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But as I reared back, his own hand shot out, grabbing me by the wrist and twisting until the pain made it impossible to hold the knife anymore.
It clattered to the ground.
Out of reach.
Useless.
And I hadn’t caused enough damage to make him give up the fight.
I struck out again, aiming for the stab wound in his gut.
My lips curved up at the guttural howl that escaped him.
But it fell quickly after because I saw that look in his eyes when he looked up at me
Pure, blind rage.
I turned and ran.
Sometimes winning a fight was knowing when to turn and haul ass in the opposite direction.
He was faster than I’d anticipated, though, and the hand grabbed me by the throat, grabbing, turning, and slamming me back against the wall.
Where he held me, then inched me up until I was on my tiptoes, trying to strike out, clawing at his face, pressing at his eyes.
It was no use, though.
His hand was placed just right.
And I was feeling fuzzy.
So this was how it ended.
In an alley.
Taken down not by one of my own enemies, but one of Andres Alcazar’s.
Only, to him, this wasn’t an enemy.
It was one of his closest friends.
Luis.
I was just barely conscious enough to hear the words We want to send a message to him.
But then it was all inky blackness.
I wasn’t sure anyone was as surprised to find themselves still alive as I was a few moments later, gasping for breath as I shot upright before I was even fully conscious.
My hand shot to my throat, feeling the soreness. On my skin, yes, but deeper. Inside.
I’d heard about a sore throat from getting choked out, but had been lucky enough not to feel it myself yet.
A quick glance around the alley told me he was gone.
He’d even left my knife with his blood on it just sitting there, evidence of his attack.
Which was not a good sign.
I reached a weak hand into my pocket, fishing out my phone, and dialing without thinking.
Not the police.
Not my coworkers.
Not my outlaw biker father.
Not even my badass paramilitary leader aunt.
No.
“Mama, you can’t contact me anymore,” A’s voice met my ear, and as insane as this was, I felt tears flood my eyes just hearing it.
“It’s Luis,” I said, hearing how scratchy my voice was, my words kind of jumbling together.
“What was that?”
“It’s Luis. Your snake. It’s Luis. Fuck,” I cried out as I tried to get my legs up under me, so I could get to my feet.
“What happened?” A asked, voice suddenly fierce and serious. “Hope?” he asked when I let out another couple colorful curses as my ribs and maybe spleen screamed in objection to moving. “Where are you?” he barked, and I could swear I could practically hear him running.
What I absolutely heard was the sound of him racking the slide on his gun.
“You need to go hide,” I told him.
“I’m not fucking hiding,” he snapped. “Where the fuck are you?”
“By work. I’m fine,” I insisted, taking a couple of slow, deep breaths, trying to think past the pain. In my chest, my side, my face, my head.
It was okay.
Pain was good.
Pain meant I was alive.
And I could have very easily not been alive.
“You ain’t fine,” he said, voice somehow both soft and harsh at the same time.
As he said it, I could feel my stomach rolling, the sparse contents of it rising up my throat from the migraine piercing through my skull.
I dropped the phone to vomit, retching hard when nothing much wanted to come up and get out.
Tears, involuntary, slid down my cheeks, and a chill moved through me, leaving me shivering as I fell back on my ass, hands pressed to my eyes, like the pressure could ease the pain.
I was rocking my body back and forth when I heard the footsteps.
It was only then that I remembered how vulnerable I still was.
I didn’t stop to think.
I scrambled forward on all fours, crawling across the filthy alley toward my knife.
My hand had just touched the cold hilt when I saw someone drop down in front of me.
Hands reached out, gently framing my face, but yanking it upward.
The motion, slight as it was, made my vision swim and my stomach slosh around for a moment before it all subsided.
“Fuck, mama,” A’s voice hissed, a soft, pained whisper.
“A?” I asked, hearing the little quiver in my voice, and hating myself for it as I looked at his familiar face, concern clear in his dark eyes.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked, voice gentle, but demanding, no nonsense, and he was very much the kingpin he was known to be right then.
“Head,” I said, since that was the worst of it right then.
“Yeah. Where else?” he asked, gaze moving over me.
“Ribs. Maybe spleen,” I said.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hands leaving my face to go down, grabbing me under the elbows, and pulling me up to my feet.
