The man covered in blood has his firearm aimed at Carina.
He wouldn’t be willing to shoot her if she were dead. The relief that courses through me is equal to that of worry because her life’s being threatened.
“Get rid of them,” he says, jutting his chin at my weapons.
I shrug and flip my hands to where my fingers are in the trigger guards. “I guess it is hard to talk with everyone shooting each other. It’s very loud and quite interruptive.” I sigh with a dramatic air and toss one of my pistols to the floor. With the remaining one, I twirl it around my index finger. “Maybe if your friends had been smart like you and wanted to have a conversation, they’d still be alive. Can you imagine dying in this shit hole?”
“Put your fucking gun down,” he repeats. “If you don’t, I’ll kill the bitch.”
My fury threatens to swamp me and I pin my smile in place to keep from losing my fucking mind. This act is the only thing keeping Carina safe until I murder this motherfucker.
“Yeah. Sure thing, boss.” I spin my gun once more and whistle as it goes round my finger. And then toss it as though it’s a piece of trash. “So, who’s the bitch on the bed?” I peer over in pretense as though trying to identify her. “Man, she’s hot.”
“Who sent you?”
I roll my eyes. “What is with all the questions? You’re wasting the time we could be using to enjoy her.” I pause and then gesture to Carina with a simple wave of my hand. “Unless you already have…? She kind of looks fucked up, bro.”
The stranger squints at me, whether in confusion or distrust, I’m not sure. But while he studies me, I scrutinize him. And envision his death. The deep puncture wound located off to the side of his neck has fresh blood trickling out of it, but the amount is nothing compared to the volume that’s seeped into his clothing. His eyes are bright from adrenaline and his skin is ashen, indicating his blood loss.
He adjusts his grip on his weapon, no doubt caused by clammy hands. Another sign of blood loss. “That bitch played hard to get, but she got what she deserved.”
Everything and anything that keeps me from going to Carina is torture. And the show of surprise and false admiration almost fucking kills me.
“Well done,” I say rocking on my feet. “What did she do?”
“Fucked around with the wrong people.”
I take a step at the same time I laugh. “That’ll get you killed.”
“Yeah.”
Another step brings me that much closer. “So, now that you’re done, can I have her?” At his shocked expression, I close more distance between us. “My boss sent me here to kill her, so it’s not like he’s going to find out. What’s he going to do? Check her cunt?”
The man’s lips turn up in a half-snarl, half-smile. “You say the stupidest shit.” His gaze zips to my right where the door is located and based on the heaviness of the approaching footsteps and their number, I guess it to be my men.
“Capo?”
That’s my confirmation and my signal.
I dart left and forward, taking myself out of Renzo or Carlo’s line of fire, but also situating myself so I’m within grappling range. The attacker swings his weapon in my direction and I’m crashing into him when it goes off. The discharge of the gun is deafening, yet I can’t hear anything except for my mind’s chant for death, a demand for retribution.
My body, in and of itself, is a weapon, honed by years of physical training and discipline. It goes through the motions, driven by muscle memory and fueled by rage. I’m able to disarm the man with less than four maneuvers.
Flesh is malleable, but bones are not.
They fracture and crack, accompanied by the splatter of blood as his skin tears and cries rivers of red. The only thing that brings me back to reality is Carina’s soft groan.
I can’t look at her, no matter how much I crave to do so. This man is not a common street thug and if I remove my focus from him, it could cost me my life. I grip his throat and use that hold to keep him pinned to the wall, while applying more pressure until he gasps for air and attempts to knock me away.
Between his injuries and my need for his death, he is no match for me.
“That’s right, motherfucker,” I grit out. “Can you feel yourself dying? No? Well, I can and it’s fucking fantastic.”
If I could draw this out I would, because he deserves to suffer. And not just now, but for the rest of his natural life. However, I have priorities. Or one.
My fiancée.
The man’s struggles cease and when his body goes completely limp, I let him drop to the floor. I shoot him in the head before I turn toward the bed and drop to my knees on the mattress, reaching for Carina. She scrunches her face in obvious pain and her eyes fly open when I slide my fingers underneath her head. With my free hand I place my index finger on her lips when they part.
