The restricted call message glowed up at him and he grimaced.
Shit. No need to guess who it might be.
And as much as he might want to shut out the rest of the world, Scythe would never refuse the call of one of his former Hunter brethren.
On a curse, he jabbed the answer button. “Yeah.”
“We need to talk.” Trygg’s voice was always a shade away from a growl, but right now the Breed warrior’s tone held a note of urgency too. Scythe had heard that same note in his half-brother’s voice the last time he called from the Order’s command center in Rome, and he could only imagine what it meant now.
“So, talk,” he prompted, certain he didn’t want the answer. “What’s going on?”
“The Order’s got a problem that could use your specialized skills, brother.”
“Fuck.” Scythe’s breath rushed out of him on a groan. “Where have I heard that before?”
Six weeks ago, he’d allowed Trygg to drag him into the Order’s troubles and Scythe was still trying to put the whole thing behind him. As a former assassin, he didn’t exactly play well with others. He damned sure wasn’t interested in getting tangled up in Order business again.
But there were only a handful of people in the world who knew exactly what Scythe had endured in the hell of Dragos’s Hunter program, and Trygg was one of them. They had suffered it together for years as boys, and had dealt with the aftermath as men.
Even if they and the dozens of other escaped Hunters didn’t share half their DNA, their experience in the labs couldn’t make for truer brothers than that. If Trygg needed something, Scythe would be there. Hell, he’d give up his other hand for any one of his Hunter brethren if they asked it of him.
Scythe’s preternatural ability to sniff out trouble told him that Trygg was about to ask for something far more painful than that.
“Tell me what you need,” he muttered, steeling himself for the request.
“You remember Chiara Genova?”
Scythe had to bite back a harsh laugh.
Did he remember her? Fuck, yeah, he remembered. The beautiful, widowed Breedmate with the soulful, sad eyes and broken angel’s face had been the star of too many of his overheated dreams since the night he first saw her. Even now, the mere mention of her name fired a longing in his blood that he had no right to feel.
He remembered her three-year-old son Pietro, too. The kid’s laugh had made Scythe’s temples throb with memories he'd thought he left dead and buried behind him more than a decade ago.
“Are she and the boy all right?” There was dread in his throat as he asked it, but his flat tone gave none of it away.
“Yes. For now.” Trygg paused. “She’s in danger. It’s serious as hell this time.”
Scythe’s grip on his phone tightened. The woman had been through enough troubles already, starting with the unfit Breed male she’d taken as her mate several years ago. Chiara’s bastard of a mate, Sal, had turned out to be a gambler and a first-class asshole.
Unable to pay his debts, he’d wound up on the bad side of a criminal kingpin named Vito Massioni. To square up when Massioni came to collect, Sal traded his own sister, Arabella, in exchange for his life. If not for the Order in Rome—more specifically, one of their warriors, Ettore “Savage” Selvaggio—Bella might still be imprisoned as Massioni’s personal pet.
As for Chiara, she was essentially made a captive of Massioni’s as well. Sal’s treachery hadn’t saved him in the end. After his death, Chiara and her son lived at the family vineyard under the constant threat of Massioni’s danger.
Six weeks ago, it had all come to a head. The Order had moved in on Massioni, taking out him and his operation... or so they’d thought. Massioni had survived the explosion that obliterated his mansion and all of his lieutenants, and he was out for blood.
Chiara and her son had ended up in the crosshairs along with Bella and Savage, putting all of them on the run. Trygg sent them to Scythe for shelter, knowing damned well that Scythe wasn’t in the habit of playing protector to anyone. Least of all a woman and child.
And he still wasn’t in that habit now.
Nevertheless, the question rolled off his tongue too easily. “Tell me what happened.”
“According to Bella, Chiara’s had the sensation she was being watched for the past week or so. Stalked from afar. Last night, things took a turn for the worst. A Breed male broke into the villa. If she hadn't heard him outside her window and had time to prepare, she'd likely have been raped, murdered, or both.”
“Motherfu—” Scythe bit off the curse and took a steadying breath. His rage was on full boil, but he rallied his thoughts around gathering facts. “Did the son of a bitch touch her? How did she manage to get away?”