All Chapters of Hunted Heart:The Mafia's Plaything.: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The garden was a study in controlled wildness.Bare branches twisted toward gray sky. Hedges trimmed into sharp geometries bordered paths of crushed stone. A fountain at the center had been drained for winter, its marble basin collecting dead leaves and the memory of water. The old man sat before it, wrapped in a wool blanket, his wheelchair positioned to face the house as if he'd been waiting for Alex to appear.WAlex stopped at the edge of the path. The chess piece was heavy in his pocket. His father's face—what he could remember of it—floated at the edges of his mind. A laugh. A hand on his shoulder. A voice that said, Be good, Alessandro. And then nothing. Just a phone call. Just a funeral. Just a life built on the ashes of a man he'd never really known.The Don turned.He was smaller than Alex had expected. Age had folded him in on himself, collapsing the frame that must once have been imposing. His hair was white, thin, combed back from a face mapped with veins and age spots. Hi

The bullet came through the window.Alex was already awake. He'd been lying in the dark for an hour, watching the city lighten through the glass, feeling Vincenzo's warmth beside him, his mind turning over everything that had happened and everything that was still waiting. The phone calls from Cole. The folder on his kitchen table. The captain's face when he'd handed over his badge.The window shattered.The sound was deafening in the quiet of the penthouse. Glass sprayed across the bedroom floor, catching the morning light like scattered diamonds. Alex's body moved before his mind caught up—years of training, years of instinct, years of knowing what that sound meant. He rolled off the bed, hit the floor hard, and pulled Vincenzo down with him."Down. Stay down."Vincenzo was already moving, his face sharp, awake, the softness of sleep stripped away. His hand found Alex's arm, a silent acknowledgment.Another shot. This one buried itself in the wall above the bed, plaster cracking, du

The days that followed blurred into something Alex didn't have a name for.He stayed at the estate. That was the first thing. He woke in Vincenzo's bed, ate at Vincenzo's table, walked the grounds that Vincenzo's family had owned for generations. The men in dark suits watched him with eyes that were careful, measuring, trying to figure out what he was. Alex didn't know himself. He was something between a guest and a prisoner, between a lover and a liability.The folder was still on the study desk. He hadn't taken it to the FBI. He told himself he was waiting for the right moment, for the evidence to be complete, for the case to be airtight. But the truth was simpler, and harder: he didn't want to leave.Vincenzo was different here than he'd been in the penthouse. Softer in some ways, harder in others. He was a man who gave orders and expected them to be followed, who moved through his world like it was built for him, because it was. But at night, in the dark, he was the same man who h

The pier was empty at 11 PM.Alex stood at the railing, the wind off the water cutting through his jacket, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The city lights reflected on the black water, rippling, breaking apart. He'd been here for ten minutes. No one had come.He was starting to think it was a trap. Some part of him had known it might be, from the moment he read the message. But he'd come anyway. Because the alternative was lying in Vincenzo's bed, pretending he didn't have questions, pretending he didn't see the shadows that passed over Vincenzo's face when he thought Alex wasn't looking."You came."The voice came from behind him. Alex turned, his body tensing, his hands coming out of his pockets.The man who stepped out of the shadows was older, maybe sixty, with gray hair and a face that had been handsome once. He was wearing a coat that had cost more than Alex's rent, and his hands were steady at his sides, no weapon that Alex could see."Who are you?" Alex asked.The man sm

The gun was on the table between them.Alex had seen a lot of guns in his life. He'd carried one for seven years, had it in his hand more times than he could count, had pointed it at men who wanted to kill him and pulled the trigger when he had to. But this one was different.It was a custom piece. Matte black, the metal smooth, the grip fitted to a hand that wasn't his. Vincenzo had laid it on the study desk an hour ago, and Alex had been staring at it ever since."It's yours," Vincenzo said. He was standing by the window, his back to Alex, his hands in his pockets. The morning light was thin, gray, the same light that had been there the morning they left the warehouse.Alex didn't touch it. "I don't want a gun.""It's not just a gun." Vincenzo turned. His face was tired, the shadows under his eyes darker than they'd been yesterday. He hadn't slept. Neither of them had. They'd come back from the precinct, from the parking lot where Alex had chosen him again, and they'd sat in this ro