looked at her daughter’s face. “No.” She saw the instant relief and her heart broke. “Did Daddy hurt you?”
The child shook her head, her lower lip pushed out again. “He yelled and made me cry.”
Jenna hugged her. “Well, he won’t make you cry again.” She stepped to the door of her daughter’s bedroom and started to open it.
“Fred!” Lexi cried. “I can’t leave Fred.”
Jenna groaned inwardly. She’d never been a big fan of cats. Lorenzo had bought the kitten for Lexi, knowing Jenna wasn’t allowed to have a cat in the apartment where she’d been living with Lexi since the divorce.
“Alexandria will have to come over to the house to see her cat,” Lorenzo had said.
Which meant Jenna would have to come as well, since Lorenzo only had supervised visitation. He’d gotten the cat to force Jenna back to the estate—a place she had grown to abhor.
Now she stepped back into the room and, with her free hand, picked up Fred from the bed. He complained loudly as she hooked him into the crook of her arm.
She waited until he settled down before she opened the bedroom door and glanced down the hall. Empty. She could still hear the classical music.
She crept along the back hall, then down the stairs. She was almost to the back door when she heard an approaching car coming up the service road. Was it possible Lorenzo had called for a delivery this late at night?
Moving to the window, Jenna peered out as headlights flashed. The whine of an engine rose, then died as the car pulled in directly behind hers.
No! Whoever it was had blocked her car in.
The police? Or some private patrol?
But as she peered through the blinds, she saw that it was one of Lorenzo’s “associates” who climbed out.
Franco Benito. He looked toward the house, making her step back and let the blind knock against the window frame.
She moved quickly down the hallway, stepping into the laundry room and partially closing the door. Motioning to Lexi to be quiet, she held both her daughter and the cat as the back door opened. Franco closed the door a little more forcefully than usual. She pressed herself and Lexi against the wall as the man stormed past. She caught only a glimpse of him, but he looked angry. Probably because Lorenzo had made him come to the service entry. Why had he done that?
She breathed a sigh of relief as Franco’s heavy footfalls fell silent.
How was she going to get away now, though? He’d blocked her in. And what if he mentioned her car to Lorenzo? Lorenzo would know she was in the house—and he would know exactly what she’d come for.
LORENZO DANTE FINISHED his drink and poured himself another as he tried to calm down. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, checking it against his watch.
Nine fifty-seven. Franco was twenty-seven minutes late. He hated people who weren’t punctual. People who made him wait.
He gripped the glass, anger seething inside him as he looked around the country estate, reminded of all he had accomplished—and how little respect he’d garnered. He deserved to be treated better than this. Because Franco was taking his place in the organization, did he think he didn’t have to treat him with respect? The glass shattered as he crushed it in his hand. Blood ran down his wrist and dripped to the floor.
Lorenzo stared at it in surprise, having forgotten he was even holding a glass. Opening his hand, he let the pieces tinkle to the Spanish tiles.
Two shards were stuck in his palm. With a kind of distracted fascination, he plucked them out, dropping them to the floor as he watched fresh blood run from the cuts down his wrist.
He turned at the sound of footfalls behind him. “You’re late.”
Franco Benito stopped in the middle of the floor, clearly startled by the sight of the blood and the broken wineglass.
Lorenzo smiled as he stepped to the bar and leisurely wrapped a wet cloth around his hand, all the time keeping his gaze on Franco, considering the best way to teach the two-bit thug respect for his betters—and the value of being on time.
“I’d take a drink if you haven’t broken all the glasses,” Franco said, clearly irritated himself.
Lorenzo smiled at the idiot’s attempt at humor. Franco hadn’t liked being ordered to come through the service entry. Too bad.
Without being offered a drink, Franco stepped to the bar beside Lorenzo. Franco was a good-looking guy, not really big, but strong. His one great flaw was that, because he was taking Lorenzo’s place in the organization, he thought Lorenzo was powerless against him.
Franco was so clueless. He reached behind the bar and wrapped his thick fingers around the neck of an expensive bottle of bourbon. Taking a glass—the wrong kind for bourbon—he sloshed some of the amber liquid into the expensive crystal with arrogant abandon, spilling enough fine liquor on the bar to make Lorenzo wince.
Franco turned to face him, raising his glass in a mock salute. After drinking it down, he sighed and smacked his lips, smiling at Lorenzo, almost daring him to comment as he reached for the bottle to pour himself another. After tonight, Lorenzo wouldn’t have any power in the organization. And Franco would.
But the night wasn’t over.
Lorenzo grabbed the back of Franco’s neck and slammed his face down on the bar, into the spilled booze. He heard the thug’s nose break like a twig even over the howl of pain.
“Shut up. You’ll wake my daughter,” Lorenzo snapped as blood poured from Franco’s nose, a stream of bright red.
Franco staggered as he let go of the bourbon bottle and fumbled for his weapon.
Lorenzo could feel himself losing control, and tried to pull back as he snatched the bourbon bottle off the bar and brought it down sharply, dropping the thug to his knees. It would have been so easy to finish him right there and then.
Franco had his gun in his hand, trying to find the trigger through the blood pouring down his face. With a swiftness born of survival in the dog-eat-dog, violent world Lorenzo lived in, he reached behind the bar and came up with the sawed-off shotgun.
Jamming the end of the barrel against Franco’s temple, he brushed his finger lightly over the double triggers as he met the man’s gaze. It was all Lorenzo could do to restrain himself. If he didn’t, he would definitely waken Alexandria.
Franco glared at him, clearly caught between an irrational desire for retribution and the need to stay alive.
Lorenzo watched the ignorant thug weigh his options, and smiled to himself when Franco slowly dropped his gun to the floor.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded as Lorenzo lowered the shotgun. The thug plopped into a sitting position and leaned back against the bar to cup his hand over his broken nose. “Are you crazy?”
Lorenzo put the shotgun back behind the bar and poured himself another drink, glad he hadn’t pulled the trigger. It wouldn’t have just awakened his daughter, who
