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I shrug, “How should I know? Like you said, I only feed him Cartel information and he rewards me with fucks. It’s not the other way around.”
His nostrils flare, but it’s more in frustration than in anger. I can see he believes me. And why not? If he doesn’t think Nico tells me anything, it would be inconceivable that I could have orchestrated Maria’s translocation by myself.
Suddenly he sighs as if in deep regret. “I should cut you up in little pieces and scatter you across the lake. But, I owe the Cartel. And I always pay my debts.”
He moves to the window, apparently done with the heart to heart, shoves his hands in his pockets then nods his head to his companions.
Immediately, Miguel and the other goon move in tandem toward me.
My heart pounds. Break’s over Sophie, it’s show fucking time.
I hesitate for just a moment because my knowledge of a dozen ways to kill a man has always been theoretical. But this is no theory. This is fucking happening. I’m going to kill a man—three, if I’m lucky—or die trying, because there is no way in hell these sons of bitches are selling me to the Mexican Cartel.
I hitch up my skirt and grab my knife. It slips into my hand perfectly, like it was built for me or maybe me for it.
Miguel and the other goon exchange surprised looks and their smiles widen. It’s clear they’re not taking the threat seriously. Even Romano just raises a bored eyebrow and goes back to looking outside the window.
“Dr Kellan,” Miguel steps forward. “You’ll only hurt yourself with that. We do not want to mar that pretty face, do we?”
He’s reaching for my wrist but moving a little too slowly, too confidently. I know he’s not going to make it in time. With a sudden burst of energy, I strike out like a coiled snake, sweeping the blade across his throat, left to right. I maintain my hand speed and downward momentum enough to slash across the torso of the goon on the left with the same stroke that just killed Miguel.
Blood spurts like a fountain, spraying all over me. Miguel chokes and grabs at his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief, but I don’t wait to assess the damage.
In less than a heartbeat and a twist of my wrist, I’m spinning the karambit and guiding the tip into the gut of Miguel’s partner, who unfortunately took half a second too long to recover from Miguel’s unexpected demise and the slash across his own torso. I stab him. Deep.
I barely feel the fist across my face as I withdraw and stab again, so fast, it’s a blur even to my own eyes.
He grunts, his eyes spewing pure evil as he grabs my wrist, gripping so hard I can’t withdraw the knife from his abdomen to stab him a third time. Shit, he’s strong.
His grip tightens, and I fear he’ll crush the bones in my wrist. But he’s too late. Strength leaches from his fingers, the way the light fades from his rage-filled eyes. His grip fails to tighten further. In a matter of seconds, it will loosen like a noodle.
The shot I took wasn’t random. I hadn’t stabbed blindly at the big brute. I’d sunk my blade straight into his liver, repeatedly. He’s a dead man, even if his brain hasn’t quite figured that out yet. But even in his weakened state, I still can’t disentangle myself from him.
Oh shit. I panic, frantically trying to get away. Romano is right behind and only needs one bullet to finish me off now.
Pain explodes in my head and stars burst in my vision.
“You fucking bitch,” Romano’s roar sounds like a distant echo, drowned out by the sudden ringing in my ears.
“Nice of you to finally join the fight, asshole,” I manage as I stumble back.
The dying brute still has too much of a grip on my knife arm. He holds onto it like a lifeline as Romano grabs my neck and yanks me away from the big lug, who finally collapses to the floor.
Romano slams me hard into the nearest wall, the impact so jarring my teeth chatter. I lose my grip on my knife and it falls to the floor, clattering against the laminate.
Shit.
Romano is deceptively strong for his lean build. He holds me up by my neck, forcing me to the tip of my toes. Panic pumps hard through my veins as I claw at his squeezing hands, drawing blood, but he doesn't relent. Black spots start to dance across my vision.
“You’re feisty,” he says, his countenance transforming from livid back to eerily calm, now that he has the upper hand. “No wonder Vitelli likes you. Maybe I won’t sell you to the Cartel after all,” he says with a sinister smile. “I can find other uses for you that’ll make you wish I killed you.” He looks me over again, his gaze roaming from head to toe and back up again.
My stomach roils, and my skin feels like he’s just smeared it in thick, grimy oil.
“Like… hell… you will,” I try to croak out, but most of the sound gets trapped in my throat.
I run through scenarios in my head, calling up every lesson, every piece of advice every Reaper Druid had ever given me. But what springs to mind, standing front and center, is a story Rafe told me in passing a lifetime ago.
“The ugly motherfucker had me by the throat, up against the lockers,” he’d said as we walked home from school. “I grabbed him right here,”—he’d demonstrated by pinching me at the junction of my neck and shoulder. “And the guy just let go, Soph. His whole arm went numb. I felt like fucking Mr. Spock.”
