I grit my teeth, caught off guard by the irritation that flares. Apart from her attempt on my life, I have no claim to her. Though, on second thought, I do. The mystery she presents regarding Safiya’s memory is mine alone to explore.
In whatever way I chose. By coming to me, she sealed her fate. I’m entitled to her—at least to making her talk. And I fully intend to.
“So, what now? Were you hit?” Vin demands, turning to me. He slips his hand into his suit pocket, and I feel a sense of pride. The boy is already prepared to fight, future doctor or not.
Not that I plan for him to ever pull a trigger.
“I’m fine, but now I need to get you out of here. You—” I incline my head to the other guard. “Take Vincenzo to the countryside villa.” One of my new properties purchased after I secured the port. “Javier—” I turn to find the man still issuing orders into a headset. “You come with me. We’ll go separate routes in case we’re followed—”
“That’s stupid,” Vin argues, still fastening his pants. “I should be with you.”
“The shooter came after me,” I point out. “You’ll be safer on your own.”
“On my own,” he says, eyeing the woman pointedly.
But I don’t have time to explain. “We need to move. We’ll meet up at the villa.”
When he hesitates, I approach him and throw my free arm around his shoulders. Lowering my mouth to his ear, I say, “Me getting a bullet through the head isn’t the same as you getting one through yours. Trust me on this.” This is no time for fucking bravado—I let him hear how my voice breaks. I mean every word. “Do this for me, my boy. Please.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But next time, I want a companion like yours.” He nods to the girl, and for a second, I consider letting her go with him. Then I remember her prowess with a knife.
My grip on her wrist tightens even more, and I sense her tug, attempting to resist. But for whatever reason, she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t kick me or utilize her nails—yet.
Again, that pesky, dangerous suspicion creeps in. Could she be Safiya? Perhaps. Or just a damn good double, hired and armed with a knowledge of the girl’s medical history.
Either way, I don’t let her go, dragging her down the hall after Javier.
“I have two cars ready, sir,” he explains as Vin and the other guard depart in the opposite direction. “The authorities have already been contacted. Those on your payroll will form a perimeter escort.”
“Any word on the shooter?”
He shakes his head as we enter the stairwell. “Not yet, sir. But we—damn it.” He stops short, his hand on his headset. Wide with alarm, his eyes cut toward me. “I’ve gotten word that a group of men has entered the hotel. Not Salvatore from what my men can tell. I’m not sure if they are hostile, either.”
“Who?” I ask, recognizing the way he’s parsing his words. He’s beating around the bush for a reason.
“They are Stepanov’s men,” he says bluntly. “I don’t know if it’s coincidence or—”
“I just prostrated myself before the bastard and kissed his ring,” I say, frowning. “He has no stake in my feud with Salvatore—” At least none that I know of. “Could it be unrelated?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Javier says, continuing down the steps. “However, I suggest we move. Now.”
I start after him and nearly have my arm wrenched out of its socket. I turn to find the girl gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles are white, her heels practically digging into the floor. Again, it’s like I can read in her eyes everything she doesn’t say out loud.
She’s terrified. Is Stepanov who she works for? Though why the man would go through the trouble of digging into my past and taunting me with Safiya’s memory, I don’t know. Or maybe Mischa is another unwilling bastard on her hit list? He may be somewhat reformed now, but I’ve been out of the game far longer, though that doesn’t seem to matter to her.
I could let her go.
Track her later and cut my losses.
Or I could throw my arm around her waist, catching her off guard and wrench her off her feet. She’s so slight, it’s almost too easy to throw her over my shoulder. Her fists land harmlessly over my back, but even now, she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t make a goddam sound apart from the frantic pace of her breathing.
The unwelcome suspicion bites even deeper, but I ignore it, pushing everything from my mind but the need to move.
“Put extra detail on Vin,” I command Javier as I draw up to his side. We’re nearing an emergency exit, hopefully near the garage. “If all hell breaks loose, he takes priority. I don’t care what the fuck happens; you save him over me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replies, though his frown reveals his thoughts on that plan. “Master Vincenzo will take a majority of the detail.”
“Good.”
I’d rather take a Salvatore bullet myself than risk Vin coming anywhere close to danger. Though hell, I did escort him right into the home of the ultimate devil.
Mischa Stepanov’s name has come up tonight more often than not.
And an ominous feeling in my gut warns that I may not like wherever these clues lead.
10
Willow
I’m lost within another waking nightmare, but pinching myself does little to wake me up. Each vicious stabbing of my nails against my wrist just reinforces the grim reality I can’t escape.
Over and over, my own brain mocks me with the images—watching Donatello Vanici come within seconds of death—a fitting end he deserves—but rather than let it happen…
I reacted in a way I will never understand.
I should have killed him.
I came so close…
The worst fact to reconcile is that I can’t even explain it rationally. Fear wasn’t what held me back. Weakness either—and if so, all I had to do was sit back as a telltale red dot appeared over his chest. Ironically, he was the reason I recognized the target for what it was. When Vinny and I would play with water guns in the summer heat, he would affix tiny lasers to our weapons with tape to heighten the fun. I clearly remember turning my firearm on him more than once, aiming my light over his smiling face before pulling the trigger and drenching him.
I could have let him die.
Why didn’t I? Rather than come up with an answer, my brain is too busy scouring the past. A million lessons circle my mind, each one uttered in Mischa’s gruff baritone. “Never let your guard down,” he would insist until his voice grew hoarse. “Always aim to kill. Focus, Mouse! Focus! Focus!”
And yet, I failed. My quarry sits unharmed across from me in the back of a black armored car driven by his guard, and all I can do is stare at him.
At his chest.
While covered by his shirt now, the image of the bared, tanned flesh beneath is seared into my memory. Some of the scars I remember him sporting, even back then. The silvery straight line along his collar that he swore resulted from him being stabbed as a teenager. Those ropey, circular patches across his pecs he would always refuse to explain.