glint with shattered glass.

“Go inside,” the driver says. “Somebody will show you where to stand.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

The man looks at me sharply in the rearview mirror. He’s got a shock of red hair, his features twisted into a grimace. “Go inside. Somebody will show you where to stand.”

“Not until you tell me –.”

The man raises his hand, casually flashing his gun. “Go inside…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pretending the gun doesn’t frighten me.

But truthfully, there’s a chord of tension inside of me, plucking repeatedly.

What if the gun went off and hit Jackson? What then?

When I reach for the door handle, the man tuts.

“The dog stays. Give it to your aunt.”

“Him,” I correct reflexively. “Not it.”

I look down at Jackson’s innocent face. He’s staring up at me with his wide eyes, with that quirk to his doggie lips that tells me he’d never hurt a soul.

“I can’t leave him here if I don’t know what I’m even doing.”

“You can. You will. You need to hurry up. If Mr. Dunne arrives before you’re in place….”

Aunt Gianna huffs. “He can’t lay a hand on her until after the wedding. That’s the deal.”

Despite knowing how my aunt views me, her words sting. It makes me long for the day when I have somebody who truly loves me, who wants me for me, not for what money I can bring them.

“That’s true,” the man says, nodding. “But he didn’t make any promises about the mutt.”

“Just do what he says,” Aunt Gianna hisses. “For Jackson.”

I lean down and let him lick my face, tickling him behind the ear. “I’m going to be right back, okay? I won’t be long.”

Handing him to my aunt, I step from the car, looking up at the warehouse. With all the metal and the shattered windows, it looks like some kind of beast, baring its gnarled teeth like it’s going to swallow me up.

I walk toward it, taking a breath, no clue what’s waiting for me.

Guards lead me up two flights of stairs to a room that overlooks the main floor of the warehouse. The lights are bright in the warehouse, but dark in here, so that anybody down there wouldn’t be able to see me.

There’s a small table laid out, with four chairs, two on either side on the main floor.

I wait for a long time, wringing my hands, my pulse throbbing. I can’t even look down at my tattoo for comfort since my aunt forced me to wear clothes that covered it.

But I can feel it stinging against my leg, scorching my skin with its freshness.