Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

22. Like Dominoes

twenty-two

Like Dominoes

Ryōma didn’t know which he wanted more. To bash Rodrigo Silva’s skull against the concrete floor until it was little more than paste, or to pin Abby to the nearest wall and fuck her until his knees gave out. They were very different urges, but nonetheless both coursed through him in waves.

It wasn’t surprising that every word out of Silva’s mouth was infuriating.

It was less surprising that Ryōma found the restrained, woman-in-charge side of side of Abby sexy as hell.

It was a damn shame he had neither the time, nor the luxury, to indulge in either .

Ryōma’s phone buzzed with an incoming call, one he hoped was a response to the message he’d sent out minutes earlier. He lifted a hand from the steering wheel long enough to answer and said, “Talk to me.”

Miguel’s voice spoke in his ear. “Family’s takin’ a day, man. Kinda thought you knew.” He barely paused. “Speakin’ of things I thought you knew, pretty sure Boss made it clear you were supposed to stick to that FBI girl like glue?”

Ryōma ground his teeth. “It’s because of the kind of day this is turnin’ into that I didn’t have much choice on that. Is the entire family still wrapped up at Mama El’s?”

“I don’t even know all the details,” Miguel said, frustration slipping into his voice. “Mama El’s okay, far as I know, but I’m pretty sure someone else ain’t. I do know the boss found a guy or two to take it out on.”

Ryōma flexed his fingers over the wheel and shifted lanes. Eleonora being okay was good. The rest of Miguel’s message seemed less-so. “One of ours?”

Miguel made another frustrated sound. “Look, man, I don’t even know how much I’m supposed to be tellin’ you. Why the hell did you leave—”

“If it wasn’t for Abby, we would never have known that hit was fucking coming,” Ryōma snapped. “But fine. Don’t fucking talk to me. Just listen. We got more out of Silva—a shit-ton more—and it sounds like Coughlan’s not just moving on Mama El. Cris didn’t answer his goddamn phone when I called, and the last thing I’m going to do is taking fucking risks with my best friend.” Ryōma sucked in a breath, his destination finally in sight, and spit out the words he needed to say. “Coughlan’s coming after everyone , but he’s not doing it stupid. He’s targeting their wives, Lucy and Vitto, too. They all need to stay the fuck at home, behind armed guards they know and trust, because once the attack starts it sounds like his plan is to steamroll through everyone at fucking once.”

“Son of a bitch,” Miguel muttered. “He got enough manpower to do that? I thought the Irish mob was wiped out last time?”

“Locally,” Ryōma said. “And this could all be a big fucking lie to have us all running around like decapitated chickens, but we can’t take that kinda risk.” He swung too sharply into the parking garage, the SUV bouncing more than it should as he crossed the threshold. “I’m at the tower now. I don’t know where the fuck Cris is, but I’ll do what I can to keep Felicity safe until he gets here. And that is why I left Abby at the goddamn safehouse.” He jabbed at his mounted phone to disconnect the call, screeched into his parking space, and jumped from the vehicle.

He wasn’t thrilled about having left Abby at the safehouse-turned-private penitentiary, but he hadn’t seen another choice. As things stood, he was the only one who fully trusted her. That meant none of his family would appreciate him bringing her even up to the perimeter of their personal homes, let alone inside. If it were Brandi he was rushing to check on he could have justified it, since they were living on the same property currently despite that the women hadn’t been introduced. But Brandi was in many ways the least at risk.

Felicity was another story. Felicity was the only De Salvo wife who lived in a high-rise, surrounded by and yet isolated from everyone else. With the bulk of the family’s attention having been diverted to the drama earlier in the day, it was more than likely that she would have been instructed to tuck herself away in the penthouse until the situation was clear. Relying on out of sight, out of mind.

Ryōma went straight for the private elevator this time. He couldn’t take the risk of being even a moment too late, and that meant he couldn’t be picky. As the elevator ascended, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick text to Abby. Just arrived. Be safe ‘til I get back, baby girl.

Then he tucked the device away and extracted his gun. It wouldn’t pay to be caught unprepared, if he wasn’t the first on scene.

The elevator opened into the foyer with a soft ding and Ryōma stepped out, gun at his side and ready. He made a conscious effort to keep his breathing even and strained his ears, listening for any sound—any warning or other indication of life—beyond the short wall that obscured the view into the main space. For a heavy second, he heard nothing.

“Cristiano?” Felicity called from the direction of the sitting room. Curiosity, perhaps a bit of caution, but no traces of pain, laced her voice. The question itself also confirmed that Cris wasn’t yet home.

Ryōma took a step forward. “Sorry, little sister,” he said as he brought himself into view. “Just me.”

He spotted her easily, curled up in her favorite corner of the sofa, her Kindle in her lap and a mostly empty glass of something that had once been cold on the side table near her arm. She looked comfortable, like she’d been relaxed up to the point where her confusion at his arrival had jarred her peaceful state of mind. He felt bad for that, but also grateful that she showed no signs of distress. That he hadn’t been too late.

Felicity blinked widened amber eyes at him, sitting up straight. “Ryōma?” Her gaze dropped to the gun still visible at his side. “What the hell?”

He raised his free hand, palm out, and briefly cast his gaze around the rest of the space just to make sure nothing looked amiss. Probably he should jog downstairs and investigate that half of the penthouse, too, but he needed to put her at ease first. “You heard about the situation with Eleonora?” She probably knew more than he did, in fact.

Slowly, Felicity nodded. “Not that you’re not welcome here,” she said, “but you never use that door. And why the gun?”

Her suspicion stung, but he reminded himself it wasn’t wholly unwarranted, either. Not from her perspective, at least. Aloud, Ryōma said, “We got more out of Chief Silva, and long story short, I’m worried Mama El won’t be the only target today.”

Felicity’s mouth dropped open. “Iris,” she whispered, “and Grace?”

“All of you.” He motioned, just a little, with the gun. “This was in case I wasn’t the first one here.”

Felicity swallowed and set her Kindle on the table beside her drink. “Have you talked to Cristiano?”

“Tried calling, but he didn’t answer. Neither did Mikey.” Ryōma really hoped that was because they were too frazzled to be civil or take phone calls, and not because they were the ones in danger. But if they were, they were much more equipped to protect themselves without proper notice. He tipped his head to the side. “Mind if I check out the lower level real quick?”

Her gaze snapped in the direction of the stairs that led below and she nodded. “Go ahead. I’m going to call him, see if he answers for me.”

Ryōma nodded, paused, and fished his keys from his pocket. He tossed the keys to her. “If you hear even a single gunshot, just get the hell out. You know where I park. Mikey’s company is probably safe if they’re targeting families today.”

Felicity’s hand closed over the keys and she chewed on her lips. He knew her well enough to see the distress in her eyes, and he couldn’t blame her. But she didn’t argue. “Okay,” she said instead. “But don’t die. I know things are tense and weird right now, but losing you would really mess Cris up. And it’d make me pretty sad, too.”

Something churned in his chest and Ryōma offered her a brief smile. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, little sister.” He forced himself forward, then, not wanting to waste time. He couldn’t afford to let her words distract him, even if they made him feel good in a way he hadn’t realized he was missing. What mattered was making sure the penthouse was secure, and stayed that way.

Iris, Grace, and Brandi all had teams of security at their beck-and-call. They lived behind coded, protected gates and were surrounded in a very literal sense by armed and theoretically loyal men. Dante literally owned and controlled the entire street he lived on, having filled it with men who’d earned permanent homes. He’d redoubled the strength of that security after the incident the previous summer with his chef’s betrayal, when Iris had nearly been sniped in the yard. They were as protected as they could reasonably be.

It was up to Ryōma to do that job for Felicity’s sake until Cris came home. The tower was occupied by more than a dozen of their men, but many of those men were currently on the street. They weren’t assigned as permanent guards. In fact, many of them worked for Mikey’s security company.

As he sifted through the lower level, Ryōma flashed back to the conversation he’d had with Marchesi only a few days prior. Marchesi had claimed he wanted to take them here, to the tower. Specifically to the open floor often used for meetings in lieu of meeting at anyone’s home office. He still didn’t know if that suggestion had been Marchesi’s attempt to sound legitimate or if there was a scheme attached to that. If there was… If there was, that could mean the threat to Felicity wasn’t coming directly at her.

Was he overthinking?

Nothing looked out of place, and lower entrance was locked tight. All of which should have reassured him. But his gut was twisting too tightly for him to relax, so Ryōma reached again for his phone.

He had a message from Abby, responding to his previous text. It’s you I’m worried about.

Yeah, if his instinct was anywhere in the vicinity of right, this wasn’t going to make her feel better. He typed his new question anyway. Need you to ask Silva about anything Marchesi might have been told to do. Specifically involving the tower .

Ryōma moved slowly out of the lower space, shutting and locking the doors between the entrance and the upstairs access when he could. He couldn’t possibly keep an eye on both entrances, let alone both entrances and Felicity, and Felicity needed to be his priority. But if he barricaded enough passageways, he’d almost certainly hear something before the intruders made it up to them. That had to be good enough. Besides, it wasn’t like Cris ever used that entrance, so it was only himself he was potentially inconveniencing.

Felicity was still on the couch, but she had obviously left and returned, as she’d traded her lightweight sundress for a sportier outfit of knee-length shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt. This was definitely more of an outfit for running.

He hated that she’d felt the compulsion to take even that precaution, but it was smart. “Did you get through to Cris?”

She held tightly to the phone in her lap. “Yeah. He’s coming home.”

That was a relief, at least. If Cris hadn’t answered her call, Ryōma would have been forced to acknowledge the worry that his closest friend and surrogate brother might be less than okay. Granted, he could still be injured and insisting on coming home. But he was conscious and mobile, so that was a start.

“Did you … find anything downstairs?” Felicity asked hesitantly.

Ryōma shook the worried thought from his head. “No. Locked a few doors for extra insurance.” He didn’t want to tell her his other concerns. He didn’t know how to articulate them, wasn’t sure what they were specifically, only that they where there . Nagging at him .

Felicity frowned. “You look troubled, though.”

Ryōma allowed himself to perch on the edge of one of the chairs. “Is that so crazy?”

“No,” Felicity said, “I mean, more than you did a few minutes ago. If you didn’t see something, then did you get a call?” Her brow pinched, like she was working out how to say something, and her gaze shifted aside. “Is … is Abby okay?”

Abby.

Not Abigail, not Agent Fitzgerald, not any derogatory variation of ‘that FBI girl.’ Not even a generic reference that would imply her without mentioning her by name or title. Felicity had chosen to mention her by the name she had first learned, nearly a year prior. The name of the woman who had once helped her out of a difficult spot. The name Ryōma himself also used for her most of the time.

It was a nice change.

Ryōma felt his lips lift upward in a small, raw smile. “Yeah. She should be, anyway.” The words were barely out of his mouth when his phone buzzed, indicating a call. He shifted his weight and slipped it from his pocket, more feelings twisting in his chest when he recognized Abby’s new number on the screen. Calling instead of texting her reply.

“Go ahead,” Felicity said, apparently misinterpreting his moment of hesitation.

Ryōma took it as a cue regardless and connected the call, setting the device on his thigh. “You’re on speaker, baby girl. Say hi.”

“I’ll say it later.” Abby’s voice was tight and rushed, like she was trying to say three things at once and wanting to make sure all of them resonated. “You need to get the hell out of there. All of you.”

Alarm shot through him, sharpening his focus.

Felicity sucked in a breath. “Why?”

Ryōma was already on his feet and motioning for her to follow. “What about the rest of the building? There are other residents here.”

“I’ll call Miguel,” Abby said, “see if he can send out some kind of evacuation notice. I don’t know. You don’t have time to knock on doors, Ryōma, just get the hell out.”

“Thirty seconds,” Felicity said, already sprinting around the sofa.

Ryōma frowned. “Felicity, now!”

“Thirty seconds!” she called back as she disappeared down the short hall that led to the bedroom.

“What’s thirty seconds?” Abby asked.

Ryōma bit back a groan. “Cris probably has a go-bag or something. We’ll get out of here, Abby. If you’re sure about this, make those calls.”

“Don’t you fucking die,” she said firmly. Then she disconnected, not waiting for a response.

Ryōma heard shuffling from the bedroom and more rushing steps, so he took a moment to shoot a quick text to Cris. The man was probably almost there, after all. We’re evacuating. Update soon.

“Ready,” Felicity said as he sent the message.

“Good.” Ryōma tucked his phone away, but not his gun. “Stay close and get ready to duck behind me.” The elevator was stupid by most standards in the event of a power-disrupting emergency, but it’d take them much longer to run down all those flights of steps. Not to mention the increased risk of injury. So they went straight to the private elevator he’d arrived in, him with his gun in hand and her with a large, leather duffel slung around her shoulders.

The elevator was mid-descent before Felicity quietly asked, “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Not knowing how else to comfort her, Ryōma reached over and laid his free hand on her head, lightly ruffling her hair. “The building’s been compromised. That’s my guess, anyway. I’ll get you out, little sister. Don’t worry.”

She swatted his arm away. “I just don’t understand how that happened.” She turned and frowned up at him. “You know I still trust you, right, onii-san ?”

The question caught him off-guard and Ryōma stared at her a beat too long before pulling his lips up into a smile. “I appreciate that.”

The elevator settled as Felicity’s phone started ringing.

Ryōma stepped forward, staying ahead of her and sweeping his gaze from side-to-side. He saw no movement, of course. He barely heard her confirm it was Cris calling, and he didn’t question her choice to answer, he only appreciated that she knew how to walk and talk at the same time.

“Hey—no, I’m fine. We just got into the—”

He almost didn’t hear the burst overhead, above ground, over the way Felicity’s voice carried in the otherwise quiet, cavernous garage. Almost . Ryōma cursed, freezing in place for a second as he looked up, not wanting to make a wrong step .

Felicity squeaked and latched onto his sleeve. “What the hell was that?” Her question was whispered, undeniable discomfort in her voice. She had the phone still raised to her ear.

The building’s main elevator lit, indicating it was in use, at almost the same time as the roof of the parking garage seemed to shake. Small flakes of debris crumbled down.

Fuck. “Bomb,” Ryōma said, the realization dragging the breath from him. Then he sucked it back in and snatched Felicity’s wrist. “Car, now!”

Abigail couldn’t sit still. Her heart was racing a mile a minute. If she had access to a vehicle, she would have left the so-called safehouse ages ago. She hated that Ryōma had gone on his own in the first place, but after she’d gone back for one more quick chat with Silva that anxiety in her chest had exploded. Not unlike the goddamn bomb Silva had implied was lying in wait at the tower.

Him with his stupid, racist, kamikaze comment.

Silva had sworn he’d never met Peter personally, but that he’d heard something about a mole who’d been planted in Cristiano’s tower. A mole who had been responsible for setting up a contingency.

She remembered Peter had tried taking her and Ryōma to the tower before. And she remembered Ryōma had thought that was strange. But that had been days ago. How does that make sense? The bomb hadn’t yet gone off, or maybe it was going off as she paced her way up and down the hall of the safehouse-penitentiary. Was Peter just planning to hold them there all this time? Or did Peter have a way to trigger it himself?

Understanding dawned and she flexed her fingers over her eerily silent phone. Peter had been in De Salvo custody since the incident of his capture. She didn’t even know if he was still alive. More than likely, considering his aim and the current reality, Peter knew of the bomb and had at least a decent idea how to detonate it on-site. Whether he’d been willing to take himself down along with them or there was a time-delay, she might never know. But all of that meant there was one other angle—there was also, almost certainly, a switch which could detonate it remotely. A switch which remained in someone else’s hand.

“Eleonora will only be the start.” Silva’s words whispered through her memory. “Once that domino falls, Coughlan will move. He’ll come for all of them. All the women and children. All at once.”

He’d said it so calmly Abigail had wanted to shoot him in his unblinking face. He clearly thought nothing of the tragedy he described. But she couldn’t kill him—his death belonged to someone else—so she’d done the next best thing. She and Ryōma had put their heads together, analyzing the most blatant vulnerabilities, and he’d taken off to keep Felicity alive while Abigail made calls. Whether anyone would listen to her or not was out of her hands .

She prayed Miguel had at least listened when she’d half-screamed at him to send word out to evacuate that building.

It had been so many minutes since she’d spoken to Ryōma. It felt like hours, maybe days. Her chest ached. If she could just leave, she could do something. She still needed to actually arrest people, and frankly she was more inclined to wrap all of the assholes involved in this mess in a shiny bow and dump them at the De Salvo’s doorstep. There were too many assholes in the world. Too many people who didn’t care about the consequences.

She looked down at her still-dark, still-silent phone. Please, please be alive. Would she even be able to justify visiting him in the hospital?

No, probably not.

If it really came to that, she would just do it anyway.

The front door slammed open seconds after Abigail twisted away from the entry, startling her so badly she nearly dropped her phone before she could spin back around. Her eyes blew wide and she froze, confused at the sight of a woman she hadn’t technically met striding inside. Men in black clothes slipped in from behind the woman, spreading out around her but not proceeding further into the building. Two of the men held tight to her side, nearly touching. Every single man had a gun in his hands, but only as they swept across the room for a heartbeat had one been aimed at Abigail.

“Abigail Fitzgerald,” the woman in the surely too-expensive dress said, “I need everything you got from Rodrigo Silva.”

Abigail cleared her throat. “ You’re—”

“Iris De Salvo, yes.” The redhead glanced aside. “Get started. Dante won’t want us lingering.”

One of the forwardmost men nodded sharply. “Yes, ma’am.” He and about half of the others strode forward, forcing Abigail to side-step to allow them down the hall without trampling her. A choice she suspected they wouldn’t have hesitated to make.

Abigail steadied herself as best she could. “I recorded everything after Mr. De Salvo left,” she said. “It should already be uploaded.” She raised her phone. “It’s also here.”

Iris inclined her head. “Good. Let’s get going, then.”

What? Abigail hadn’t felt this flustered since her first week on the job. “You want me to go with you? I thought I was supposed to wait—” Her throat constricted. “Is … is Ryōma—”

“We can talk in the car,” Iris said. She swept her gaze over Abigail, something like hesitation flickering in the green. “I hope you’ve made your choice, Abigail. But this is bigger than your personal struggle, and we need to leave. As for what you’re supposed to do, right now, you’re supposed to do your job.” She turned as she spoke, already aiming for the door again. “Impress me.”