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At least he doesn’t laugh. “You have no idea how to handle a gun and even less when it comes to aiming. Until we have this situation under control, you’re going back to the safe house, and you’ll stay there until I come and get you.”
The back of my eyes burn. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? It’s Prokhor, and he somehow got inside because of me.”
I knew the truth in my gut.
Had something important been included in the false documents I’d given to Drago just hours ago? Something he used to infiltrate the compound? How had he rallied his men this quickly?
“Breathe, Iz.” Ricardo refuses to let go of my face. “You need to breathe.”
I can’t. There’s no way for me to get enough oxygen into my body.
I break away and push my head between my legs, bumping against the dashboard and barely aware of Ricardo getting out of the car until he’s pulling open the door. He shifts me in the seat, adjusting my legs to give me more breathing room.
“Come on, Isabella, it’s going to be fine. My men will be here, and they’ll secure the scene before the police arrive.” He’s the face and voice of reason, but I’m long past paying attention.
There’s no way a blast of that size will go unnoticed for long. The neighbors might be too far away to see it, but the noise will echo far. Someone will call the authorities to investigate.
“I know you’re scared,” Ricardo continues. “My men know what they’re doing. And the second I know you’re safe, I’ll go up there myself to secure the scene.”
What is he, a vigilante? The thought of Ricardo being anywhere near the spray of bullets churns my gut sickeningly, and I go hot all over instead of cold.
I gulp, my mouth too filled with saliva to be normal. “What if they’re already dead? What if it's too late?” My lips are numb, and I have to force the words past them.
Ricardo doesn’t want to answer me right away.
It feels like seconds pass until tires screech and another car pulls up beside ours.
“Mr. Assante?” The male voice is smooth and cultured.
He straightens, and the careful mask of control fixes in place. “Take her and get her out as quickly as possible,” Ricardo tells them. “Straight to site C.”
I’m not going. There’s no way I’ll let them take me all the way across town when my parents, my sisters, might be dead. Drago could have his gun to their head right now or one of his men. The ones who watched me the other night, maybe.
“Come on, Isabella.” Ricardo reaches for me, and I dig my heels in, proverbially.
When I stay seated, he reaches out and hauls me up, kicking and screaming.
His man wears a discreet black suit and matching sunglasses. “Miss Balestra, if you’ll come with me?—”
Ricardo hands me off to his man, and I erupt into motion mid-transfer. I swing at the brute in black, knocking my knuckles against the side of his face. He barely moves, and my knuckles ping with pain. Shit, it’s like hitting iron.
“Let me go!”
My pulse is a roar in my ears, blocking out the rest of the world.
“Isabella, stop.”
That’s from Ricardo. I’m scarcely aware of his hands gripping my waist, as though every bit of adrenaline inside of me shifted from trying to freeze my bones into my limbs into pure action. Kicking, punching. Whoever is close enough to me becomes a target. I’ve got to get back to the house and make sure everything is okay, make sure I’m not alone in this world.
Everything is swimmy except for the man in front of me, doing his best to keep me wrangled. And at his side, his piece. If they won’t let me go then I know a way to make them, to force their hand. Something they will all understand.
Even Ricardo.
“Miss Balestra, we do not want to hurt you.” The brute’s voice matches the Cro-Magnon set of his brows. “Please, stop.”
I’m a mess, but he’s not expecting me to go for the gun. Not in his wildest dreams. My clammy hands and tingling fingers fumble with the holster, but a good yank has the piece slipping through. It’s heavier than I thought and I fumble for a better grip, swinging the piece in a semi-circle in front of me until the three of them—there’s three men—back up a step.
And there is Ricardo at my side, but he doesn't have his hands up in front of him. “Please.”
