I stalk through the mess the feds turned my club into. My men are already working to clean it up, but it still reeks of disrespect.
Each step towards the stairs only fuels the rage bubbling in my gut. Enzo trails behind me without a word, smart enough to let the silence speak for itself.
Once we’re upstairs, I push into my office. One look at the chaos inside—the drawers yanked open, the files scattered, the chairs overturned—and I finally snap. “I want to fucking kill Emilia.”
“About goddamn time,” he murmurs under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. I level a glare at him, and he quickly raises his hands. “You’ve been too easy on her, is what I’m saying. You’re Rafael fucking Moretti, the man every man fears, and you’ve let that girl get away with so much.”
My hands form fists by my sides, but I hold my tongue, waiting to hear the rest. Clearly, he’s been dying to get this off his chest.
“I get that you two have a deep, intense history, but you can’t keep letting it fuck with your head. Giovanni didn’t get the chance to pull half the shit she’s pulled before he lost his life to you. And yet you let her reel you in every damn time. She’s got you by the balls, man—you go soft for her.”
I whirl on him, wrapping my hand around his throat with a growl. “Do I fuckinglooksoft to you?” My thumb jams into his Adam's apple, and he gags, his eyes watering as he fights to breathe.
“You’re like a tiger whose claws have been shaved off when it comes to her,” he chokes out, because of course the bastard can’t shut up.
My jaw clenches so tight I taste blood—but even that sharp tang doesn’t cool my rage. Not loosening my grip, I slam hisback against the nearest wall. “The fuck did you just say to me?”
His face is turning purple from lack of oxygen, but he doesn’t even try to fight me off. Doesn’t beg. Just tilts his neck higher into my grip, looking as defiant as a choking man can with bloodshot eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks.
The office door creaks open, and I twist my glare on the idiot peeking in. He lets out a squeak that sounds like a dying rabbit, then slams the door shut so fast it rattles the frame.
I turn back to Enzo, sneering. “Oh, don’t hold back now,fratello. You were feeling real bold a minute ago. What—cat got your tongue?”
Still nothing.
“That’s what I fucking thought.” I release him with disgust, and he crumbles to the floor, coughing and gasping as he tries to gulp in air as fast as he can.
“Just–just be careful,” the asshole rasps between breaths, rubbing his throat. “I’ve noticed because I’m so close to you. Take care that others don’t see your weakness.”
Weakness? “Rafael Moretti has no fucking weakness,” I snarl at him, even as her face flashes in my mind—those honeyed eyes, that sharp mouth.Fuck me, he’s right. I do have a weakness. “Get the hell out of my office.” I round my desk, ignoring the mess the agents left on it.
How the fuck did they even gain access to my office? It’s fucking high-tech, secured better than some government facilities.
As I sink into my seat, Enzo pushes himself off the floor, rolling his neck with a wince as he heads for the door—though not before throwing one last glance my way.
Damn him. I’m no clawless tiger.
I tap my finger on an innocuous panel in the center of my desk. A flash of green light signals my print approval, and the panel slides to the right, exposing the little hiding spot there.With another flick of my finger, a small platform rises from the hollow space, bringing my laptop with it.
Just as I boot it up, my phone starts ringing. It’s Michael.
“Are you and Gianna safely home now?” I ask, skipping pleasantries. Gianna and I didn’t exactly start off on the right foot, but now she’s carrying precious cargo—Michael’s babies and heirs. The first children in the family.
“Yes, she’s fine,” he replies absently, the clacking of his keyboard faint in the background. “I have Maximo and Romero on the line too. You’ll all want to hear this.”
“Take us out of our misery already, Michael. What did you find?” Romero’s gruff voice cuts in.
“Andrew Hoovers died two days ago, and an acting director has already been appointed. A Stacey Rodrigues took over in the early hours of this morning. It was all kept under wraps, so I couldn’t find out until tonight.”
Andrew Hoovers is dead? What the fuck? The man was vibrant, in his prime—only 42. Just got appointed director of the FBI two weeks ago after the last one retired. And now he’s gone?
Something doesn’t add up.
“This might be the shortest stint as director the FBI has seen.” Maximo snorts. No love lost there. The agency’s always been a pain in the ass, even though we’ve maintained a quiet understanding with them over the years. They look the other way when we do our thing, and in return, we slip them intel on some of the notorious criminals on their most wanted list. Nobody important, just those that hurt the most vulnerable. Scum that deserve to die behind bars.
“Do we know how he died?” Romero asks the question rattling in my head. No way this was natural.
“No, not yet,” Michael answers. “Like I said, it’s all been kept hush hush. It was a bitch to even get this much, but hey, I’m Michael Hart.” He adds that last bit with a smug edge, and Idon’t bother hiding the flicker of amusement. Prideful bastard. But rightfully so. I only know one other person with the same wealth of intel as Michael, and I’ve never even met them in person.
