My eyes flicked between each of the guards. Four in front of me, and I couldn’t see how many were behind me. Each looked rigid and even more severe than before. Other guards ran around us toward the vehicle, some with hoses, others with fire extinguishers. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was just supposed to be some fuel sabotage to break Iannelli’s car engine without too much attention.
“Dante,” said the devil himself. I’d recognize that gruff, angry yet sedate voice anywhere. “Explain. What the fuck happened to my car?”
Clipped footsteps followed those words. Despite the busy area, each step seemed to echo like a taunt, reminding me that this might be my end, all because of a poorly executed prank. I shot up my feet. No matter what, I wasn’t going to face him at a disadvantage; I was already way too short.
The gun didn’t leave my head, but its owner didn’t stop me when I slowly turned around. Therehewas, standing obnoxiously tall, at least six-foot-two to my short five-foot-four. The same posse of men who kidnapped me three days ago flanked him, including the man who threatened Lou and me yesterday. I narrowed my eyes at all of them.
“You again,” the devil said.
His eyes, full of spite, caught me in their snare and tightened their hold with every passing second. He was like a demon, extracting my soul, piece by piece, the longer I was trapped, until there would be nothing left. And I let him, staring right back, daring his worst because I wasn’t going to give in. It was probably one of the stupidest things I had ever done because who in their right mind played a game of chicken with a criminal mastermind?
A guard wrapped his meaty hand tight around my bicep and tugged me forward.
“Hey.” I shoved against him. Damn it, the guard made me break eye contact first.
“What do we do with her, boss?”
Renzo Iannelli circled the now-doused car, his teeth clenched and his gun firmly clasped in his hand. His gaze kept finding mine, each look angrier and promising more violence than the last. He paced back and forth in front of the charred vehicle, scratching at his forehead with one hand, raising and lowering his gun with the other, as if he was between two decisions about how to handle this.
“Inside,” he grated. Then Iannelli turned away, each marched step forceful yet measured.
The guard dragged me toward the house, and I wrestled against him. “Let go. I can walk.”
With another man’s help, they carried me up the steps, through the front door, only to toss me to my knees before a gaggle of well-dressed men. It was like someone threw up a lavish suit fest in here.
“Ricco. Search her,” Iannelli ordered.
A guy stepped out from the line of suits, just as ridiculously well-dressed as the others, except his looked like it was fitted for someone broader, a little loose around the shoulders and waist. He couldn’t have been more than a year older than Micah, if that, with his features smooth and still needing the bulk that most guys only seemed to put on in their twenties. His brown eyes scanned me with almost apologetic pity. He was fast though. I barely scuttled to my feet before he tackled me back to the ground.
He landed on top, practically straddling me, chest against mine, his hands way too close to my chest for comfort.
His eyes widened, and he pulled back quickly.
“Sorry,” he squeaked.
If the last seven months taught me anything, it was that not taking immediate advantage of an opportunity always puts you at a disadvantage. So even though he was backing off me, I punched him in the nose. Somehow, that made him trip over himself. He collapsed, his forehead knocking mine. Pain burst through my head. I cradled it as the world swam, everything doubled and sideways, until everything slowly slipped back into place. Warm blood dripped over me from his nose as people around us snickered.
“Bitch,” he exclaimed, though there wasn’t any heat to it, almost as if he was saying it because it was expected of him.
He fumbled over me. The moment his hand began to wander down my sides, I fought back—slapping, flailing, kicking.
“Any day now, Ricco.”
Ricco’s auburn head of hair turned his boss’s direction. “I’m trying—”
My knee met his balls. With a squeal, he went sheet-white and crumpled to the tile, cradling his groin and curling into himself, amidst croaked coughs. I almost felt bad. Not.
I staggered to my feet, glaring at the gathering of peacocks. Some cackled at Ricco’s misfortune. Others glared.
“Who’s next?” I asked with more bravado than I felt, raising both my fists in front of my face. More chuckles.
“Ms. Burch,”hisvoice cut through the jeers. Each and every single one went silent. “Mr. Nerin was chosen to search you for your benefit, seeing as he is also underage. That can be amended.”
My gaze flitted over the assembled crowd of men. Not a single woman, and every one of them armed. Some were old enough to be my grandfather. They all ranged from ridiculously fit, like Renzo, to potbellied, with rolls under their chins. Tatted or not, they each held an air of menace. Except for Ricco, who, compared to everyone else, looked like a kicked puppy.
Renzo’s crystal green eyes glanced down at his watch, then he flicked his gun in my direction. “You have five seconds, Ms. Burch, before another choice is made for you.”
“Fine,” I gritted out, raising my arms.
