We move two houses down before we angle toward the wall, keeping to the hedge-shadow. The iron runs shoulder-high here, brick pillars every ten yards, cameras set to warn off anyone who dares try to break in.
My head keeps trying to run ahead of my feet to where she is. I reel it back. I need the minutes it’ll take to locate her, and I won’t get them if we light the place up on entry.
As we walk soundly along the wall surrounding Russo’s property, I can’t help but focus on Bianca.
I don’t know exactly where she is on the property, and I need time to find her.
The service gate is ten yards off. I cut a look at Antonio. “Are we programmed in?”
“Yes,” he says, already sliding a glove fingertip over the panel’s edge to clear grit. “Don’t start.”
“If we trip the alarm, all of this goes to hell,” I tell him.
“We’re programmed,” he repeats, a thread of irritation that means he’s certain. “Roberto took warehouse two himself, put us in. We’re ghosts.”
“We need to stay that way,” Nico says quietly.
“He won’t be looking for three bodies through the side door,” Antonio says. “Not after the show we put on at the warehouses.”
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t armed for a siege,” I add. “They won’t hesitate to take us down.”
That’s the gist of it. Almost too simple. Adriano Russo sits on his throne, convinced the only winning play is to keep every piece inside his walls. He’s braced for trucks and men and a battering ram through the front. He isn’t watching for a small cut at the seam.
He thought the warehouse hits were decoys, but only three of them were.
I put my thumb on the glass and hold my breath. The light blinks green, and a soft internal release of the locks.
The fourth warehouse got us through the gate.
I ease the handle of the gate and feel the bolt slide back on a spring when we close it behind us.
Chapter Forty Three
Bianca
I wear a path between the window and the bed. The room has been reset to perfection since my little escape. The sheets hanging from the window are gone. Crisp new sheets line the bed. Everything is exactly the way it was before.
Except the window. That doesn’t open even a whisper now. No catch to tease, no spring to find. It wasn’t pretty either. It’s been bolted shut right through the frame. I tested them when I first got back to the room and got nothing for my trouble.
But I don’t care about the window anymore.
All I can hear is the echo of the man’s voice downstairs, and all I can think of is Giovanni. Is he here? Did he walk into the thick of it?
The warehouse hits were obviously a failure. Maybe Gio and company assumed that hitting more than one would draw men away from the house.
But he didn’t bite. It’s more protected than ever. And Giovanni is going to walk right into it.
My stomach flips. I clamp a hand over my mouth and stand very still until the wave of nausea passes. No. Not now. I can’t afford to be leaning over a toilet tonight.
So what now? Do they come charging in and die on the steps? I see it too clearly: Conti men charging the gates, cut down in a wash of bullets. The bile pushes up again, and I swallow it hard, eyes burning.
I need to get out before Giovanni—or one of his family—pays for me in blood. I can’t let that happen. I couldn’t bear it.
I scan the room again, as if something might have changed in the last minute. Door still bolted, window still sealed. If I try to break either of them open, it’ll have guards at my door before the last piece of glass hits the ground.
I can wait until the next time someone opens the door and rush them.
What can I use?
