Page 197 of Vicious Temptation

My eyes snap up.

A masked man stands a few feet away, a gun aimed at my head. I drop just as the shot explodes, sending the round into the wall above my workbench.

“Shit.”

Of course, this would happen the one time my gun is out of reach.

His footsteps close in as he moves cautiously, unsure whether I’m armed. He has to know the only reason he isn’t bleeding out on my floor is that I’m not.

How the fuck did he even get in here?

The thought of Papá hits me so suddenly that everything else disappears.

What if this man caught him outside?

Panic surges through me, but I force myself to think. There was no suppressor, and I would’ve heard another shot if he’d fired at him. He’s safe, or at least I have to believe he is until I know otherwise.

My fear quickly gives way to rage.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my butterfly knife and snap it open. It won’t kill him, but it might buy me the opening I need. I have one chance to get this right, and if I miss, I’m dead.

I focus on his footsteps as he moves around the front of the car. With one hand braced against the bumper, I shift away from the rear quarter panel and wait for him to come into view.

The moment he does, I throw the knife. The blade hits him, and he fires three rounds as I dive behind the opposite side of the car and stay crouched.

I recognize the Glock 43 and quickly count the shots in my head. He fired once when he came in and three more when the knife hit him, leaving him with two rounds in the standard six-round magazine.

Spotting a loose bolt on the ground beside me, I scoop it up and toss it over the hood.

He takes the bait and fires twice in quick succession.

Fucking amateur.

I round the front of the car with a grin.

“You lose something?”

His dark eyes snap to mine as he fumbles for another magazine, but before he can get it loaded, I’m already moving.

I launch myself at him.

Going after an armed man while he’s trying to reload probably isn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, but this motherfucker just shot up my garage, and I’m not giving him another chance.

He swings and catches me in the jaw.

Pain erupts across my face, but I swallow it and drive my knee straight into his groin. He doubles over with a strangled grunt, and I introduce his jaw to my right uppercut. It sends him stumbling backward, his eyes briefly losing focus before locking on me again.

“Bitch!” he grinds out as he lunges for my throat.

I pivot out of his reach, rip the butterfly knife from his arm, and plunge it into his side twice. He roars and spins toward me, obscenities pouring from his mouth, but by then I’ve already grabbed the crowbar and swing. The metal connects with his skull with a sickening crack, spraying blood across the windshield of the RX-7.

He collapses face-first against the rim and doesn’t move.

I crouch beside him, searching his pockets for weapons, and toss two spare magazines and another handgun across the garage before ripping off his mask. I don’t recognize him. He looks about my age, with dark, shaggy hair and a face I’m certain I’ve never seen.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, breathing heavily as the adrenaline starts to wear off.

I shoot to my feet and grab my phone. Papá answers on the second ring, and relief floods through me at the sound of his voice.