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“How would you—”
“Enough,” Brute barked, and I’m pretty sure every man, woman, and child within a three-mile radius shut their mouths.Whoa.
After working fairly amicably with him, it was kind of easy to forget that Brute Hastings was the president of an outlaw motorcycle club for good reason. The man might have had an easygoing countenance, but underneath, he was every bit the hard steel that Nico was—Gabe’s older brother and don of the Costa family.
And because I was more than just a little bit crazy, that reminder about Brute shot through me, straight to the apex of my thighs, more potent than the good vibrations from my toys last night.
Yup, sitting outside the little warehouse of horrors, listening for sounds of gunfire… and here I was, pulsing with the very fervent need to get Brute Hastings naked and between my thighs. Now.
Hm, maybe I did need to get my head examined. For now, though, I settled for squeezing my thighs together and ignoring the potent male across from me and his off-putting sister next to me. Horny or not, my heart was already pounding a little harder and every muscle in my body was strung taut, waiting. Planning.
If I heard gunfire, what was the best move? Waste time incapacitating Leeri and the driver? Or leave them to Brute and rush in there alone?
Alone, I decided. I was in no way defenseless. There was a gun hidden in the holster around my ankle and another in my purse beside me. I had a butterfly knife in my pocket and another knife in a sheath strapped to my chest. Leeri and the driver were risks, but Brute could handle them—probably with one hand tied behind his back.
Seconds ticked by, waiting, ready to spring. The inside of the limo had gotten so quiet, I swear I could almost hear three hearts beating. Or maybe that was just mine? I could feel the blood in my veins pumping past my eardrums.
Deo and Vito appeared around the side of the warehouse—no bullet holes in them—and my heart skipped a beat, then settled into something that resembled its usual rhythm.
‘Twisted’ wasn’t with them, but nothing about Deo’s or Vito’s countenance suggested they’d come from a confrontation. Though, it could have been an act to keep Leeri and Domínguez’s driver unaware of what had taken place.
They got into the limo, but neither Deo or Vito said a word. Nothing about their body language gave them away. If they’d just finished putting holes in a half dozen of Dominguez’s men, they were doing a damn good job not showing it.
Domínguez’s driver turned the car around and pulled out of the lot, taking us back across the city to the villa.
No one spoke. It seemed the prickly cactus with the gift of gab had run out of extolments for her scumbag boyfriend. Too bad. I was really enjoying the way she put the asshole up on a pedestal—really.
By the time we got back to the villa, I was strung so taut, I swear there had to be strings attached to my shoulders, trying to pull me up off the seat.
The moment we stepped inside, I spun around.
“If you killed those assholes and we’re about to have a Mexican cartel come barreling down on our asses, a little warning seems like a decent idea,” I said, gaze alternating between Deo andZiettoVito.
What bothered me more than that, though, was that if this little act went up in smoke, finding Domínguez’s victims was about to get a thousand times harder. And it wasn’t like it had been a cakewalk thus far.
Deo and Vito both chuckled.
“Always thinking the worst of us,” Deo mock-chastised while he put an arm around my shoulder.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure putting holes in cartel assholes is really a ‘worst’ thing. It’s just a little inconvenient under the circumstances.”
“No holes, Greta,” Vito assured me with an indulgent smile.
"Then what did he want?”
Deo dropped his arm and headed for the kitchen. Like I said, the man could eat no matter what was going on.
“Exactly what he said,” he called back, which drew Gabe out of his room from the hall on the other side of the living room.
“Exactly what who said?” he asked, coming into the conversation a little late.
I shook my head. “Just our last detour. Domínguez’s driver took us for a little visit to the Domínguez Agricultura Warehouse.”
Gabe’s eyebrows lifted.
“The same barrels were there,” Vito said. “No bodies inside them, though. No acid either.”
Deo came back into the room with a container of takeout food in one hand and a fork in the other. “They use the oil drums to transport guns. They’re fitted with false tops and they’ve got the guns hidden beneath them. He showed us.”
