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My heart is pounding. Ignoring the traffic light and an oncoming car, I dart across the cross street. I hear a shout behind me; one of the men is caught by the tide of traffic. The alley’s opening is about a hundred yards ahead, a black maw to my left. I increase my pace, conscious that behind me, the men have done the same.
“Don’t run, baby.”
“They’re right behind me, Luca.”
“Being in public is your only defense right now. Don’t panic, or everyone around you will instinctively scatter.”
I glance across the street into the storefront windows, where they are reflecting my side of the street. The first man has crossed the street and is growing closer to me.
I’m closing in on the opening to the alley and risk a look over my shoulder. The man realizes what I’m doing and increases his own pace, one hand reaching into the pocket of his jacket.
I make a sound, something fearful that I barely recognize as coming from my own lips. This isn’t me. They frisk for weapons at the Pits, so I don’t have my gun. I had picked one up from Luca’s dead security last night to return fire but dropped it just as quickly when Luca pulled me to the floor. It was still there, in the floor well of his vehicle. I don’t have my dog or my men. I’m as helpless as any ordinary woman out here.
“Fuck—” Luca’s curse sounds clearly through the phone, sending a bubble of hysteria up through my throat and out my lips. “Get to the alley. When you get there, that’s when you run. Hard. Fast.”
Another two steps, and I’m in the alley. I don’t look back, and I don’t hesitate, but I sprint as if my life depends on it. For all I know, my life does depend on it. I run harder than I’ve ever run in my life, conscious of pounding steps behind me and concrete stretching out before and above me. The sky is a leaden strip high above me, and when guns fire several times in succession, the sound ricocheting off the brickwork to either side of me, I wonder if that will be the last thing I see.
A gray New York City sky, heavy with grit and grief.
The alley is eternal, and I run harder toward its end.
A homeless man stands up from behind a dumpster and shouts. There’s another shot and a heavy thump as he falls to the ground. The homeless man is dead.
“Luca!” I gasp into the phone, which I’m weirdly still holding to my ear. There’s no answer.
I can’t breathe. It’s happening again. Right when I need him the most, he’s not here. I’m not worth it, not worth fighting for. He won’t be here, he won’t—
And then he’s there, my avenging angel rising up at the end of the alley, leaping from a black SUV. He yells for me to get down, waving his arm and running toward me. Running into hell.
I drop, scraping my knees and elbows on the pavement before landing hard and sliding forward on my collarbone. Luca aims and shoots, and the gunman falls, twisting and groaning on the ground. Luca looks past him to the second man and proffers him a bullet in the forehead. He falls instantly.
No one else is in the alley, the third man having cut his losses and disappeared.
Luca walks past me and goes to the first gunman. He grabs him by the hair and slams his head over and over against the asphalt until he stops making noises.
Then, wordlessly, he scoops me up from the ground and carries me to the car.
Chapter 17
Luca
She’ssafe,sittingbesideme in my SUV. Safe for how long, though? I take another long look at Carina. She’s quiet and staring sideways out the window as I drive away from the mess I left.
I reach for my phone and pause. My fingers are flecked with blood. It’s the hand I used to smash his skull in. I scroll through my contacts until I find who I’m looking for.
He picks up on the first ring.
“I have a cleanup I need taken care of. I’ll send you the code.” I hang up, not waiting for his answer, and text the code and location. My gaze flickers from the road to my phone. I also glance at Carina, but I can’t see her face, as her head is turned away from me.
She’s not going home, not while they’re fucking hunting her. I’ll have to take her to another safe house since I don’t like to use the same one two nights in a row unless it’s absolutely necessary.
The safe house I’m thinking about is rarely used and, at that, only in extreme emergencies. Normally, I’d have to get permission from my father before using it, but I think it’s probably better to ask for forgiveness later than it is for permission now. I’m at the point where I’m done trusting anyone other than myself.
My chin itches, and I reach up to touch it but then remember my hand is coated in blood. I move the rearview mirror and catch sight of myself. Blood has splattered onto the side of my face. I look like a monster. I’m sure that’s how I looked as I repeatedly smashed his head into the pavement.
It’s not enough. There wasn’t enough pain he could feel or blood he could shed to feed the anger inside me.
My knuckles ache, and I loosen the tense grip I have on the steering wheel. I’m trying not to turn the car around and continue pummeling the man’s dead body. I glance at Carina, and it hits me like a fist colliding into my chest: I’ll do whatever it takes. I can’t lose her.
