Page 26 of His Savage Vow
And the real thing wrecked me, because now I know I want more as I take a seat in the chair behind his desk and wait for him to return.
10
Maximo
By the timewe reach the safe house, Pellegrini is already bleeding.
One of Enzo’s men got jumpy during the grab and split his eyebrow with the butt of a rifle. The blood is drying in a sticky trail down his temple, but he doesn’t complain. He knows better.
I stand at the edge of the room, watching him breathe heavily. “Tie him up,” I order.
Enzo gives a nod. Two of the men pull Pellegrini into a chair and zip-tie his wrists to the arms, ankles to the legs. He doesn’t resist. He just keeps his head down, breathing slowly, as if he’s bracing himself for something more than pain.
Smart man.
Because what I want isn’t just answers. Certainly, finding out who ordered Monroe’s death is mypriority.
But deep down, beneath the control and the planning and the need for precision, I want something else, too.
I want to make this personal. I knew rationally that burning down Monroe’s restaurant had probably just been business. Hell, arson and murder are just tools of my trade.
But for Constance, this is deeply personal. I think when our lips met some of her fire must have leaked into my blood, because I haven’t felt this volatile in years.
Constance kissed me like she meant it. Now, her voice is still inside my head. Her pain and strength after all she’s been through has become my anchor, my focal point, and I can’t lose that now.
I step forward, slowly and deliberately. Pellegrini lifts his eyes. They’re bloodshot, frantic. He opens his mouth to speak.
I don’t give him the chance. Not yet.
The first swing of my fist slams across his cheek. I want to break something because of his betrayal, hell, for him interrupting my first kiss with Constance.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I explain to him calmly. “You’ll answer fast. You’ll answer honestly. If I think you’re lying, we’ll try again. But it will hurt more each time.”
He nods, jaw clenched tight. Blood wells in the corner of his mouth.
“Who paid you to stand down the night Monroe was killed?”
“I don’t know his name,” Pellegrini rasps. “He called me on a burner phone. He said if I kept the patrols thin and left the alley clear, I’d be paid.”
“How much?” I demand.
“Fifty grand.”
“Who delivered the money?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It was cash dropped off in my mailbox in a plain envelope. Noreturn address.”
“You think I care about your fucking mailbox?” Another hit. This time, a punch to his temple. He cries out, then coughs. If Constance could see me now, she’d remember exactly why she hates me.
“Start giving me something useful,” I instruct him.
“It was a Bratva hit,” he spits. “I was contacted by one of their men who said Monroe had cut a deal behind your back with the Chinese.” He’s fucking lying but I let him keep running his mouth. “Monroe was going to let them use his restaurant the same way you did, as a waystation for distribution. The Bratva said that if I looked the other way while they raided the restaurant and intercepted the Chinese shipment, I would get paid. They were supposed to get proof to show you during the raid; I thought I was doing you a favor by exposing the two-timing bastard!”
I freeze as I carefully consider his convoluted tale. It makes a twisted kind of sense. In our world we’re constantly looking out for betrayals and double-dealings. But this shit isn’t adding up.
Robert Monroe was too loyal and too meek to go behind my back. He never would’ve put his daughter in that much danger.
“Which Bratva crew?” I ask. I recently helped Dominik and Gavriil Morozov out of a tough spot, so I know it can’t be them.
