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“I might have been better off if he did,” I say, wrinkling up my nose. “Honestly, I think his villain speeches were better. He’s a proper badass, you know? Whereas Oliver was so whiny, putting on the guilt trips . . . like Jesus dude, get on Tinder, get over it.”
Callum stares at me for a second, then he starts laughing so hard that his shoulders shake.
“Aida, you’re out of your fucking mind,” he says.
I shrug. “Just a helpful critique.”
I dial Dante’s phone, but it’s Nero who picks up.
“Aida?” he says.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Thank fucking hell. I thought I was gonna have to drive over there in a second.”
“Why, where are you?”
“At the hospital. Dante’s been shot. He’s alright though!” he hastens to add. “Zajac got him in the side—he didn’t hit anything crucial.”
“That filthy shit!” I seethe. “He’ll pay for that.”
“He already did,” Nero says blandly. “He’s dead. Dante’s got better aim than the Butcher.”
“Dead? Are you sure?”
Cal looks over at me, following my side of the conversation, but equally disbelieving.
“Totally sure,” Nero says firmly. “Unless he’s got a spare head laying around somewhere, he’s done for.”
“Well, shit,” I say, leaning back against my seat. This really was an eventful night.
I look over at Callum, whose face looks pale beneath the soot. He’s got a nasty cut over his right eyebrow, and he winces a little every time he takes a deep breath.
Come to think of it, I’m not exactly in tiptop shape myself. My hand is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and my ring and pinky fingers have swollen up again. I’m probably going to need another cast.
“What hospital are you at?” I ask Nero. “We might need to join you.”
It takes a couple of hours for Callum and me to get cleaned up and patched up at St. Joseph’s. Dante will be there a few days at least—they had to put three pints of blood back into him. Jack and Nero are keeping him company. I’m shocked to see their bruised and battered faces.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask them.
“While Dante was having a shootout at the mistress’s apartment, Jack and I were NOT finding the Butcher and getting our asses kicked by his lieutenant instead.”
“Not just the lieutenant,” Jack says. He’s got a black eye so bad he can’t even see on the left side. “There were at least four of them.”
“Jack here is a serious brawler,” Nero says, in an impressed tone. “He gave em the old ground and pound, didn’t ya, Jackie boy?”
“I guess he’s not so bad when he’s on our side,” I say.
Jack gives me a half-grin—only half because the other side of his face is too swollen to move.
“Was that a compliment?” he says.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I tell him.
“You two aren’t looking so hot, either,” Nero informs me.
“Well that’s where you’re wrong,” I snicker. “If we were any hotter we would have been charcoal briquettes.”
