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Mydamn pussy.
“Zedd, don’t,” comes her whisper through my blood-rage. She squeezes my arm, looks pleadingly into my eyes. “I know what you’re thinking after seeing the bed, seeing all his clothes. But that’ll never happen now. It wasn’t in our fate to have another man ever touch me, ever taste me, ever . . . fuck me.”
I say nothing. Just look into her eyes which are shining with intelligence, like she’s smart enough and wise enough to understand these irrational urges flooding me from the possessive beast that’s part of my core.
“But we were both prepared to let it happen,” I growl, my eyes flashing as I catch a glimpse of her cleavage, the black handgun sticking out from between her luscious boobs, her bra pulled down by the weapon’s weight. For a wild moment I want to fuck her senseless now, unload everything into her one more time, maybe one last time, once more to prove to the animal inside that she’s mine, all mine, mine, mine, mine!
But Amelia senses it and backs away from me until she’s up against Ralph Romero’s silk shirts, surrounded by his fancy Italian clothes and handmade Italian shoes and—
And suddenly we hear footsteps coming down the hallway outside the bedroom.
Lots of footsteps.
Immediately I draw my weapon and press myself against the closet door. I count six men, maybe seven. Fuck, sounds like the Romero soldiers are being extra-cautious, are going to check out the bedroom before letting Ralph enter.
“Cameras were glitching earlier,” comes the muffled voice of a Romero soldier as I hear the bedroom door open. “They came back online in a few minutes, so it was probably just some interference with the signal. But it’s best to be cautious, Ralph.”
“Don’t ever call me Ralph again.” It’s Ralph Romero, and he sounds agitated, like maybe faking his grief through a bunch of funerals has worn his patience thin. “You address me as Don Romero in public. You can call me Boss at other times. But I’m no longer Ralph. Show some fucking respect. Now get the hell out of here. There’s nobody hiding in my damn bedroom.”
“Let us check the bathroom and walk-in closet,” replies the soldier. “Wouldn’t want to lose the last remaining Romero to another freak accident. People might say it’s a bit suspicious, so many Romeros dying in . . . accidents. Right, Ralph?”
Chuckles rise up from the other soldiers.
“You’re supposed to call him boss,” one of the other soldiers says, an undercurrent of a taunt in his voice. “Or Don Romero.”
More chuckles emerge.
Then suddenly everything goes quiet.
I hear the ominous click of a handgun as somebody chambers a bullet.
“Down on your knees, you disrespectful fuck,” comes Ralph’s voice, trembling with anger so raw I can feel it through the door. “Open your mouth like you’re sucking dick. There. That’s it. Open wide. Now call me Ralph again. I dare you. I fucking dare you.”
The room is silent like death outside.
This is my chance.
Everyone’s distracted right now. I’m outnumbered and outgunned, but if I can burst through the door and put a bullet in Ralph’s brain before anyone reacts, maybe there’s a chance the soldiers stand down. Hell, maybe they even celebrate that their asshole new boss is bleeding out on the floorboards.
It’s a nice thought, maybe even plausible. But of course, regardless of whether they give a shit about Ralph Romero, these soldiers certainly don’t give a shit about me. I’m an assassin, and they’ll put a hundred bullets in me before figuring out their next step, whether it’s celebration or surrender.
But with this protective fire burning for my woman and what I know is my child forming in her womb, I don’t give a shit about my own life. This is my best shot at saving my family. I have to take it. It gives Amelia the best chance to survive. These fuckers will gun me down like a rabid dog, but so long as I kill Ralph, Amelia has a chance to make it through alive. If Carlo’s attack starts immediately, these guys might rush downstairs without checking the closet. And even if they do find Amelia, they won’t just gun down a young woman in a wedding dress—especially not a Volini mafia princess after Ralph Romero is lying dead with his brains all over the bedsheets.
Not the ending we were hoping for, but good enough.
Amelia lives.
And so does the new life I know she’s carrying inside her.
Time has slowed down now, and I smile dreamily at my woman as I make my choice. “Get behind those suits in the back of the closet,” I whisper to Amelia. “Stay there until Carlo and your men attack the front gates.” I force a smile when I see the panicked realization in her big brown eyes. I slide out the little black transmitter to signal Carlo to attack.
“No!” Amelia hisses, leaping at me in a flurry of wedding skirts and flying veils, snatching the transmitter away from me before I can press the button. She tosses the transmitter on the carpeted floor near a line of bedroom slippers, then wraps herself around me, her tennis-trained legs generating enough strength to slow me down as I strain to get the transmitter.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl under my breath as I try to peel her off me. Time is running out, and I decide to hell with the transmitter. Amelia can push the button herself. I need to get out the door and take my shot while the window of opportunity is still open, while I can still end this without taking Amelia to the afterlife with me.
“Zedd, wait, just wait,” she whispers urgently, clinging to my neck and hanging off me so I have to clumsily drag her towards the closet door, which slows me down again. “Zedd, there’s too many guys out there. They’ll kill you. You know it, Zedd. Just wait, give fate a chance, give destiny a chance, give . . . givemea chance!”
Her last sentence puzzles me and I hesitate. Now time speeds up again as the silence outside is broken by a gagging noise as the Romero soldier with the gun shoved down his throat chokes out an apology to his asshole boss.
