Lorenzo leans against a crate. He’s got one hand pressed to his side. He’s grinning. Crazy bastard.
“Well. That was fun.”
“How bad?”
“Flesh wound. I’ll live. Probably.” He spits blood. “Can’t say the same for half our guys. Fucking traitors.”
I scan the carnage, counting the faces I recognize on the floor.
Too fucking many.
“Bea.”
Lorenzo’s grin fades.
I’m already moving. Toward the side door. Toward the SUVs.
“What about—boss—the bodies. The cleanup.”
“Leave them.”
“Boss—”
“Victor’s going to make a move on her.”
“We’ve got the place guarded. Enough men to?—”
“How many of those men are mine, Lorenzo? How many of them arelike these fuckers in here?How many of them did Victor buy a week ago and tell to wait?”
A beat.
“Shit.”
I break into a sprint.
“We need to get back. Now!”
33
BEA
The clock on the wall says two in the morning.
He left at ten.
He’s going to come back.
He promised.
I close my eyes.
A sound.
I open them.
Not a sound from inside. Outside. Below the window. A voice—not raised, just clear, the way a man’s voice carries on cold air.
Then another voice. Closer.
