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Dante yanks me upright again. “Let’s go find out,” he says, screeching to a halt in front of Frank’s place. There aren’t any other cars around, not even Frank’s.
I fumble with the seatbelt, pissed off by the way my hands are trembling and so jittery I feel like I might be sick. Before I can get it open, Dante comes around to my side and opens my door.
“Come on,” he says grimly, taking my hand again.
My steps falter as I notice that Frank’s front door is already open, the wood around the knob splintered and cracked, as if it’s been kicked in.
“Shit,” I whisper, my heart lurching.
“Pretty much,” Dante agrees, pushing me behind him and then dropping my hand to pull out his weapon. “Stay back for a sec, princess.”
He cautiously pushes the door the rest of the way open, peering inside. I rub my arms, a sudden chill running through me, and go up on my toes to see over his shoulder.
Nothing moves. At least, nothing I can see. The blinds are all closed, and just a few slivers of dim light from the streetlights make it through the broken slats, barely penetrating the dingy front room of Frank’s apartment.
“Wait here,” Dante says in a low voice before silently slipping into the dark room.
I don’t wait.
I can’t.
“Dad?” I call out as I follow him inside, earning a quick, angry scowl from Dante. But then I hear my da—Frank wheezing, and I push past him and rush across the room. “Goddammit, Frank.”
He’s on the floor, and each slow, rattling breath he manages sounds like a painful struggle.
I drop down next to him. My knees land in a clammy, wet puddle that smells metallic and dank. I know it’s blood even before my eyes adjust, and I don’t realize I’m crying until my voice comes out thick and tight.
“He’s been shot,” I say, pressing my hands over the wound in his gut.
Frank grunts softly, the pale gleam of his eyes fixing on my face.
“Don’t you fucking die.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps dragging in those painful, wheezing breaths, the space between each one getting longer and longer.
I lean in. “Frank! Where’s my sister? Who shot you? Was she here?”
Dante’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Princ—”
Something crunches out on the porch, and Dante whirls around, cutting the word off with a curse as he raises his weapon and moves between me and the door. Then he lowers it.
“Madd. Logan,” he greets them, stepping to the side. “Someone got to Sutton.”
Logan moves around the perimeter of the room as silently as a ghost as Maddoc comes closer.
“Dead?” he asks, his gun drawn as he approaches to stand behind me.
“Not yet.” I clear my throat, lifting a shoulder to scrub my face against it when my vision blurs. I press down on Frank’s wound even harder, his hot blood still oozing out between my fingers.
“We’re alone,” Logan says from behind me.
The men all tuck their weapons away, and Logan flicks on the lights.
My stomach heaves. The place has been ransacked, and there are smears of blood and broken pieces of furniture near the walls that make me think taking a shot in the stomach was the end of a much longer conversation Frank had with his attackers.
One that involved them trying to get something from him.
Something that must have to do with my sister.
