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I snarl, ignoring the pain and lunging to shield Eloise as he points the gun at her.
Massimo chuckles. “Or…”
I groan again, scrambling over in front of Gabriel as the gun barrel swivels to him.
“Your fake brother.”
What the fuck.
Massimo smiles again as he hefts the gun. “One bullet, Bruno. What’s it gonna be?”
I’m about to tell him to shove it up his own ass and pull the trigger, when he suddenly flips it around and hands it to me, grip-first. I stare at it, then up at him.
“Go ahead, brother,” he murmurs. “Take it.”
I snatch the gun from his hand, swallow my pain, and lurch to my feet. I glare pure hatred and darkness as I level the revolver at Massimo’s face and draw back the hammer.
“How about option C?—”
The dull click of a gun being cocked draws my attention to the single guard standing behind Massimo who’s now leveling a Beretta at me. A second click drags my gaze back to Massimo, pointing another Beretta at Eloise.
Fuck.
I lower the revolver.
“I’m insulted that you think I’m that fucking stupid, brother,” Massimo says quietly. “Now, you can drop the gun, or you can pick one of these two to die. Or,” he smiles. “If you’re so hell bent on an option C, I can pick for you. But, spoiler, I’m going to shoot both of them in that case.”
My pulse roars. My breath is coming raggedly, and my eyes dart from Massimo, to his guard, to Gabriel, and then to Eloise as blood leaks down my side.
“One bullet, Alistair,” Massimo growls thinly. “Tick-fucking-tock?—”
“You’re a betting man, aren’t you, Massimo?”
I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’m putting the pieces together as the words leave my mouth, desperate for a solution, and I figure the longer I talk, the longer my brain can try and find one.
I’m not going to pick. I refuse to watch either of them die.
Massimo eyes me curiously. “You know I am.”
“Well then,” I grunt. “Let’s make it interesting.”
His eyes narrow on me, darkness swirling behind them. Slowly, his lips curl, and a spark of something I know all too well ignites in his face.
The thrill of a bet. Of wagering, and watching to see where the ball lands, or which horse pulls ahead, or what card the dealer flips next.
Massimo and I share the same genetics? Fine. That means that the same poisonous draw to gambling that flows in my blood flows in his.
And like a good lawyer who’s spotted a weakness, or a good gambler who’s spotted a tell, I’m going to use that any way I can.
Massimo sucks on his teeth. “Exactly how would you suggest making this more interesting?”
“Simple,” I grunt. “One bullet, one gun, right?”
He smiles. “You’re reaching, brother. It’s the lawyer in you?—”
“Let’s play Russian Roulette.”
The windowless room goes silent. Massimo eyes me coldly. Slowly, his eyes crinkle into a grin and he starts to laugh.
