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“But your knuckles…”
My fingers ache like hell when I straighten them out, inspecting my ruined hand with a blank expression. Over by the attacker, Raul hums and pulls out a small stack of crumpled polaroids from the man’s front pocket.
I walk over, gut tight.
“Old school.” Crouching by the doctor’s side, I’m glad for the distraction. The first photo is of Leah’s bookshop—no surprises there. The second is a shot of my girl stepping out of her front door, probably taken from inside the bus stop shelter.
I’ll change her name. Get her in some witness protection program. Or hell, I’ll go begging Santo for help, cap in hand.
Whatever it takes to keep her safe.
“You’re here. Figures.” Raul drops a photo of me on the man’s chest, disinterested. Then there’s one of Diego, Santo’s brutal right-hand man, followed by a photo of the doctor himself, peering through his glasses at a restaurant menu.
Raul freezes, the last photo crinkling in his suddenly tight grip. I frown, leaning closer. “Who is it?”
The doctor doesn’t speak. Not sure he can right now. He tilts the photo to show me the next face on this hit man’s To Do list, and the pieces thunk together in my aching brain.
Raul’s monk-like existence, never showing the slightest interest in either men or women.
His caution around Santo, tip-toeing around our icy boss like there’s something unspoken on the line.
His habit of calling at the compound, checking in way more than we’re commanded to, sometimes sleeping there for weeks at a time—and the tension rolling off him now in crackling waves.
“The boss’s little sister, huh? You’re brave.”
Raul’s hand twitches, the photo of Allegra De Rossi crumpling in his fist. He sniffs and puts it down slowly, with far more care than any of the others.
Well, this is too rich. “You’re asking for a one-way trip in the trunk of a car, doc.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Raul pinches the bridge of his nose. Migraine alert. “I need to get her out of the city.”
I roll my eyes. “Hypocrite.”
As if Santo would go for that. As ifAllegrawould either. She’s a spitfire, raised and hardened in our world, more likely to kill a hit man than to fall victim.
Not like my Leah. Sweet, innocent, too-good-for-this-bullshit Leah.
My bones ache as I push to my feet. I hold out a hand to the huddled young woman, trying not to wince at the fear still pinching her face.
“Come on, bella. You’ll be safer at the compound than here.” I ignore Raul’s harsh snort, and plaster a reassuring smile over my face. “Our boss won’t hurt you. Not when I explain everything.”
Not when I make whatever trades necessary to ensure Leah’s safety. Not once I sign away whatever’s left of my soul.
Leah doesn’t move, and I’m so fucking hollow. Tumbling into an abyss. I risk a step closer, and at least she doesn’t scramble back, but god. Her face is so pale.
“Let’s go, baby. You can see the holiday decorations at the De Rossi mansion. The boss doesn’t scrimp on a Christmas tree, you’ll see.”
Leah looks dazed as she stands, wobbling on her bare feet. She blinks toward the shadowy doorway to her bedroom. “I should change…”
“Just put on shoes.” The faster we get her to safety, the better, and Raul clearly isn’t worth shit now that he’s seen that photo of Allegra. He’s staring down at the hit man with a hard jaw and empty eyes, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn tomorrow that the good doctor snapped the man’s neck. “I’ll take care of everything else, okay?”
“The shop…”
Leah’s trembling. That’s not just cold.
“I’ll take care of it. Shoes, baby.”
It’s a small victory when she stumbles toward the bedroom, but man do I need it.
