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

I’m eating breakfast with my parents in their room. We got adjoining suites, so it’s easy enough to go through the door between them while still wearing my pajamas and sit down at the table filled with room-service trays.

Mama always orders too much food. She hates the idea that anybody might go hungry, even though she eats like a bird herself. She’s got platters of fresh fruit, bacon, eggs, ham, and pastries, as well as coffee, tea, and orange juice.

“I’ve got a plate of waffles here for Henry, too,” she tells me as I sit down.

“He’s still sleeping.”

After the fundraiser, Henry and I cuddled up and watched a movie until way too late at night. I was stressed and upset from my dance with Dante. The only thing that calmed me down was the feeling of my son’s head laying on my shoulder, and his peaceful, slow breathing after he fell asleep.

“What were you watching?” Mama asks me. “I heard explosions.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I should have turned it down.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Mama shakes her head. “Your father wears earplugs, and I was awake reading anyway.”

“It was Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse,” I tell her. “That’s Henry’s favorite movie.”

I love it too, actually. Miles Morales reminds me of Henry—smart, kind-hearted, determined. Sometimes messing up, but always trying again.

Who would I be in the movie?

Peter B. Parker, I guess. Fucked up his own life but can still be a good mentor at least.

That’s what I’m hanging onto. I’ve made so many mistakes, but I’ll do whatever I can to give Henry a good life. I want to give him the world, and the freedom to find his way in it.

“How did you sleep, Tata?” I ask my father.

“Well,” he says, drinking his coffee. “You know I can sleep anywhere.”

My father seems to accomplish things by pure force of will. He would never allow something as mundane as a lumpy mattress or street noise to keep him awake.

“What should we do with Henry today?” Mama says.

“Oh . . .” I hesitate. I was planning to leave Chicago today. I have another job booked in New York next week—I thought I’d take Henry there early, go see a few Broadway shows together.

“You’re not leaving already, are you?” Mama asks plaintively. “We barely got to see you.”

“You don’t have another job until next week,” my father says. “What’s the rush?”

I hate when he contacts my assistant. I’m going to tell her not to give him my schedule anymore.

“I guess I could stay another day or two,” I admit.

Right then, there’s a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Mama says.

“Probably Carly,” I tell her. Carly’s room is down the hall. We all slept late, past the time when she usually starts Henry’s schoolwork.

My father is already striding over to open the door. Instead of Carly’s petite frame, I’m shocked to see Dante’s broad shoulders filling the doorway instead.

“Good morning,” he says politely.

“Good morning. Come in,” my father says at once.

Dante steps inside. His eyes find mine, and my hand clenches tight around my coffee mug. I wish I had combed my hair and washed my face. And I wish I weren’t wearing pajamas with little pineapples all over them.

“Come join us for breakfast,” Mama says.

“I already ate,” Dante replies gruffly. Then, to smooth the rejection, he says, “Thank you, though.”

“Have some coffee at least,” Tata says.

“Alright.”

Mama pours him a mug. Before she can add any sugar, I say, “Just cream.”

Dante’s eyes flash over to me again, maybe surprised that I remembered how he likes his coffee.

Screwing up my courage, I pick up the mug and hand it to him. His thick fingers brush over the back of my hand as he takes it. I can feel that brief touch lingering on my skin.

“Thank you,” Dante says. He’s saying it to me, looking in my eyes. It’s the first time he’s looked at me without anger on his face. He’s still not friendly, but it’s an improvement.

“So, what can we do for you, Dante?” my father asks.

Dante is still standing. He looks awkwardly around for somewhere to set down his mug, settling for the windowsill.

“I want to know who shot at you yesterday,” he says bluntly.

“I’d like to know as well,” Tata replies.

“Do you have any ideas?”

“I’m afraid I’ve made a lot of enemies with this new coalition. You would think this would be a topic that anyone could agree upon, but in fact, it’s ruffled the feathers of a lot of important people. We’ve called for extreme sanctions against countries like Saudi Arabia, who have permitted de facto slavery within their borders.”

“Is that where the death threats came from?” Dante asks. “Saudi Arabia?”

“Some,” Tata says. “Some from Russia, China, Iran, Belarus, and Venezuela too. We’ve pushed to have these countries downgraded to Tier 3 status by the Department of State—meaning that they’re considered countries that do not comply with the minimum standards of human rights in regard to trafficking.”

Dante frowns, thinking. “What about domestic threats?” he asks.

“We’ve made plenty of enemies in America, too,” Tata admits. “We’re pushing for aggressive prosecution and harsher sentencing for people who facilitate sex trafficking on and off of American soil. For instance, American citizens who charter private jets and offshore boats for such purposes. I’m sure you’re familiar with the spate of accusations against politicians and celebrities who have attended those sorts of . . . parties.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Dante grunts. “Anyone in particular who might blame you for those accusations?”

“Maybe one person,” Tata says. “But he got off scot-free, so I don’t think he has much motivation for revenge.”

“Who?” Dante says.

“His name is Roland Kenwood. He’s a publisher. Heavily involved in politics, too. Wealthy as sin, of course. Which is why the case never went anywhere.”

“Where does he live?” I ask.

“Here in Chicago,” Dante interjects. “I know who he is.”

“Yes, I’m sure Callum Griffin has crossed paths with him,” Tata says.

“You think he’d risk hiring someone to kill you, right in his own backyard?” I say.

My father shrugs. “The mental machinations of a man who would hire fifteen-year-old girls for his parties is beyond me. Maybe he wanted to watch it go down. Or maybe it wasn’t him at all. I’m not a detective, just a diplomat.”

Dante nods slowly. He seems to think that’s a good lead.

The door between the two suites opens. Henry comes stumbling through, sleepy-eyed, with his hair a wild tangle of curls all around his head, and his striped pajama top misbuttoned so that one side hangs down lower than the other.

I freeze up at the sight of him. As I see Dante looking right at his son, I can’t even breathe.

I wonder if Dante realizes how silent the room just became. Henry doesn’t seem to notice. He gives Dante one quick, curious look, then heads straight for the breakfast table.

“Any pancakes?”

“Yes,” Mama says hastily. “I mean, there’s waffles . . .”

She pulls the lid off the tray.

I’m still watching Dante, my heart in my throat.

Is there a flicker of suspicion in his dark eyes? Or does he just see a boy like any other?

“I’ll let you get back to your food,” Dante says to us all.

He heads for the door.

I jump up and hurry after him, waiting until he’s out in the hallway to say, “One moment!”

Dante stops, turning around slowly.

“I want to come with you,” I say.

“Where?”

“To talk to this Kenwood person. I know you’re going to see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“If he’s trying to kill my father, I want to help stop him. You’re not always going to be there to block any bullets headed our way.”

“He’ll know who you are,” Dante says.

“So what? That might be a good thing. How else are you going to make him talk to you? He might be goaded into doing it, if he does know me.”

Dante frowns. He doesn’t like that idea at all. Whether because he thinks it will only cause more trouble, or because he doesn’t want to spend time with me, I can’t tell.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, at last.

He turns to leave again. I want to say something else, anything else, but I don’t know what.

Finally I blurt out, “Thank you, Dante. For saving my father’s life. And for looking into this.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Dante says. “But I want to know who that shooter is.”

I feel a warm spread of hope in my chest.

I know Dante isn’t doing this for me.

Still, if anyone can figure this out, it’s him.