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Who’s bleeding? Whose blood is that? Who’s—
I don’t realize I’m yelling, that the thoughts aren’t in my head, until Luca yanks me into his side with one arm, still firing over the edge of the table. I clutch at him, and he stops firing long enough to grip my face with the hand holding the gun. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything. I shake my head.
Frustration crosses his face, and he turns my head so I can see Angel.
It’s Angel’s blood pouring from a wound in his shoulder. As I look at him, the exchange of gunfire lessens and abruptly stops. I peer over the table in time to see the retreat of several men, their tats and clothing identifying them as clearly as if they’d been carrying a sign.
I slump back down and exchange a look with Luca. “The 17s.” He nods.
We stay in position for another several minutes, and then as the smoke clears, Angel staggers to his feet with the help of one of his men.
Luca follows, pulling me up to stand beside him.
Evie follows more slowly. She glances over at Angel and shrugs out of her sweater, balling it up and pressing it to his wound. She jerks her head at one of his men. “Hold pressure on this, you idjit.”
Angel’s expression is carved in stone as he surveys the damage to Bastoni e Pietre. Bodies litter the room—mostly unassuming waiters and waitresses who weren’t prepared to be fired upon, but there are several of our people as well and more than a few members of the various families who were simply present for a meal. A woman sobs as she kneels beside the body of a teenage boy. The maître d’ slumps against the bar, a bullet hole puncturing his forehead, his eyes vacant. The waiter I’d taken to task moments earlier lies beside the upturned table, a bottle of wine spilled beside him, and his white shirt stained red with blood.
I feel sick.
The 17s have done the unthinkable, and they will pay the price.
An attack in a neutral territory such as the Bastoni e Pietre is akin to an act of war.
“It’s time to go to the mattresses, ladies and gentlemen,” Angel announces to no one in particular and everyone at once.
We’re officially at war with the 17s.
Chapter 30
Epilogue
“YoustillthinkI’ma nice guy?” Luca tests the silken restraints binding my wrists to the headboard and tugs sharply on my clit. I gasp.
“No! God, I’m sorry! It’s just that it’s been a few weeks since you’ve unalived anyone—”
“Unalived?” The corner of his mouth crooks up in amusement.
I glance over at Baccio, panting in the doorway. “I don’t want to use the K word.”
“Ah. Baccio.” The dog blinks lazily. “Go lie down.”
Baccio’s tongue lolls out, and he lies down. I giggle.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” Luca releases the nipple clamps he attached earlier, and sensation, sharp and hot, floods my system. It travels a direct line from breast to clit, and I draw up like a bow, arching against the acute wave of pleasure-pain that makes me shake and tremble like a leaf in an eddy, on the brink of an orgasm so powerful I can’t give myself over to it for fear it will consume me.
“Oh, God.”
Bending forward over my body, he licks the crest of one breast and sucks my nipple into his mouth, drawing a moan from me. His fingers delve between my legs, one dipping into my pussy to stroke and thrust shallowly. He lowers himself slowly until his face is level with my hips.
“I’m sorry I said it,” I say, pulling against the ties at my wrists. From between my legs, Luca lifts his head and grins. It’s an evil, wicked thing. He’s already brought me to orgasm twice, once on his fingers and once on his mouth, and his position between my legs says he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.
“I’m not a nice guy,” he says, reaching up with one hand to twist my oversensitive nipple.
“You’re not. You’re really not.” My voice is thin.
“You know better than that.”
His fingers work me harder, showing me that he’s anything but soft, and my head rolls back against the mattress. I’m on the verge of coming for a third time when the sound of the doorbell peals through the apartment, and Luca goes stiff above me.
