Page 97 of Twisted Vows

Vincent Martinelli, in flesh and blood.

As my pulse spikes, the room narrows around him. I thought I’d buried this fucker along with everything else he stole from me, but here he is again, memory carved into bone. Older now. A little thinner. His suit hangs looser on him, but he exudes arrogance just as much as he always did.

Hatred for the man rises inside me. I’ve always kept emotions clean with targets, but this one’s personal. I can barely look at him without seeing every pain he’s caused Sophia.

A slow smile, smug and knowing, pulls at his mouth. “Enzo Ricci. The obedient dog finally breaks off the leash to find me.”

My blood runs cold and hot at the same time as sharp and blinding rage floods through me.

The gun’s in my hand before my thoughts catch up. “Walk.”

He doesn’t. Just tilts his head, that same icy gleam he used to reserve for signing other men’s death warrants in his eyes. “You think I didn’t know you were coming?”

The hairs on my neck stand up. Every instinct screams.

Doors creak and shadows move as three men form a triangle around me. The youngest of them has both a revolver and a baseball bat. The other two are holding shotguns. They’ve got no obvious insignias, just plain shirts, but their coordinated actions prove these men are well-trained.

My pulse hammers as I calculate angles and distances. No way I drop all three before one of them shoots me. They’re too spread out.

As if he can sense my thoughts, Vincent’s smile widens. He knew this would happen.

It finally dawns on me that this is a trap.

I’ve been perfectly baited. They knew I’d come, that I’d be alone, and exactly what I’d do with the trail of breadcrumbs they’d left me.

Motherfucker!

“A wise man should know when he’s beat.” I put my gun down.

Vincent’s eyes widen in surprise. He probably expects me to go all guns blazing even though I’m outnumbered and at a disadvantage.

“Cuff him,” he barks.

I go still, listening as the boots scraping the floor draw closer.

I wait until the sound is close enough, then I lunge.

The first man drops as I drive the knife from my waistband into his thigh. His scream tears through the shop. When the second man charges, I yank his bleeding partner upright between us to use as a human shield. That strategy buys me two seconds. Taking advantage of the slight pause, I drop the stabbed man, step in before he can retrain his gun on me and slam an elbow to his throat. His momentum collapses into choking shock.

The third is faster. He’s already guessed my move. The bat cracks against the back of my head, and blinding light explodes in my skull.

The world folds in.

Darkness engulfs me as I taste blood on my own lips and crash to the floor.

When light seeps back in, I find myself in a bare room, the kind rented for disappearing people. Concrete walls. The smell of bleach. Wrists bound tight with wire. Pain sings in my ribs like an old hymn.

Vincent’s man—the one that knocked me out—dumps a bucket of water over me. “Names. Where are the others who came with you?”

I say nothing as he grits his teeth and drives a fist into my ribs. Stars burst as I double over, holding the pain in. He asks another question I can’t make out and hits me again before I can respond.

I count the seconds between blows, measure the rhythm, and wait for weakness. There’s always a pattern.

My interrogator’s young and eager, his forearms covered in tattoos. He’s the man I elbowed. The stabbed one hovers beside him, pressing a towel to his wound. The third—the one who knocked me out—watches from the corner. He oversees everything in a way that shows me he must be the one with real authority. Always one quiet wolf among the jackals.

Vincent, polished and untouched in a black leather trench coat and Chelsea boots, finally pops in for the show with a drink in hand. He sits across from me as if we’re at dinner.

“You didn’t need to stay loyal to that family, ragazzo. You could’ve been an ally. We could’ve built something.”