Page 3 of Mercy of the Mafia Doctor
I reach out and place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine instantly, his grip firm and unyielding. It’s not just a handshake. It’s a claim.
"Good choice," he says.
He pulls me toward the back of the office, toward a bookshelf that looks as solid as the rest of the building. He presses a hidden catch, and the entire unit swings inward, revealing a dimly lit passage.
"Where does this lead?" I ask as he ushers me inside.
"To my car," he says, closing the shelf behind us just as someone kicks open the office door. "Extraction route. I built it into this clinic the day I signed the lease. And then to the compound."
"The place where most of your family lives? The fortress with half the most dangerous men in Chicago behind the gates?"
"Exactly," he says, his hand moving to the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs. "You’ll be safe there."
"Safe," I scoff. "I’m a federal forensic accountant who just broke into a mafia doctor’s office. I’m pretty sure 'safe' is a relative term at this point."
"You’re with me, Amara," he says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and turning me to face him. He traps me against the wall, his hands on either side of my head. The space is cramped, the air thick with the smell of old stone and him. "That means the rules of the world no longer apply to you. You’re inside my vault now. Do you understand?"
I look up at him, my defiance warring with the strange, magnetic pull of his presence. He’s feral. He’s obsessed. He’s everything I should run away from.
But after ten years, I don't feel like running.
"I understand that you’re very bossy," I say, my voice breathy.
He leans in closer, his nose brushing against mine.
"I haven't even started being bossy yet," he whispers.
He pulls away then, grabbing my hand again and leading me toward a heavy steel door. He opens it, and we’re in a private garage. A sleek black sedan is waiting, the engine already humming.
"Get in," he says, opening the passenger door.
I slide into the leather seat, the luxury of the car a stark contrast to the grit of the night. He rounds the hood and gets into the driver’s side, his movements efficient and controlled. He clicks his belt without looking, puts the car in gear, and pulls out of the garage fast and clean, the tires chirping on the concrete.
As we hit the street, the Bellanti SUV lurches to follow—then stalls, boxed by a Costa work van that slides across the mouth of the alley on a timing I know isn’t chance. Alessio doesn’t look back. He just drives, hands steady on the wheel.
"You know," I say, leaning back against the headrest, "most people take me to dinner before they kidnap me into their family’s secret fortress."
"I'm not most people," he says, his eyes focused on the road. "And this isn't a kidnapping."
"Oh? What is it then?"
He glances at me, and the look in his eyes makes my blood run hot.
"It’s a rescue," he says. "And a recruitment. We’re going to finish this, Amara. Together. You’re going to give me the pieces I’m missing, and I’m going to give you the one thing you’ve been hunting for a decade."
"Vane?"
"Vane," he confirms. "And whoever helped him bury the trail."
The world goes still. The hum of the tires, the blur of the city lights, the pounding of my heart—it all fades into the background.
"There's a traitor?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"There’s a rot in the foundation," Alessio says, his jaw tightening. "And we’re going to cut it out."
I look out the window as we head toward the North Side, toward the heart of the Costa empire. I’ve spent my life following the money, believing that if I could just find the right ledger, the right account, the right transaction, I could finally find peace. But sitting here next to this man, I realize that the money was just the beginning.
The real hunt is just starting.
