I’ve been stabbed before. Shot once. Beaten. Punched. Stomped. None of that shit felt like this does. It’s part amusement, part hatred, part fucking rage, and I can’t see anything butblack. Vinny won after all—he took her soul right down to Hell with him.
And all I can do is...laugh.
The sound trickles out of me like blood. First in unsteady drips, and then a steady, gruff stream. I laugh so hard that I have to cling to the van for balance. Then the laughter turns into a different sound—deeper, more guttural—and the hand I brace against the vehicle door becomes a fist.
A hammering thud echoes off the inside of my skull at least ten times before I finally connect it to the metal meeting my knuckles. Again. Again. Again. The blood and the dents beginning to decorate the front of Mack’s van are irrelevant. I can’t stop fighting. I can’t stop punching. I can’t stop. Not even as a sharper, higher-pitched sound battles the shouts and curses echoing after every hit I land.
The newer sound is insistent—more annoying than the typical buzzing. A song? I don’t know what about it makes me turn and notice Espi’s good hand reaching into his pocket, his mouth twisted in confusion as he withdraws a cell phone.
I snatch it out of his grip before he can answer. His little story didn’t mention Stacatto giving it back before he’d run. When I scan the screen, the name flashing across it makes me grit my teeth so hard that they crack:Pyro Girl.
With my focus on the ruins of Stacatto’s latest hideout, Istrike the call button and bring the receiver to my mouth. “Dan...Danny?”
“She’s alive,” a man replies.
Anger nearly short-circuits my brain—but his accent is different from Stacatto’s. It’s heavier. Eastern European.
“If you want to see her again, you’ll do as I say.”
I feel Espi’s gaze on the back of my neck, but I don’t turn around. I swallow hard instead and flex the fingers of my free hand.Do as I say?Is the little bitch really worth becoming some asshole’s puppet?Hell no.But, when my jaw finally unhooks, I spit the wrong word out. “What?”
The man inhales, but the sound doesn’t betray an ounce of emotion. He’s plotting the next stage of his plan, surprised that I even gave in this far. The girl claimed that Stacatto had a Polish man working for him. This fucker certainly sounds cold enough to have played Arno for the fool at a madman’s say-so.
“Come to the riverbank. Alone,” he says finally. “Two blocks, make a right, first alley on your left. Leave your men behind—I cannot stress how important that is... I would really hate to snap her neck and throw her body in the river if you cannot comply with such a simple request.”
“How do I even know that you have her?” I scan the street and spot a break between two houses where the sunset reflects off the surface of the river. I head toward it and thrust a single hand out behind me to prevent anyone from following.
“You don’t,” the man replies, his voice steady. “I suppose you just have to decide how badly you want to see her again. Turn left.” The command comes before I even reach the mouth of the alley. The fucker must be watching.
Wary, I drag my gaze along the row of houses and empty alleyways but find nothing of interest. He’s a slick bastard.
“Take the next right,” he says when I reach the end of yet another alley.
The direction is slightly different from the first ones he gave—it was a test, I realize, to see if I’d go charging in with Arno in tow. Still cautious, the fucker leads me in circles to further shake anyone who might be on my trail, but when I finally do reach the waterfront, there’s no one in sight. Before anger can begin to rise up, I hear a voice that doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the phone.
“Over here.”
I turn a corner and finally spot a man standing in the shadows beside a dumpster up ahead. One hand is holding a cell phone against his ear while the other casually reaches into his pocket and draws a gun.
“That is far enough,” he says quietly, aiming the barrel over my chest.
Armed with only the girl’s shitty knife, I’m the perfect target. I’m also a fucking idiot. Either way, the bastard has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll go down without a fight. But, before the thought even fully crosses my mind, the man jerks his chin toward the garbage bin.
“Wait there,” he says into the cell phone. Then he hangs up and backs away slowly, never letting the gun slack for even a second. When he’s almost completely behind the dumpster, he stoops behind it and reappears with something draped over his shoulder. “Approach me slowly,” the man warns. “I will be able to tell if you plan to attack me, and while you may kill me, I’ll snap her neck before you can even take the first step.”
Shoving Espi’s phone into my pocket, I blink back the red threatening to drench my vision. My fingers flex, but I keep them open as I start forward while sizing the other man up with the same scrutiny he’s analyzing me with. He’s no average fuck, standing at about my height but with a stocky build that betrays a knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. His blond hair is slicked back, his chin sporting a slightly darker goatee. When he comes closer, I recognize the coldness in his eyes as the mark of a trained killer.
“She is alive,” he tells me once I see the girl dangling limply against his back for myself. “But I will warn you that she is in bad shape—I only just got her out in time. I will set her down between us. You reach for her slowly.”
I don’t move until he does what he said. When I crouch beside the woman lying on the pavement, I barely recognize her face beneath the bruising. Stacatto had enough time to do some damage. She’s wearing another skimpy, black dress, but it only reveals more battered, broken skin.
“She was badly burned,” the man states the moment my gaze settles on the red, blistering flesh spreading from her wrist to her shoulder. “The other arm is broken. Who knows what internal injuries she’s sustained. If you do not keep a doctor in your...establishment,then I suggest that you get her to a hospital as soon as you can.”
I don’t answer, prodding the girl’s hip with my thumb. Her eyes are closed, her breathing noisy and uneven. She doesn’t even cry out when I lift her and jostle the limp arm that even I can tell is definitely broken. She’s worse than “pretty bad off,” but she’s alive...
I’m not stupid enough to assume that it’s by luck.
“Why?” I demand of the stranger watching me with an expression I can’t read when I toss her over my shoulder.
