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I’m forced to drop Santino and run for cover. Bullets nip at my heels as I dive behind the container and search my pockets for ammo. How many construction workers were still here when I decided to break in? I’d ask Finn, but I can hardly even hear myself think over the sound of the echoing gunfire.
I don’t have enough ammo, I realize with a pang of dread. My gut clenches and my heart trembles. I can’t fight these guys, not if I ever want to see Nia again. I have to run, and I’m not going to be able to drag Santino’s dead body with me.
I curse myself for being so careless. There’s a switchblade in my jacket pocket that I easily could have used to slit Santino’s throat with. No one would have ever heard that.
I’m such an idiot—I just couldn’t wait to be done with that rat and go back to Nia, but now, even in death, Santino may truly be the end of me.
I scan the warehouse for a way out. The door I came in through is too far and too exposed to get to, but there’s a half-shattered window nearby that I might be able to break through. After a quick second look-over of my surroundings, I decide that the window’s my only way out.
The approaching gunshots are almost on my ass now; I don’t have another second to waste. I jump to my feet, point my Glock at the window, and fire as I run, using all of my bullets to try and break what remains of the heavy glass before I put my shoulder down and plunge myself through it.
Luckily, it shatters against my body weight and I go flying through the frame, eventually landing on the hard gravel outside.
A sharp pain shoots up my bad arm and makes me grumble in agony.
Fuck this shit so much, I curse, as I pull myself to my feet and look for Finn. I need to get out of here asap.
Finn’s patrol car is nowhere to be found, but as I run in the direction where I hope he might be, the sound of gunfire behind me fades enough that I can finally hear him shouting through my earpiece.
“Ronan! Buddy! Respond! What’s happening!?”
“Santino’s dead,” I growl, slipping my Glock into its holster and clutching at my burning arm. “But I don’t have his body. Those construction workers were protecting him. Where are you!?”
“I’m on the northwest corner,” Finn’s panicked voice crackles over the airwaves.
I look towards the setting sun to get my bearings “Drive south. I’m almost at the southwest corner now. We need to get out of here fast, before we’re seen together.”
Finn doesn’t respond, but the screeching of his tires over my earpiece is enough to indicate that he’s on his way. I stumble through a makeshift hole in the warehouse’s electric fence and roll out onto the sidewalk. By some miracle, there’s no one around—everyone must have been scared off by the gunshots.
I pull myself back onto my feet and watch out for Finn. A heavy weight rocks in my gut, threatening to push me back to my knees. My nerves are shot. I try to blink back into focus and regain some sense of control over my surroundings, but the stone in my gut is making it impossible. My hands are shaking and my legs are weak.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It takes me a second, but when I realize what’s come over me, I nearly puke in disgust.
I’m afraid.
For the first time in god knows how long, I’m scared.
Of what!? I’ve been in shootouts before. I’ve been outnumbered more times than I can count. What makes this time any different!?
I hear the screeching of tires and feel a sense of relief when I see Finn’s patrol car finally whipping around the corner. It’s only then that I realize what makes this time different than all the others.
Now, I have someone to lose.
And no, it’s not Finn who I’m afraid of losing. Finn’s just the bridge, the chariot that can rescue me from hell and bring me to where I need to be, to where I want to be:
With Nia.
I have no time to ice my burning arm or calm my aching heart. There’s a meeting I have to attend, and I can only hope that I’ve done enough to make it out of it alive.
Santino’s dead, but I have no proof. How far will my word go with Gianni Barone?
There’s only one way to find out.
I walk into the godfather’s penthouse office just after 9:30pm, half-an-hour before the Russians are set to show up. The whole family’s here, and still, the room is so big that it hardly feels full. I try to conceal the pain that’s shooting through my arm—no one likes the look of a weak enforcer, especially one who’s tiptoeing on the edge of complete failure.
With Finn’s help, I patched myself up earlier and even went home for a shower. This is far too historic a meeting to show up at covered in grime and sweat and blood. It was all I could do to look my best, even though I definitely don’t feel it. Besides my aching body, my heart is on fire. I didn’t have the chance to stop by Chelly’s and see Nia.
