Page 356 of Don’t Say Mafia

The warehouse froze for half a second.

Cruz moved first, running over and dropping to one knee beside Gage as he pressed fingers to his neck. “His pulse is thready—he’s bleeding out!”

He jumped up and began to yell something to the crew, but I couldn’t focus.

For one of the first times in my life . . . I was feeling fear.

Because suddenly every guard I’d stationed at the casino didn’t feel like enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Zachary!” I yelled, and he appeared almost immediately from the shadows near the back exit.

“Get to the penthouse,” I ordered. “Protect her. No one gets near her. No one. You understand?”

Zachary nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“Go. Now.”

He didn’t hesitate. He scooped Gage’s Glock off the floor, checked the chamber, and sprinted for the side door.

The crew was scattering, some grabbing rifles from the open crates, some heading for defensive positions. Cruz was pulling a weapon from the nearest pallet and checking the mag.

I knelt by Gage, ripped my shirtsleeve off, and pressed the fabric hard against the wound. Blood soaked through instantly. “Stay with me, buddy,” I muttered. “You don’t get to bleed out in our fucking warehouse.”

Cruz crouched on the other side, applying pressure with both hands. “He’s losing too much. We need to move him.”

Shouts erupted outside as boots pounded across the gravel. Car doors slammed, and engines roared to life. A heartbeat later, gunfire split the night, sharp bursts tearing through the metal siding.

The crew returned fire immediately. Bullets whined overhead, sparking off steel beams and ricocheting against concrete.

Dragging Gage behind a stack of pallets, I propped him against the wood. Cruz handed me a rifle, and I checked the mag, racked a round, and rose just as the main loading doors exploded inward.

Men poured through in black tactical gear, their rifles up, moving with disciplined efficiency. Irish accents barked orders over the gunfire.

And then Declan stepped into the light.

The same Declan I’d warned away in the high roller room the night I met Eden. Same cold eyes, same crooked smile, same arrogance that had made me want to put a bullet in him right then and there.

He raised a hand, and his men stopped shooting. The warehouse fell into an eerie, ringing quiet broken only by the groan of settling metal and Gage’s shallow breathing.

Declan spread his arms like he was greeting old friends. “Evening, lads,” he called. “Nice night for a bit of business.”

Cruz stepped forward beside me, his rifle trained on Declan’s chest. I flanked him, my finger resting lightly on the trigger. I lifted my gun slightly. “You should’ve listened the last time we spoke.”

Declan smirked. “I’ve never been too good at that,” he said.

“Is this where he explains the master plan?” Cruz asked mildly. “Because I hate exposition.”

Declan laughed. “We’re not here just to chat, boys. We’re here to end you. But we’re not going to kill you quickly. No. We’re saving that for after we’ve got Thatcher’s pretty little girlfriend. Thought I’d stop by and let you know the plan. Fair warning, yeah? She’ll be screaming your name while we carve pieces off her. Slowly. So you can hear every second of it before we finish you.”

My blood turned to ice, then to fire so hot it scorched every thought.

Cruz’s jaw locked beside me. “We’re going to kill you, Declan. No matter what, I’m going to personally cut off your dick and shove it down your throat. I hope you’re ready for that.”

Declan’s face fell slightly. Anyone who’d heard anything about Cruz knew that he didn’t make idle threats.

I wasn’t sure at the moment how he was going to pull this one off, but I wasn’t going to bet against him. I just hoped he had a good plan.