I feel more than see the bullets slashing through the air around us. Too close, yet (thankfully for us) not close enough. Mainly, I think, due to Leon’s ruthlessness and sheer skill with his own firearm more than anything else.
But by the time we hit the fence—to the section that’s now warped open beyond repair—I’m gasping for breath. Sweat drips down my back as Carmen continues to prove herself to be the most inconvenient dead weight known to man.
Even Leon raises an eyebrow at the string of increasingly indelicate Spanish curses. “I was going to ask if you’re sure it’s her, but…”
Carmen, hearing his voice for the first time, has the good sense to go still for a moment.
“He’ll have your neck for this, Natali,” her voice still somehow carries some bite through the fabric. “He’ll kill her next time.”
I see the second the threat registers with Leon, his large, broad shoulders stiffening with a tension only good, old-fashioned revenge can satisfy.
Rule number one in this line of work: you don’t threaten the don’s wife.
“There will be no next time,” Leon says with a quiet kind of ferocity that would make a lesser man quake. He turns and nods me toward the vehicle parked out back, engine on and raring to go.
I take the hint and carry her the last few feet toward the getaway car before throwing her into the back seat with a generous amount of callousness.
Carmen scrambles to readjust herself. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of you.”
I roll my eyes despite the fact she can’t see and lean over to strap her in securely. “He can try.”
“I’ll tell him to get you first,” she hisses. “I’ll tell him to do it slowly.”
There’s no reason why such a threat should go straight to my crotch. But it does, and I’m reminded once more that Carmen Rubio’s rage is something really very sweet.
“Well, it’s been a delight, princess,” I say as I step away from the car, tapping the hood twice to let the driver know she’s secure. “But I can sincerely say, from the very bottom of my heart, I hope our paths never cross again.”
2
CARMEN
It’s a cruel twist of irony that I would find myself, mere hours after expressing my distaste for the prison that had become Rubio mansion, in an altogether different kind of prison.
At least my family home had modern amenities, comfortable beds, and familiar, if not somewhat jeering, faces.
The Prince’s Guild are either suffering more harshly than my father suspected from the ongoing war, or they simply don’t care about me enough to provide simple comforts. I’m smart enough to suspect the latter while still hoping for the former.
Either way, the man assigned to me today is more useless than most. He might be named Alex. Or perhaps this one is Martino. I don’t care to remember.
Thankfully, I’ve not had to deal with the one who kidnapped me yet, the man with the infuriating smile and personal space issues.
He’s the first on my list when I get out of here. He’s the one I’ll have killed first.
“Eat something,” whoever he is barks over his shoulder.
He’s been watching the TV for the last hour. He turned it on immediately after trading shifts with the last guy and throwing a bunch of vending machine snacks on the bed I’m curled up on. One of my hands is cuffed to the bedframe.
It’s a dingy apartment somewhere in Manhattan. That much I’ve been able to discern from peering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. The skyline offers me at least some semblance of navigational bearing.
Technically, it’s more of a studio or perhaps even a hotel room. There’s a small kitchenette in the corner, the appliances seemingly groaning under the weight of their own age, and the space is entirely open plan.
My college dorm room was bigger than this.
“I need water,” I declare to the back of his head.
He doesn’t even look around, just gestures to the bed. “There’s something there.”
“This is carbonated sugar,” I grimace down at the near-fluorescent green bottle amongst the chip packets and candy wrappers.
