“Tash!” On instinct, I squeezed my throbbing right hand into a fist. Blood poured from the severed area.
The last man hauled her, one arm crushing her waist, the other clamped over her mouth.
I scooped my finger from the stones, shoved it into my pocket, then took off like I had when MLB scouts watched my high school games.
The fourth bastard carried Natasha toward a stony pub. Next to it sat a car. I figured locking the doors to the pub wasn’t his aim. Besides, I’d rip the door off the hinges to get to her. The car? Aye. He’d use those set of wheels.
If I failed.
As I ran down the slope toward them, Natasha twisted over his shoulder, got a hand free, and clawed his face. Her teeth sank into his neck, and he grunted.Aye, that’s my girl.
For a heartbeat, pride cut through the pain. She was a fighter.
“Get off me!” she snarled.
Another backhand cracked across her face, and she stumbled down the knoll.
I was about thirty yards away when he scooped her limp body up and shoved her into the passenger side.
The man jumped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine.
I launched myself forward before the car rolled back. One arm hooked through the window, locking around the bastard’s neck.
He tried to punch me through the window. Natasha, dazed as she was, yanked the gear from reverse to park. I dragged him halfway through the window before slamming him onto the gravel. His head bounced once. My left fist—bloodied and raw—slammed again until his head lolled sideways.
I staggered upright, lungs burning. My vision was tunneling again. Losing blood.
A ringing phone sliced through the pounding in my ears.
“It’s his phone.” Natasha groaned, pressing her palm to her cheek. “Ouch.” She winced.
I glared at the unconscious heap. He was the first to approach. The one who got a text. I climbed into the driver’s side and answered the phone. Placed it on speaker and tossed it into the cup holder. “Hello?” I growled through clenched teeth.
“That slight Scottish accent sounds familiar.” Lorenzo sighed. “So, you’re not the one I propositioned.”
Did he have a tracker? My … wet, not working phone? Really? Still useless to me, but he could find us anywhere? But wait? He didn’t have that forced Italian accent.
Natasha was partially out of it from the punch to her skull, moaning. My left hand held her hand clumsily. “You said I played games, Lorenzo. Natasha does not want you.”
“Did she say that?”
“Idon’twant you!” she squeaked, blinking her eyes. Stronger now, she snapped, “Leave us alone.”
“Back off,” I said, voice iced over. “Come see me, Lorenzo. Leave your gun. Fight me like a man. Clearly, you can track my phone, so keep doing that.”
“My fight isn’t with you, Lachlan. And, Natasha,” he said, his tone now oozed with that sick, falseItaliansweetness. “I’ll give you another chance to answer that question when I have you in my arms.”
Though the pain in my hand turned my stomach, I kept my voice calm, dealing with this maniac. “Grow a pair,bawbag.Fight me like a friggen man!”
I started to mash the Off button when Natasha grabbed the phone. “Why are you doing this? I-I’ve been kind to you, Enzo.”
I hated that she called him that.
He chuckled low, oily. “Your kindness has not gone unnoticed.”
Shaking my head, I mouthed for her to end the call, shoving the gear into drive. But his voice came in—different now. Clipped. Echoing as if …
“Your father wronged my father. Louis ‘the Legion’ Gotti. But your kindness? That’s why I didn’t retaliate, Natasha. Are you ready to come with me? Get out of the car—” Lorenzo paused. His breath echoed with the closeness of two cellphones near one another.
