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The familiar ringing sounds of the casino reach my ears. Lovato pivots around another corner and then clambers to an abrupt stop. Lying face down on the floor in a pool of his own blood is another one of Lovato’s guys. He’s directly in the path to the last door in the corridor.
“FUCK!” Lovato screams. “He’s taking out all my guys!”
In an unmistakable act of panic, Lovato flees for the stairwell again. The last thing he expects is to rush onto the landing and encounter Gio on a staircase two flights above us.
“FUCK!” he yells again. He aims his pistol upward and opens fire, missing both shots.
“GIO!” I scream before I’m whisked off once more like a rag doll. I throw a panicked glance over my shoulder in time to see Gio leaping down rows of stairs.
Lovato only pushes us faster. We tumble down the steps and then launch ourselves down the next set. Gio’s thunderous footsteps echo only a flight above us as he closes Lovato’s lead.
If this comes down to pure physicality, Lovato’s toast. Gio’s faster, stronger, and hungrier. He knows this, which is why he twists around and fires some more warning shots.
When we reach the next landing, we escape through the door. We stumble onto the main casino floor, surrounded by patrons running in every direction. We’re standing in the middle of a mob shootout.
Gunfire cracks, and the abrasive sound vibrates right through me. I’m so lost in the chaos, my brain can’t process the danger. The bullets whizzing by and the horrified chorus of screams are too much all at once.
Lovato drags us deeper into the chaos. The game tables blur. People stampede by. At some point, I squeeze my eyes shut and run blind. I don’t know what’s going on ’til we flounder our way across concrete and into the casino parking lot.
“Keys!” Lovato roars before he shoots a man next to an SUV. The man crumples over, his arm flopping to his side.
Lovato snatches the keys and shoves me across the driver's side. I’m struggling to untwist myself in the passenger seat as he starts the engine and swings out of the parking space.
He slams the gas. The SUV’s tires screech. We shoot forward as Gio bursts through the doors leading into the parking garage. I stick my arms out the window to flag him down and alert him to our vehicle speeding off. “GIO!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Lovato’s open palm collides with my cheek. He digs his fingers into my hair and yanks my head back. He steers with his other arm, spinning the wheel hard. The SUV crashes onto Las Vegas Boulevard and nearly collides with a taxi driving by.
Something inside me snaps. I’ve had enough of men putting their hands on me in recent weeks. His smack is one too many.
I claw at his face without care that he’s driving.
“Bitch!” he screams, trying to pull his face away from me. He loses control of the wheel while fighting me off.
The SUV slides between lanes, cutting off cars. We jump a construction barricade separating the two sides of traffic. Horns blare as we veer toward cars speeding the opposite way.
Lovato’s fist connects with my brow. The hit’s hard enough to get me off him as I fall back into my seat and pain explodes on my face. He clasps both hands on the wheel and weaves against the blinding headlights of oncoming cars.
“You stupid bitch, you’re gonna get us killed!”
I’m still reeling from his hit. Slumped in the passenger seat, my face throbs as I squint out the window at the city lights whizzing by.
“The asshole’s following us!” Lovato exclaims, checking the rearview. His voice shakes with mingled horror and shock. “He’s cutting through traffic!”
I gather every ounce of strength I have to push myself up in the seat and look behind us.
Lovato’s right.
A black sports car speeds toward us, weaving wildly between lanes. I recognize the driving immediately—it’s Gio showcasing more of his reckless speed demon skills. He’s gaining on us by the second.
Lovato spins the SUV around another street corner and narrowly misses a group of tourists crossing the street on their way to the old Strip. Their terrified screams trail behind us even after we’re gone.
We jump onto the next freeway entrance, so close to the side railing, the SUV doors spark against the metal.
I’m beyond terror at this point. My heart’s speeding as fast as we’re driving and I’m cold with sweat, but it’s impossible to pinpoint what’s causing these reactions—every moment of the last hour has been equally traumatizing and dangerous.
Gio fires at our tires. The first two shots are misses. The third lands on our back left. Lovato releases a string of cuss words and struggles with the wheel as we ascend the freeway on-ramp.
