Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

Seeing Dante Gallo staring at me from the front of the crowd is one of the worst surprises of my life.

I almost don’t recognize him—at twenty-one, he was already the biggest man I’d ever met. Now he barely looks human. He’s grown at least another inch or two and filled out even more. Just muscle on top of muscle, straining against the bounds of a t-shirt that must be an XXXL.

His jaw has broadened, and he has a few lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes—not smile lines. It looks like he’s been squinting into the sun.

But the thing that transforms his face the most is his expression. He’s glaring at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. He looks like he wants to leap up on this stage and tear my head off my shoulders.

And honestly, I can’t blame him.

After I left Chicago, I thought about calling him a thousand times.

If I hadn’t been so sick . . .

If I hadn’t been so scared . . .

If I hadn’t been so depressed . . .

It’s hard to remember what my existence was like during those nine months of pregnancy.

All the color bleached out of the world. Everything looked like shades of pewter, steel, ash, and stone. I tried to watch movies I used to like, tried to listen to the songs I loved, and I just felt . . . nothing.

It was so hard just to drag myself across the little flat I was sharing with Serwa in Mayfair. So hard to go pee or get a glass of water. The idea of picking up the phone and dialing, trying to explain to Dante why I left . . . it was too much. I couldn’t do it.

And then after the baby was born, it got so much worse. I felt like my son was torn away from me, but also like he might be better off with Serwa. I felt so angry at my parents for the position they’d put me in, but also that I owed this to my sister—this one chance at happiness, the only chance she was likely to get.

I was so confused. And so alone.

I longed to reach out to Dante. I ached for him. But I knew he’d be furious with me. I hid the pregnancy from him. I made him miss the birth of his son.

And I was still terrified of what might happen if he knew. I wanted to keep Henry safe. I didn’t want him pulled into a world of violence and crime. I kept remembering the blood dripping from Dante’s hands, how terrifying and monstrous he’d looked that night in the park.

And I thought how angry he’d be if he found out what I’d done.

Seeing him now in Grant Park, he already looks like he wants to kill me. How much angrier will he be if he ever finds out the truth?

I can’t let that happen.

It was a mistake to come to Chicago. I finished my shoot for Balenciaga—I should leave, as soon as the rally is over.

That’s what I’m thinking when out of nowhere, Dante starts sprinting toward the stage.

I jump up from my seat, thinking he’s running right at me.

Instead, he grabs some kind of big, circular, curved mirror, and angles it across the field. While he’s doing that, he bellows, “GET DOWN!”

I don’t understand what’s happening, but instinctively I crouch down, and so does everybody else. Everyone except my father. He seems frozen in place, just as shocked as I am.

I see the sun flare off Dante’s mirror, and then I hear a sharp whistling sound. A dent appears in the stage floor, like a tiny meteorite just came hurtling down from the sky.

My brain says, Bullet. That was a bullet.

Everyone starts screaming and running.

Callum Griffin grabs his pregnant wife and drags her away. Callum’s face is pale as chalk. They were sitting right behind where the bullet hit. A couple feet higher, and it might have hit his wife right in the belly.

I don’t run—not off the stage, anyway. I run over to Tata, because I realize that bullet was meant for him and there might be more coming. I grab his arm and I yank as hard as I can, pulling him away from the podium.

For once my father doesn’t seem in control of the situation. He seems confused and frightened. So am I, but apparently just a little bit less than him. I drag him off the stage so we can crouch down behind it.

The problem is that I have no idea which direction the shooting is coming from. So I pull my father as far underneath the stage as I can, hoping that will protect us.

A moment later, Dante’s huge frame drops down beside us with a thud.

He says, “Are you two alright?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

It’s the first words we’ve spoken to each other in almost ten years.

“Who was that?” I ask my father.

I can’t understand who would want to kill him.

“Who knows,” Tata says, shaking his head. He looks bewildered and dazed.

Security guards are closing in around us. I feel paranoid and edgy—how do we know some of these men weren’t in on it, whatever it is?

Strange as it seems, I’m grateful that Dante is next to us. Whatever our history might be, I saw him save my father from that bullet. I think he’d do it again, if one of these men tried to shoot us.

The police hustle us off to a SWAT van at the edge of the parking lot. They ask us dozens of questions, most of which we can’t answer.

I don’t see Dante—I think he went back toward the stage. Or maybe he left.

I’m shaking uncontrollably. The cops put a blanket around my shoulders and give me a glass of water to drink. Every time I try to lift the cup to my lips, ice water sloshes over the rim and douses my hands.

I finally manage to take a drink, right when a gorgeous redheaded woman comes pushing her way through the police cordon.

One of the security guards tries to stop her—“Just a minute, ma’am!”

“It’s alright,” Dante says, raising a hand.

He’s come back from the stage. He’s holding something in his hand.

The redhead throws her arms around him and gives him a hug.

“Oh my god, Dante!” she cries. “I know I asked you to keep a lookout, but I really wasn’t expecting this . . .”

Dante hugs her back, like he knows her well.

I feel a deep and ugly stab of jealousy.

I know I have no right. But this woman is just so beautiful . . .

If she wasn’t so tall. Or so well-dressed. If her hair wasn’t such a vibrant shade of red . . . maybe I could have swallowed it down. But the sight of Dante’s huge hands around her little waist was just too much to bear.

Dante lets go of her, turning to one of the police officers instead.

“This is the bullet,” he says, dropping the twisted metal into the officer’s palm.

“You touched it?” The officer says.

“You’re not gonna get any prints off it,” Dante grunts. “Look at the state of it. Not to mention there wouldn’t be any in the first place. This shooter’s a professional. Just the distance alone . . . Only a dozen people in the world could make that shot.”

“How would you know?” the cop says suspiciously.

“Because he was a sniper himself,” the redhead snaps. “And a damn good one, so you should listen to what he says. And thank him for his service, while you’re at it.”

“Right,” the cop mumbles. “Of course.”

Dante was a sniper?

He was in the military?

I never knew what he was doing all those years. I tried to look him up once or twice, but he didn’t have any social media, or any news articles about him. None that I found, anyway.

This woman obviously knows Dante better than I do. And she’s quick to defend him.

I shiver miserably inside my blanket. She must be his girlfriend. I look at her left hand—I can’t help myself. No ring. Not yet, at least.

It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Dante isn’t mine anymore—he only was for a brief moment in time. He’s allowed to have a girlfriend, or even a wife. I have no right to be jealous.

And yet, if auras were visible, mine would be poison green. As bright green as the other girl’s eyes.

“That’s a handmade bullet,” Dante says to the cop. “Bronze alloy. You’re not gonna be able to trace the source, let alone get some nice juicy thumbprint. Your best bet is to find the window he shot from and see if he left anything in the room. He probably cleared out in a hurry.”

“What building was he in?” the cop asks.

“That one,” Dante points to a tall high-rise with a white facade. It could be a hotel, though it’s hard to tell from this distance. “I think he was five floors up, on the southeast corner.”

The cop is writing it all down in his notebook.

A big, burly man with a beard comes over and claps Dante on the shoulder, shaking his head.

“Fucking hell, man. I thought you were just being paranoid.” He looks over at my father. “Somebody wanted you dead, my friend.”

Tata doesn’t have any blanket around him. He’s sitting up straight and calm, having recovered from the shock a lot faster than I did.

“Apparently so,” he says. He gives a respectful nod to Dante. “You saved my life.”

Dante shrugs his huge shoulders, a surly expression on his face.

“Maybe,” he says. “He might have missed either way.”

“I doubt it,” Tata says. “Dante Gallo, isn’t it?”

He holds out his hand to shake.

Dante looks at my father’s hand with an expression of distaste, as if he’d rather not take it. I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate my father’s tone—as if when they met before, it was just at a cocktail party. Tata’s acting like they’re casual acquaintances. Like there’s no bad blood between us.

He’s certainly not offering any kind of apology. And he never will. I know my father well enough to know that.

Dante saving his life means nothing. My father’s grateful, but it won’t change his opinion on anything.

Not that it matters at this late date.

I’m thinking Dante won’t shake hands, but my father keeps his extended, with calm persistence, and at last Dante gives it a quick grip, then drops it again.

“Will you be coming to the fundraiser tonight?” Tata asks.

“Are you still planning on attending?” the redhead says, in a surprised tone.

“Of course,” my father says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, your would-be shooter is still roaming around, for one thing,” she says. She’s watching my father with her cool green eyes, examining him closely. She looks intelligent, and almost predatory. Not someone to be trifled with.

“I’m sure they’ll have plenty of security at the event,” my father says. “I’ll feel quite safe—especially if Dante is there. Will you attend? I’d like to thank you publicly.”

I see the muscles flexing along Dante’s broad jaw. He opens his mouth to respond, and I’m pretty sure from the shape of his lips he’s about to say, “No.” But the redhead interrupts him.

“He’ll be there,” she says smoothly. Then she turns those keen green eyes on me. It’s so abrupt that I almost jump. She looks me over head-to-toe in a glance. I’m certain she recognizes me.

“I’m Riona Griffin,” she says, holding out her hand to me.

I shake it. Her fingers are cool, dry, and soft. She has a fresh French manicure and a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Simone Solomon.”

I wish my voice were as confident and professional as hers. Instead, it comes out in a little squeak, still shaky with nerves.

“I know.” She smiles. “You’re very famous.”

I don’t know how to reply. I’d like to know who she is, what she does, and how she knows Dante. But there’s no way to ask those questions with any grace.

All I can do is sit there stupidly while she turns back to Dante.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I wanna follow that officer up to the perch,” Dante says. Seeing that none of us understand, he clarifies. “The place where the shooter was situated.”

“Are you on the case, inspector?” Riona says in a teasing tone.

“I am curious,” Dante admits.

My father looks less curious, despite the fact that he was the person being shot at. He’s already scrolling through his phone, checking for news reports of the failed assassination attempt.

“I’ll come with you,” Riona says. She looks back at me. “Nice to meet you, Simone.”

“Nice to meet you,” I echo.

Dante doesn’t say anything at all. He walks away from me without a word—without even a glance in my direction.

I watch his broad back stalking away.

When I turn around again, my father is watching me. He looks at me with his dark eyes, as if daring me to say something.

I keep my mouth firmly shut. I have no interest in hearing what my father has to say about Dante, for good or for bad. If his opinion hasn’t changed, then I don’t want to hear it. And if it has—well, it’s too late for that. It can’t do me any good now.

So I sit in silence, while my father goes back to scrolling through his news feed.