“God damn fuck!” he yells, yanking her into his chest. “Who the fuck was that?” He’s frantic. It’s understandable. Beau’s not long out of the woods, and here she is dodging bullets.
I find Tank with blood on the sleeve of his white shirt. “You good?”
“Just a flesh wound.” He brushes me off with a wave of his shovel-sized hand, taking a nearby stool.
I raise my gun, pacing through the club, and when I make it to the entrance, breathless, I check left and right, searching the street outside. Nothing. But I saw him. And he didn’t look very dead to me.
“Get inside,” Brad hisses, yanking me back into the club and slamming the doors. I step over two bodies, my mind reeling as I head straight back to Rose. I pull her off the stool. James is still holding Beau to his chest, still looking like a restrained monster.
“It was Volodya,” I say, starting to pull Rose through the club, tossing the keys of my Merc to Tank. “Let’s go.” How the fuck can this be? Spittle told me he was dead. He fucking told me!
“What?” Brad asks, audibly stunned.
“We’re talking about the same Volodya, right?” Ringo asks, tailing us. “The same Volodya who shot you at the Winstable massacre?”
“Yes,” I grate, still seeing his beady eyes in my mind’s eye.
“He’s dead,” they say in unison.
“So am I,” I remind them, pushing the door to the rear alley open with the head of my gun. Tank moves past us, opening the back door of the Merc, and I usher Rose in.
“Are you sure, Danny?” Brad asks as James appears, pulling Beau along behind him.
He gets her into the back of his Range and joins us. “Volodya?” he asks, as the pressure in my head builds and builds. “Russian mafia? You told me he was dead.”
“Well, he obviously fucking isn’t!” I explode, losing my shit and aiming at a pigeon on a nearby wall, blowing the fucker apart. I need to kill. Anything, I just need to fucking kill. On that thought, I stalk back into the club and work my way around the bodies, kicking each and every one. Finally, I get what I’m looking for. A murmur. I drop to my knee next to him, snarling in his face as he squints, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. “Where will I find Volodya?” I grate.
He has a pathetic attempt to spit in my face, the saliva and blood spraying his chin. I locate his bullet wounds, one in his thigh, one in his stomach. “Talk,” I demand, taking my thumb and shoving it into the hole in his belly, making him squeal. I twist and turn, the squelching sound fucking hideous. “No talking?”
I lay my gun on the floor and insert my other thumb into the bullet hole in his leg, giving that a few circles. He starts convulsing and jerking, his eyes rolling. I pull out my thumbs, my shoulders dropping in disappointment. He’s passed out. Shame. If I thought Doc could save him, I’d have him taken back to the mansion to torture. But I know a dead man when I see one. I pick up my gun, push it into his eye socket, and blow out his brain. “Get Spittle,” I yell, standing and pacing out of the club. “Now!” I circle the Merc and get in the back, slamming the door shut with force.
I feel Rose’s worried eyes on me immediately, her hand going to my thigh and squeezing. And without thought, I reach up to my shirt and apply pressure to the old bullet wound below my collarbone from where that Russian motherfucker shot me three years ago.
No war in Miami?
10
ROSE
* * *
Esther is fussing around us like a hen, trying to keep our minds occupied with talks of tents, decorative topiary trees, and God knows what else. Beau looks rather engrossed. Me? I’m wondering what the point is, because if today is anything to measure things by, I won’t have a fucking husband to marry.
The moment we returned to the mansion, Danny called Doc down to check out Tank’s arm, James took Beau to their room to double-check every inch of her body, and the men all filed off to Danny’s office. Poor Tank. He’d barely been in the job for a half hour before sustaining his first injury. And poor Beau too. James was not taking her word for it that she was unharmed. He wanted visual proof. She was exasperated, and James was a bull, physically carrying her away when she fought him.
I stare at the cup of tea Esther’s made me. It’s her go-to. Upset? Have some tea. Stressed? Have some tea. Angry? Have some tea.
“What do you think?” Beau asks, looking at me for an answer.
“Of what?”
Esther sighs, and I shrug. “I didn’t hear.”
“Come on.” Danny’s mom circles the island and joins me, presenting me with a catalogue. “The oyster or the blush?”
I consider the two dresses, both stunning, both silk, both undeniably Esther. I’ve learned many things about Danny’s mom in recent years. She’s incredibly soft but hard as nails. She’s compassionate and patient. I’ve also discovered that she has impeccable dress sense since she’s been living here as Danny’s mother and not his housekeeper. “I love them both,” I say, looking at the kitchen door. “How long have they been in there?” I peek at the kitchen clock. We’ve been back two hours, it’s dark outside, I’m dog-tired, but I won’t be able to sleep. I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of carnage on the horizon. Well, actually, I can. And that is why I’m fucking petrified.
“I’ll make some tea,” Esther declares.
“You know, I think I’m going to go to bed.” I can’t stomach any more tea or pretending that I’m fine. I slip down from my stool and drop a kiss on Beau’s cheek, and then Esther’s. “Good night.”
“Night,” they both murmur as I trudge away on heavy feet, Tank tailing me. When I make it to the entrance hall, I stop, listening, seeing if I can hear anything from Danny’s office. Nothing.
I sigh and take the stairs with effort, clinging to the gold rail to help pull myself up. My heels clink on the marble steps, echoing around the deserted space. Letting myself into our bedroom, I kick off my shoes and pull my dress up over my head as I pad the carpet to the bathroom. I drop it in the laundry hamper and put myself in front of the recently replaced mirror, reaching back to unfasten my bra. I set it on the vanity and rest my hands on the edge, leaning in, inspecting my drained complexion, staring into eyes that look as haunted as they did when he held me here against my will. I feel the same kind of overpowering suffocation and helplessness now. Except this time, I feel there really is no way out. Only by death.
I consider my toothbrush. The array of cosmetics I have to clean my face and remove my makeup. But I don’t have the energy. I push away from the unit and go to bed, crawling under the covers. But I don’t sleep a wink.
* * *
When the bed moves, I open my eyes, looking at the clock on the nightstand. It’s two in the morning. He’s been holed up in his office with his men for hours. His chest presses to my back, his hand stroking up my thigh, and then his lips are on my shoulder blade, kissing in slow, soft circles. My body lights up. Always does. I’ll never stop my natural reaction to his closeness, but I don’t respond, my mind having other ideas. “No,” I say quietly, and his strokes of my leg stop, his lips unmoving on my skin.