I’m so fucked.
After a restless few hours of sleep, I’m up at eight and heading into the kitchen to see if I can scrounge some breakfast when I get a text.
Sully:Warehouse ASAP. Got you a present
The shooter. They got him. Fuck yes.
Me:OMW
I step into the warehouse, and the guard locks the door behind me. The coppery scent of blood hangs heavy in the air. I walk around the wall of stacked boxes, and my gaze sweeps the room. Three Italian soldiers stand near the victim, wearing grim expressions. I cross the cold cement floor to Sully, who’s standing beside the strung-up man, wiping blood off his knuckles.
He gives me a nod. “Hey, brother.”
I eye the skinny man with a black 611 tattoo across his throat. His arms are stretched painfully above him, Blood drips from his broken nose onto fresh cigarette burns on his bare chest. He’s breathing hard, the whites of his eyes showing. “How’re we getting’ on?”
Sully cracks his neck, blows out a frustrated breath. “Meet Ernesto Torres, the dumb cunt paid in advance to hit the weddin’. He says it wasn’t meant to be a kill shot, just a warnin’.Swears Da wasn’t the target, but gobshite won’t give up who it bleedin’ was. He’s more afraid of the cocksucker who paid him than us.”
My brow lifts in surprise, and I eye our prisoner. “Guess we’ll have to remedy that, yeah.”
We spend the next hour torturing our captive for information. The fucker’s tougher than he looks. He’s now unconscious.
I’m soaked with sweat and drained, feeling the effects of the mental and physical stress. I wipe the blood off my hands with a towel Sully hands me. “Stubborn fuckin’ eejit. Better bring Dr. Sam in to check him out. Make sure he’s gonna wake up.”
Sully nods, frustration digging deep lines between his brows as he shoots her a text.
Chapter 23
Samantha
Icouldn’t sleep so I’m lying on the couch, scrolling through the local police feeds. It makes me feel safer knowing what’s going on around me. My scrolling comes to a screeching halt when I see a mention of Edward Glazer, the biotech billionaire. He was attacked after leaving The Lucky Sinner early this morning. The police report says his guards were beaten unconscious, and Mr. Glazer was assaulted, his right hand slammed repeatedly in the car door. He’ll need extensive surgery.
I blink. His right hand? The hand he touched me with? That has to be a coincidence. Killian wouldn’t risk making an enemy out of a billionaire just because he touched me. Right? I reread it. It doesn’t say he was robbed. That doesn’t make any sense. I know for a fact the man was wearing a ten-thousand-dollar Panerai watch.
I must have drifted off because the next thing I know, my phone is buzzing with a text. I rub my eyes, feeling disorientated and focus.
Sully:Warehouse ASAP
I groan. Then push myself off the sofa, stumble to the kitchen for some Tylenol and water, take a quick shower and head out.
Stepping into the warehouse, my body reacts to the trauma of my last visit, dumping cortisol and adrenaline into my bloodstream. My stomach drops and I force myself to take a deep breath as I step around the box wall. Their victim comes into view, strung up and bleeding as usual. My jaw clenches painfully. I remind myself I’m doing this for Rona.
Killian is standing by the table against the right wall, feet planted wide, arms crossed. He’s deep in conversation with two Italian soldiers and hasn’t noticed me.
I roll my bag over to Sully, who’s standing in front of their prisoner, typing something on his phone. “Who’s this?”
He finishes whatever he was doing, shoves his phone into his pocket and scowls at the unconscious man hanging like a slab of beef in front of us. “This is Ernesto Torres. The unlucky cunt who shot Mac.”
My heart stutters in my chest as I stare at the man. This is it. This is where I find out if I’m just paranoid, or if Michael has found me. I fold my arms protectively as my insides tremble. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“About forty minutes.” He glares at the man, sweat rolling from his temples down his thick neck. “Need you to make sure he wakes up, love. He hasn’t given up his target yet. The only thing we got so far is the target wasn’t Da, and it wasn’t supposed to be a kill shot. Just a warnin’.”
Just a warning? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. That would be more like Michael’s MO. I approach him and start checking his vitals. The smell of blood and piss is strong, so me being hung over with an empty stomach is not ideal. I fight a wave of nausea as I lift his eyelids and check his pupils. Then I grab some smelling salts from my bag and wave them under his nose.
His head jerks up and his eyes pop open.
“Welcome back to your personal hell,” I whisper.
And then I freeze because his bloodshot eyes widen and he stutters out, “You.”
