He suddenly pushed off the wall and swung a punch at me that had every ounce of his massive body weight behind. If it had connected, he’d have broken my jaw at the very least, and possibly my neck. His fist was the size and hardness of a bocce ball. Then all he’d have to do was fight Ghost, who would not attack unless I ordered him to, or if he perceived I was losing a fight. And by then, Casanova might have been able to take a gun from my body as I fell.

If he’d connected.

I saw the muscle flex of his waist as he began that push-off, his power turning to put torque into his attack. I saw it and walked right into the center of that turn and smashed my right forearm across his upper chest while chopping at his punching arm with my left elbow. His mass and momentum collided with my surge and precision. The physics were all wrong for him—he had momentum but no balance. He crashed back against the wall, grunting out a deep huhhh of breath. I pistol-whipped him with the Snellig and then swept the inside of one ankle with the arch of my shoe; and as he dropped, I pounded down on both shoulders with the bottoms of one fist and the butt of the dart gun. Really damned hard. His ass hit the floor, and there was a muffled wet crack that I knew was his tailbone breaking.

His scream was incredibly shrill for such a big man.

I stepped between his thighs and placed the sole of my boot on his scrotum. Not hard. Not yet.

In a very quiet voice, I said, “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

He did.

Ghost was on his feet now, baring his teeth, ready to take a piece.

I moved my foot, and Casanova fell over onto his side, pulling his knees up to protect his balls and to take some pressure off the damage to his coccyx. He groaned and sobbed and started to say something else about my mother but stopped himself. Probably weighed the risk-reward thing and didn’t like his odds.

I didn’t like those odds, either. And, no, not because he dissed my mom. She died years ago, though if she’d been alive, she’d have fed him his own dick. Mom had always been a sweet lady, but only up to a point. Let’s just say that someone calling me a mama’s boy was something I’d take as a compliment.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Listen to me, asshole,” I said quietly. “You’re between a rock and a hard place. Rafael Santoro will kill you if you talk to me. So will Kuga. We both know that.”