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I put a hand on his chest before he takes another step closer to the door. “Wait. You didn’t need to come here tonight. But I want you to know I appreciate it. And I’ll make sure her father knows you showed up, too. Now keep your eyes open. I don’t need any more blood on my hands, got it?”
Gabe lets out a snort. “Fuck off, bitch. Worry about yourself.”
I roll my eyes and shove him aside, inching closer to the dingy metal door. With a throbbing pulse, I pull open the door; the stench of stale cigarette smoke tinged with scotch assaults my nostrils. I nod toward Gabe, and he covers the other side of the door. I creep inside. A few lights hang over beaten-up pool tables, marijuana smoke swirling through the air. A jukebox sits silent in a far corner.
The silence is deafening.
And fucking excruciating, if I’m being honest.
A piercing scream shatters the eerie stillness, and I dart in the direction of the desperate pleas.
It’s Layla.
I pull out my gun and point to Gabe, directing him to cover me as I run toward a back room. I have no fucking clue what waits for me beyond that door, but my friend is in trouble. Serious fucking trouble.
Her father, Antonio deVincenzo, was the only other person in the family who’d believed that I had more to offer the family than smashed up skulls. He was the only one who gave me a real shot at my own business, until that asshole Rocco Lucchese fucked us both, leaving me with nothing but this dead-end job under Nico’s watchful eye.
I never forgot what Antonio did for me.
And I owe him plenty, even in death. Lung cancer drained the life out of him last spring, but I’m still paying back the debt.
Feels like I’ve been paying it back for a long time.
But this is the last installment. I can’t keep putting my ass on the line. I need to think about my future, meaning I’d like to have a future.
Gabe does a quick check and waves me toward the door a minute later. “All clear,” he mouths.
I don’t like this one bit.
This place looks like a fucking bloodbath waiting to happen. Something is wrong…very wrong. Why isn’t this place crawling with thugs? Where the fuck is everyone?
Napping because they ate too much fucking turkey?
Doubtful…
I inch closer to the door, shooting out a hand and shoving it open to find Layla squirming under some beefy dipshit who didn’t have the foresight to lock the front door. He has one hand under her skirt and one hand slapped over her mouth. He turns around, his eyes red and bloodshot, face dripping with sweat. He drags himself to his feet, a shit-eating grin on his pock-marked face. His belt is undone, jeans hanging around his ass. Layla scrambles into a corner. Her face is streaked with black eye makeup, her teeth chattering so violently, she can’t even speak. Her eyes are filled with terror, her body shaking uncontrollably.
I swallow hard, breathing deep to control my heartbeat. My hand is steady, trained on the bastard who’d just dry humped his last victim. He should be thanking his lucky stars that his dick is still inside of his pants.
Otherwise, I’d have shot off the head in his pants before blowing off the one on his shoulders.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Blood and bits of brain and bone splatter all over the wall before his body crashes to the floor with a loud thump. A shriek that can shatter glass follows, and I sideswipe Layla’s attacker, holding out a hand to pull her up.
But she continues to cower in the corner.
“Layla, babe. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Let me help you up.”
Still, she just shakes her head, stuttering something I can’t make out, shivering and huddling closer to the wall.
“Layla,” I say again, louder this time. “I need you to come with me. Is there anyone else—?”
Crack!
A single gunshot explodes from behind me.
“Gabe!” I shout, jumping to my feet and twisting around…
