Page 38 of A Bride for the Mafia King

Yaro shrugs.

“Maybe she thought it was easier to keep it to herself. Or maybe she didn’t want you to know.”

I close the folder slowly, heart pounding.

“She’s not part of his crew,” I say quietly. “He was circling her.”

Yaro nods. I close the folder slowly. My hand trembles. The pictures blur. Not from motion, my vision’s just gone red.

Eva. My Eva. Pursued. Hunted. Harassed. By him. For years. And Nico did nothing.

A low sound builds in my throat, a growl, something primal and feral. I push back from the desk so violently the chair topples behind me, crashing to the floor.

My pulse thunders in my ears. And then I snap. Yaro must have seen it written on my face because he jumps out of his own chair and lunges to the corner of the room, out of my path of destruction.

I grab the edge of the desk and flip it, wood and metal groaning as papers, pens, and glass fly. A heavy crystal decanter smashes against the wall, amber liquid bleeding down like a dying thing. Picture frames fracture. The carpet is littered with debris.

I let out a snarl. A real one. The kind I haven’t heard from myself since my father died.

I should have known. I should have seen. No wonder Nico offered her up in marriage. He had to have known.

How long had she been enduring that bastard’s attention? How many times had she flinched and smiled through it—because that’s what women like her are taught to do? Because no one fucking stopped it.

“Damn it!” I growl, fists clenched tight, muscles coiling with fury. The rage is a storm breaking loose, fury at the Don, at the danger Eva’s been in without my knowing.

“Prep the team. We go in with the Italians tonight. That bastard dies by my hand.” I meet his gaze, voice low and steady.

He nods, something akin to respect shining in his eyes.

I wipe the blood from my hand on my shirt and snatch my phone off the floor where it landed.

Nico answers on the first ring.

“I’m done waiting,” I rasp. “This is now a joint operation. We move tonight. When the shipment hits the warehouse, we cut the head off this snake. No more games. No more diplomacy. I want bodies in the water by dawn.”

A beat passes. “Tolya⁠—”

“I let you go. Do what you have to. Get the proof if you still need it. But this ends tonight.”

I close my eyes. Breathe. But it does nothing to stop the dark tide rising inside me.

“And Nico?” I add, voice low. Vicious.

He’s quiet. Waiting.

I press the phone tighter to my ear. My lips barely move.

“He’s mine.”

The back wing of the penthouse, once a reading lounge, now repurposed into our private armory, is dim, lit only by the overhead fluorescents reflecting off cold metal. The walls lined with locked cabinets and mounted racks, every weapon in its place. Rifles, pistols, knives. Tactical gear. Enough firepower to reduce a building to rubble if necessary.

I methodically check the action on my SIG, sliding it back into the holster at my hip. Yaro stands a few feet away, already geared up. Beside him the other four members of our elite team do the same. His expression is unreadable as he secures the final strap on his vest and fits a blade to his ankle sheath.

We don’t talk. There is nothing more to say today. We’re going into hell tonight and we may not all make it back.

“Ready?” Yaro finally asks, his voice low, taut.

“Let’s move.” I nod.