Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 26

The hour-long baptism service could have included a human sacrifice, and I wouldn’t have noticed. The only thing I was vaguely aware of beyond my frenzied thoughts were the periodic glances from Sante beside me. Even as we walk back to his car, I can sense him wanting to know what I’m thinking.

I hope he blames my near catatonic state on his outlandish proclamation that I’m his future wife. How absurd is my life that such a bold, presumptive move on his part isn’t the most perplexing thing to happen to me today? I wish that was the only thing on my mind.

I’m utterly terrified that Lina’s near miss with a passing car was less of an accident and more of a failed attempt at murder. I can’t discount the likelihood that it was a message for me. And I think Sante suspects my fears. He saw my reaction to her recounting of the events.

I feel like I’ve been running on a treadmill, but the speed continues to increase until I can feel my legs failing to keep pace. I’ve done everything I can to prevent a fall, yet I can see it playing out in slow motion before my eyes. What if there’s no stopping it? What if nothing I do is enough?

Protecting my family feels more critical than ever, but I don’t know how. I can’t turn back the clock and undo the past two weeks. I have no way to prove I’m not guilty of whatever they think I’ve done.

The fear is paralyzing.

Time skips forward without my notice until the car stops, and I realize I don’t know where we are.

“What’s going on?”

Sante turns off the engine, engulfing us in silence. “What’s going on is we’re gonna go in here and eat, then you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on. My patience is at an end. You have the next hour to come to terms with whatever conflict is holding you back.”

Proclamation made, he exits the car.

This isn’t unexpected. He’s not the sort of man who accepts defeat.

The thing is, unless he literally tortures me, I don’t have to tell him anything. I already feel myself caving, so it probably won’t come to that, but I like to think I still have options.

We eat in relative silence. Even my thoughts are uncharacteristically quiet.

I imagine this feels along the lines of a death row inmate eating his last meal. Maybe that sounds overly dramatic. I’m not so sure. My choice today could have life-and-death consequences. Therefore, I take each minute I’m given. I sit with my emotions. I appreciate the present moment for its serenity and try to assure myself that somehow, everything will work out for the best.

My grip on that coveted sense of calm falters as we leave the restaurant. The car is only a short block away, but it might as well be in Jersey when a catcall whistle slices through the air, followed by the lewd cackling of two men seated on a set of entry steps down the sidewalk from us. We have to pass them to get to the car.

Instinctively, I clasp Sante’s arm. What I really want to do is turn around, but his pace remains perfectly fixed in the same direction. He has to be aware of them. They’re making more and more noise as we approach, and their obnoxious tone is unapologetically belligerent. Not that I can understand what they’re saying. It seems to be Russian, I think. It’s hard to tell if the slurring is part of the accent or more from intoxication because the two are clearly drunk.

Ten feet.

Five feet.

I ready myself to rush past when Sante does something unthinkable. Instead of getting out of there as fast as we can, he comes to a stop.

My stomach threatens to return every bite I took at dinner.

“Must have some seriously tiny dicks to enjoy scaring a woman,” Sante muses, hand in his pocket. Every word is spoken with such casual indifference that I have to wonder if he’s lost his mind. Is he trying to pick a fight with them?

The man with a bald head spits at Sante’s feet, then stands, grinning to reveal two silver teeth. “This little cunt seems to think he has balls, eh, Pyotr?”

The other man doesn’t move. He stares us down and murmurs something to his friend in Russian. He’s quieter, but that’s what scares me the most. I’m reminded of a coiled snake ready to strike. And the wicked scar ravaging one cheek doesn’t help.

Sante plows ahead as though totally unfazed. “Think you two owe her an apology.”

Why is he doing this?

I don’t want an apology. I want to live to see another day.

“Let’s just go, please,” I whisper pleadingly into the fabric of his suited arm.

“Listen to the cunt while you can still walk out of here on your own two legs.”

Sante squeezes my hand, then shifts my body away from his. His intent is clear—you need to get back.

I don’t argue.

“Biba know you’ve strayed this far from home?” Sante asks, still perfectly calm.

At the mention of the name Biba, the other man rises to his feet. Both glare menacingly at Sante as the atmosphere takes a decidedly dark turn.

I’m so terrified that my entire body shakes.

I fumble to get my phone out of my purse and debate whether I should call the police. Sante put this in motion—he seems to know these men—but that doesn’t make me feel any better. The two-to-one odds alone are terrible, not to mention these guys look like they could take a two-by-four to the face like it was a pool noodle.

My concerns about Sante’s sanity are validated when he lets out a chuckle.

“Not to worry,” he says to them. “I won’t say anything. I owe you two anyway. It’s not often a kid gets to take a joyride in a yellow Lamborghini. I couldn’t believe my luck to replace that thing running.”

The Russians exchange a shocked look, which Sante uses as a perfect distraction to launch his attack. His hand flies out of his pocket and pulverizes the bald man in the face with one sweeping motion. He doesn’t stop there. He uses the momentum to continue turning, then kicks out behind him, landing a vicious kick to the other man’s middle. Still, he’s not done. Returning to his first victim, Sante gives him one more blow to the head, then does the same to the other man. Both drop unconscious to the ground.

The whole thing doesn’t last thirty seconds.

I see why when he finally stills. Silver glints off his fisted hand.

“Are those … brass knuckles?” I ask in astonishment.

He drops the weapon back into his pocket. “Yeah. I have this guy to thank for that.” He pokes a foot at the motionless bald guy. “Taught me years ago to always be prepared. Fucker broke two of my ribs.”

If my jaw hangs open any longer, I’ll end up with a bird’s nest in there. I don’t know how to process the calculated violence of what I witnessed. Sure, he’d punched the stalker, but this was next level.

I’m still reeling when he gently takes my face between his hands and kisses my forehead. “You okay?”

I nod.

“Good. Let’s get the fuck outta here.” He curves an arm around my back and leads us to the car.

Once we’re both buckled in, he pulls onto the road when I blurt out, “Stop!”

We lurch forward when he hits the brakes. He peers over at me, then eases the car back against the curb. I could wait until we get back to the apartment, but I’m done waiting. It’s time to take that leap of faith. It’s time to ask for help.

“I got a note the day after I went to the police station warning me to stay quiet. That incident with Lina today—I don’t think it was an accident.”

Sante nods. “Oran said as much but had no idea where the threat was from. Said he saw it all, and there was no way it wasn’t intentional.”

My chin quivers. “I know it was meant as a message, and I’m so freaking scared.” I close my eyes and force a slow breath in through my nose and out my lips. “If I tell you the name of the man who tried to buy my virginity, I need you to promise me you won’t take action without my express permission.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him with a raised hand.

“If you know what my mother tried to do to me, then you probably know she did the same to Lina, except…” I struggle to fight back a cresting wave of emotion. “Lina wasn’t as fortunate as I was. Sante, this guy has a video of her. He wasn’t the one who raped her, but somehow he got ahold of a video. He’s threatened to hurt her if I step a hair out of line, and he’s using the video as leverage if anything ever happens to him—he says it’ll be released all over the internet. I can’t let that happen, Sante.” My words are a strained whisper, no voice left to squeeze past the lump in my throat.

I have to pause and swallow hard to keep going.

“I’ve done everything I can to protect her because she’s done the same for me, but I’m scared it’s not enough. I’m so damn scared. If I tell you his name, you have to swear to me that you won’t touch him—not you or anyone else. Not unless we replace a way that ensures Lina isn’t harmed in the process.”

Sante gives a somber nod. “We can do that.”

I take one more deep breath. “His name is John Talbot.” A part of me half expects the man himself to appear like a Harry Potter Deatheater summoned with a touch of a dark mark.

“I’ve been away a while. The name is familiar, but I’m not sure from where.”

“He’s the attorney general for the state of New York, and he’s incredibly connected.”

His chin lifts in understanding. “And that’s why you’re terrified of cops.”

I nod. “They keep him informed of everything that happens in this city, including everything I do.”

“Maybe some of them, but he doesn’t own the entire force.”

“No, but I have no idea who’s loyal to whom. Better to avoid them all.”

“And you never told any of this to Lina or Oran?” He studies me intently. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, assessing what I’ve told him for inconsistencies or missing pieces. I’m scared he’s questioning whether I’ve told him everything. I have to do my best to convince him.

“No. At first, I didn’t tell Lina because I was scared and didn’t want her to worry. She’d already gone through so much for me. I thought if I stayed quiet, it would all go away. And it more or less did until recently when that man started to follow me. I don’t even know why—that’s the most frustrating part. I didn’t do anything. Then my call to the cops upped the ante. Now, I’m afraid there’s no de-escalating the situation.”

Sante’s hand reaches across to cup the back of my neck while his stare locks with mine. “I will not let this man touch you or your family. You understand me?”

“But…”

“No. No buts. I understand what’s at stake. It. Will. Not. Happen.”

I nod, emotions clogging my throat. I’m so freaking scared, but maybe between his family and the Byrnes, this whole mess might finally end.

“I need to hear you say it, Mellie. Tell me you trust me not to endanger you.”

“I trust you.”

He leans in and kisses my forehead with such excruciating tenderness that my chest constricts. All at once, I realize that I’ve been focused on my own concerns and haven’t considered the danger he’ll now be in.

God, please tell me I haven’t made a huge mistake.

My entire body sags with relief when we finally make it back to my apartment. I’m emotionally exhausted from the day and ready to pass out, but as I look toward my bedroom, I replace myself wishing Sante was coming with me. To have that comfort—his smell and strength and warmth to reassure me that everything will be okay.

If only my life were simple enough that I could invite him in.

He’s been so understanding—going so far as to call me his future wife—but a part of me still waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to realize what a mess I am and bail. All I’ve done is bring him drama and chaos, and after a lifetime of conditioning to see myself as a burden, I struggle to believe this could possibly be real. That Sante would voluntarily want to bind himself to me.

He’s seen plenty of your crazy already and hasn’t left.

Exactly. I’ve given him more of myself than I ever have to anyone. If he leaves now, I’ll be incredibly hurt. If I let myself love him, only for him to walk away, I won’t recover from that sort of devastation.

True, but then you’ll never know love.

I realize I’ve been standing, staring vacantly at my bedroom door. I turn to see that Sante’s been watching me the whole time. “Thank you.” I nervously bite my lip, feeling more vulnerable than I have in years.

“For what?” he asks softly.

“For everything.”

This time, his kiss isn’t remotely tender. He sweeps forward and presses his lips to mine with such demanding need that my knees go weak. The kiss is intense but short-lived. When he pulls away, his brown eyes blaze with unspoken words I can’t identify.

“You don’t taste like mint and menthol anymore,” I say dazedly, making me realize he’s lived with me for a week, and I haven’t seen him smoke once.

“Someone wise told me it was a filthy habit, so I quit.” The rasp in his voice brings goose bumps to every inch of exposed skin.

“Oh,” I breathe. He quit … for me? “You didn’t have to—’

“Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. Now, time for you to get to bed before I do something else I’ve been dying to do.”

My mouth goes dry.

The scalding heat in his stare tells me in no uncertain terms that I am what he’s been dying to do. When I don’t immediately retreat, he inches forward.

“Not warnin’ you again.” His voice is now shredded and raw. He’s on the verge of losing control.

No matter how much I want to experience his brand of worship, I’m not ready. This thing between us is too big to take lightly. I’m already halfway to a panic attack merely thinking about it. So I do the only thing I can and scurry away to the safety of my bedroom, hating that I feel like a coward.