CHAPTER TWENTY
Dante
One minutebefore her own deadline and the girl gets antsy again. Her breath scratches my shoulder, heavy and unsteady. The scent of her blood taints the air, dripping from the cuts in her throat, which she doesn’t even seem to notice. She managed not to sever anything vital, apparently, but she’ll have a nice set of brand-new scars to remember her fiancé’s sadistic “punishment” by.
Stacatto isn’t the only sick fuck on the game board though. Arno certainly learned a few lessons when it came to planning the layout of his hideout—even I have to give the asshole credit. The tunnel opens into the basement of the warehouse. The upper level is a cavernous interior filled with dust, and most of the massive windows are boarded shut. If Stacatto has gotten wind of this little route, it would make for the perfect slaughterhouse.
Luckily, Arno learned how to keep his fucking mouth shut in the five years I’ve been gone. There’s no one patrolling the main level at least. Positioned near one of the windows, I have a clear view of the front of the pub through a gap in the plywood. Atfirst glance, it appears just like any other sleepy street at the ass crack of dawn. About half a block down, a man is lounging on a bench, reading a newspaper, a stroller nearby. A few cars drift past, but none look like the type I’d imagine Stacatto’s men driving. I almost believe that the bitch got her information wrong, at least until I hear her gasp.
I flinch at the sensation of her finger trailing down the length of my forearm. She’s cold. Her breath paints the air white, and I can hear her teeth chattering as she brings her hand over the one of mine holding Arno’s pistol.
“What are you doing?” I should shrug her off. I don’t know why the hell I don’t.
She shuffles closer, and I imagine her straining on tiptoe to bring her mouth close enough to my ear for her to whisper, “There.”
I don’t resist the gentle pull of her fingers. She steers my hand up, aiming it directly at the man on the bench. I scoff and lower the weapon. She’s paranoid. She’s insane. She’s...
With a sigh, I raise the pistol. It’s nearing eight. If this little scenario has any chance of being turned around on its head, now is the time to act. I pull the trigger and deliberately miss, striking the dirt at the man’s feet.
Instantly, he bolts upright, tossing the paper aside. What would seem like a normal, panicked reaction from anyone else is just a little too smooth when enacted by him—honed reflex. He takes no time to get his bearings before reaching into his coat and drawing a gun.
“Get down!” I shove the girl aside and aim again.
It takes two more shots before the fucker falls to his knees, but his friends have finally arrived at the party. One of those “harmless” cars slows, and even more men climb out. There are five of them at least. At a glance, I take stock of their muscled builds and stoic expressions. They’re professional. Hardened. True killers.
Stacatto wasted no chance on not getting his pretty little fiancée back. Caught unaware, Arno and his merry band of idiots wouldn’t have stood a chance. My eyes stray to her before I can help it. Does it even register that she saved my life?
Does it really fucking matter if we’re all still dead within ten minutes if I can’t clear a good enough route?
I grit my teeth and peer through the window. Shit. The bastard I shot is still alive, pointing frantically in the direction he thinks the shot came from. It’s just my luck that he’s right. The men split up, three heading toward the pub and two heading straight for me.
“Shit. We need to move.” I grab the girl’s arm and pull her toward a battered exit I scoped out earlier. The alley beyond it seems clear at a glance, and I drag her forward, pressing my back against the brick wall of the building, listening hard with every cautious step.
The men are still at the front of the warehouse. I hear a thud and realize they decided to forgo knocking and kicked the fucking door in. Perfect. I raise the cell phone in my free hand and bring it to my mouth.
“Arno, go. Gonow!”
A grunt of acknowledgment comes from the other end, leaving the girl and me with about five seconds to get clear before all hell breaks loose. Breaking cover, I run like hell toward the nearest alley, all but dragging her behind me.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Gunfire erupts from the warehouse—courtesy of Arno’s arsenal turned on two hired thugs. Defeat is still a risk, and a part of me wants to double back and fight. As if sensing the direction my thoughts take, Arno’s voice crackles through the cell phone.
“Got it covered, Kitty. Meet you at the rendezvous spot.”
Seconds later, I’m about two blocks down from the pub. The gunfire’s gone silent, but I’m not stupid enough to chalk it up as a victory yet. Only God knows what else Vinny Stacatto might have lurking up his sleeve by way of backup. Though maybe God andoneother soul. She’s watching me with vacant, hazel eyes that don’t register anything until I snap my fingers beneath her nose.
“It worked.”
Worked. She mouths the word, seemingly confused. Her gaze trails down over her hands, and she flexes them, satisfied with their movement. When she glances up, the manic, slightly unsteady gleam in her gaze should make me uneasy.
“I always beat him at tic-tac-toe.”
