Professional or not, Stacatto’s pricks don’t even know what’s hitting them when the first round of bullets fly. I let Arno’s men take the lead while I head for the van. The driver already has a cell phone to his ear, shouting something in Italian—but he’s brutally interrupted when a bullet flies through the windshield and strikes him right between the eyes.
“Clear this place out,” I hiss to the man standing beside me, his pistol drawn. “Only the girls leave alive.”
“Got it.”
By the time we finally reach the van, another thug is dispatched with a bullet to the chest, and the only figures we find inside the vehicle itself are the women, curled up on the seats.
“One down,” I hear myself say. “Nine more to go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Daniela
They herdme into the back of a van with Arno and a man who smells like cigarettes and liquor. There are no seats. We crouch on the bare flooring and brace our backs against whatever surface is in reach—I choose the ice-cold siding of the vehicle itself, pressing both hands flat against it for leverage.
Save for the glow of a cell phone the other man’s holding in his fist, it’s dark. I can just make out a black duffel beside him, and I entertain a morbid curiosity as to what might be inside it—at least I do during the few precious seconds when I’m not dreading what might happen if this entire plan fails.
Lucifer demanded my faith once, but it’s harder than I thought to deny it to him now. Who could doubt that cold, predatory calculation of his; he bites with his teeth fully drawn and saves any thoughts of failure for later, after he’s done feasting on the belly of his conquest. Years of living on the streets and fighting in the cage have left him immune to fear.
I’m not so lucky. Vinny’s possession drips into my sweat. Hisvoice is a constant presence at the back of my head, and I know that, as long as he’s alive, I’ll never be able to silence him...
I own you, Mi Bella.
“You’re jumpy.”
I jolt back to the present as Arno makes that assessment while watching me from the other end of the van, his green eyes sharp even in the darkness.
“You’re worried your precious fiancé will get you back tonight.” He jerks his chin at my throat as if he can see Vinny’s possession wrapped around my neck. When I flinch, he laughs. “You don’t know Dante. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Like how?”
“The same way he looked at the men he wanted to tear apart in the cage,” Arno admits. “Like he can’t wait to put his fist through your skull, and no one better get in his fucking way... Come to think of it, he’s looked at you like that for a while now. But you’re still alive.” He frowns and rubs his chin as if trying to figure out why. “Either way, he won’t let you go until hedecidesyou can go—whether or not this stupid plan works. Mark my words on that.”
Right when he finishes, the van comes to a stop, and the man Mack sent—a brute with black hair and mean, brown eyes—shifts out of his crouch, settling down on his knees. “Can we cut the fucking chitchat?” he grunts while an overhead light cuts on, which he uses as his cue to tug on the zipper of his duffel.
It’s full of weapons: two guns and a roll of black canvas. The man sets the guns on either side of him and unfurls the roll against the floor of the van, revealing three knives sheathed in leather holsters. Freeing one of the blades, he tucks it into the pocket of his pants and inclines his chin to Arno. “You want?”
Arno accepts a blade in silence, but I don’t miss the telltale bulge of his own weapons hidden beneath his battered leather jacket. Unsurprisingly, no one offers me a weapon, and the nextfew moments pass in tense silence while my mind refocuses on unease again. Mack gave Dante an hour. An hour to get into position. An hour to crack Vinny’s most cherished organization.
Anhourto live.
The seconds gnaw at me, though Arno doesn’t seem worried. He’s...bored. The fingers of his right hand keep twitching, and I try to picture that “look” he claimed that the devil reserves only for me. I think Arno’s wearing a similar expression now, longing for the violence of bloodshed to sink into.
And, despite what Mack seems to think, I’m not stupid. Arno doesn’t defer to Dante any more than the latter does to him. If Arno came along to babysit Dante’s “little bitch,” then it was for a reason. Anticipation to learn exactly why spurs my pulse on until I can almost hear it counting the minutes down.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two...
“Any sign?” Arno finally asks, jerking his chin toward the silent phone.
“Not yet.”
“I need to get some fucking air.” Shifting toward the end of the van, Arno wrenches the door open and climbs out.
