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We had no proof of life, but this was Greta. That’s how we knew she was still alive. Because she couldn’t fucking be dead.
Something cold gripped my heart, like a fist of ice wrapping around it.
Gabe pressed his hand over the earpiece in his ear, then nodded, and yanked the thing out.
“Nico says our men have recovered three bombs,” he said. “One behind your bar, and the others in Luca and Luciano warehouses. There are no timers on them; Dynamite says they’re rigged to remote detonate.”
So, Domínguez hadn’t intended to come at us with just manpower; he was using every weapon in his arsenal.
“What about the Costas?” Deo asked.
Gabe shook his head. “Nothing yet, but they’ll keep looking.”
“They” was a combination of all our men, all sweeping every property we owned for bombs, Domínguez men, and whatever else he had lying in wait for us.
“It’s Onyx,” I said, remembering the two men who’d followed Greta and I from there. Plant a bomb and then try to snatch up Greta? It sounded exactly like something Domínguez would do.
Gabe nodded. “Aldo’s searching now, but we can’t close the club down without giving ourselves away, so he’s having to be discreet about it.”
He tossed his earpiece into the bushes in front of us. There was no sense in keeping it, not when it would give Domínguez a direct line to the don of the Costa family.
I glanced at my watch. There was still a full minute left. It felt like an eternity. Every tick was a lifetime. Waiting, knowing she was right there.
It wasn’t my style to lurk in bushes. Every fiber of my body wanted to go charging in there, to get her out and burn Domínguez and all his assholes to the ground.
“You do know that no part of this plan feels like a good idea,” I said, focusing on keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground and not flying across the street into the goddamned house.
The corners of Gabe’s lips twitched. “That’s how you know you’re doing it right,amico.”
Deo scoffed. “If you say so.”
The minute was finally up.
“Enough talking,” I said, standing up. There wasn’t much point in trying to be stealthy.
Greta was in there, and it felt like the world’s most powerful magnet was trying to draw me forward.
“Time to move, my friends. Time to send every one of those fuckers to hell,” I said, pretending we weren’t about to walk into fuck only knew what kind of nightmare.
Gabe and Deo stood up.
Safeties off.
Adrenaline pumping.
We circled around the bushes, guns in hand. It was dark, but thanks to the streetlamps, we weren’t exactly shadows moving across the street and up the cracked and crumbling walk to the old house’s front door.
Without pausing to listen inside, I blew out the lock, and we rushed in.
Right into the barrels of three guns.
Three more were pointed at Leo, Tate, and Vito, who’d come in through the back in tandem.
I froze and looked around, but it was a mistake.
Because there he was. The man with a gun held to Greta’s head.
Javier Domínguez.
