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“Let’s end this,” I said, nodding at him as he slung the semiautomatic over his chest, both of us knowing he would be better with it.
Then we moved out, and I watched as he picked off several of Warren’s men.
It was right then that I saw the man himself.
Gaze lowered to focus as he tried to reload his own gun.
I raised my arm, aimed, and sent a bullet sailing right into his body, landing a little higher than my intention, but I got a sick sense of satisfaction watching the pain rip across his features as his right-hand man grabbed him, and they started to run.
I wanted to follow, but there was too much shooting still going on to even think of leaving my men behind.
Another minute or two, though, and it was done.
His men were all down.
Someone had thought to go to the office to put the floodlights on, so we could check around.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” a voice hissed, making me turn back and run toward it, knowing who it belonged to.
Santo.
My cousin.
The ‘middle’ of my Aunt Giulia’s children. After Nino, Massimo, and Dante, but before Valentina and Augustine.
Like the stereotypical middle child, he was the one with the jokes, the sarcastic sense of humor, the lighter personality.
And he sounded like he was in pain.
“God fucking damn,” he growled, trying to peel himself off of the ground as I found him, running toward him.
“Don’t move,” I snapped, pushing him back down. “Where are you hit?” I asked.
“Where am I not hit?” he shot back. “Arm and leg,” he said, and I saw how he was pressing his hand against his upper arm, but blood was still slipping through his fingers.
My left hand shot out toward his leg, wincing right before I pressed against that wound, hearing him let out a litany of curses as my right hand reached for my phone, unlocking, and scrolling until I found her name.
Lettie.
Our cousin.
The one who’d dropped out of med school right before she finished, who eventually opened up her own sort of hospital, ambulance and all, to take care of us, and those like us. Those of us who didn’t want to go to the hospital because then the cops would get involved, asking shit we couldn’t answer, and putting suspicion on us that we didn’t need.
“What’s going on?” Lettie picked up, tone no-nonsense, knowing we only called when there was an emergency.
“Santo is shot twice,” I told her, and I swear I could hear her springing into action. Something squeaked, then there was a zipping sound, keys, and, finally, a door slamming before an engine started up.
“Where?”
“Upper arm and thigh.”
“How is he? Conscious? How’s the blood loss? Pulse? Breathing?”
“He’s alright,” I said, having seen enough gunshot wounds over the years to know he was almost certainly going to make it through this. “Bleeding, but not like an artery is hit. We’re putting pressure on. Breathing is fine. Heart is going, but we were just ambushed,” I told her.
“Okay. Where?”
“Docks.”
