TWENTY-THREE
LONDYN
I don’t realizeI’ve been grabbed until cold steel kisses the side of my skull.
Herrera’s arm locks around my chest, pinning me back against him. The muzzle digging into my temple, hard enough to bruise.
My pulse spikes, but my voice stays level. “Why, Marcus?”
He laughs, low, and bitter. Trembling like he can’t decide if he’s furious or terrified. “Why?” he repeats, tightening his grip. “You really have to ask?”
“Yes,” I snap. “I need to hear you say it. Why you lied. Why you pretended to give a damn. Why you walked me straight into hell.”
His breath fans hot over my ear. “Everything was fine… until you busted Tyrique.”
That stops me cold.
Tyrique?
“What are you talking about?”
“You think that little junkie knew anything?” Herrera snarls. “He didn’t know who he was working for. Didn’t know his ‘connect’ was part of the Mendaro Syndicate. He was supposedto be an easy pawn. Move small weight, keep eyes off us while Tony and I set up distribution in Atlanta.”
My stomach twists. Tyrique… clueless. Used. And I…
“You should’ve left him alone,” Herrera growls. “Perfect Detective Banks always doing things by the book. You ruined everything!”
“Good,” I bite out. “I’d do it again.”
“You don’t get it. We were close. Tony had the precinct in his pocket, and you? You were the perfect shield,” he says, shoving the gun harder into my temple.
I laugh, a sharp, cruel sound I barely recognize. “Tony’s doesn’t have anyone in his pocket anymore.”
Herrera freezes.
Tilting my head just enough to catch his eyes, I say,
“He begged me for his life like a little bitch. You should’ve heard him. I cut his throat so deep he couldn’t even scream.”
A tremor runs through his arm, vibrating against my chest, and I savor it.
“He died choking on his own blood,” I continue, voice steady, but vicious.
“You’re lying,” Herrera breathes, but he sounds like he already knows I’m not.
“You can go see for yourself,” I say. “Well… what’s left of him.”
He yanks me tighter, rage pouring off him in waves. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Nah. I think I’ll keep talking.”
For the first time since my life went to hell, I’m in control.
“Marcus,” I say softly, “you’re next.”
His fingers twitch on the trigger.
Shouting and chaos bleed through the wall. Boots thunder up the stairs as gunfire rips through the warehouse.
