I’m halfway through my third drink when I finally admit the truth to myself. I love her.
Not falling in love. Already fallen.
Somewhere between the laundromat and the restaurant, between the photograph and tonight’s fight, I stopped wanting revenge and started wanting her. All of her. Not just her body or her partnership or her usefulness against Agnello.
Her.
But she shut down the moment I crossed that line.
I drain my glass and drop cash on the bar, enough to cover my tab and a generous tip for the bartender.
The night air hits me like a slap when I step outside. Cold, sharp, and clarifying. I’m not drunk, but I’m loose enough that the walk to my car is careless, and I’m not paying attention to my surroundings.
I glance at my phone and see that I have three messages from Matteo.
Got the warehouse location. Call me.
Seriously, call me.
Vin, where the fuck are you?
I should call him. I went through hell tonight to get this intel, and acting on it is what a Vici don should do.
Instead, I just stand there, staring at my phone and seeing that flicker of fear in Adora’s face.
A small sound makes me look up.
The tip of a cigarette glows in the darkness. A man steps forward, tall and lean, his pale skin luminous in the darkness. He exhales a plume of smoke over cruel lips.
“I knew I recognized your face, Vincenzo Vici,” Dashamir says in a cold, soft voice.
Rough hands grab me from behind. Multiple men, at least three. One of them forces a black bag over my head.
Something strikes me hard on the back of my head, and I see stars. I fall to my knees, my ears ringing.
I hear the click of zip ties around my wrists. Feel hands patting me down, removing my weapons, my keys.
Certainty pierces my dazed panic. They’re going to kill me.
But my thoughts in this moment aren’t for myself. They’re for Adora.
She’s going to think I abandoned her. I walked away because she couldn’t say she loved me back. She’ll believe I’m petty and cruel enough to leave her trapped with Agnello just because she hurt my pride.
She’ll never know I was taken. Never know I would have come back for her.
Never know that I love her.
I’ll never hold her in my arms again. Never hear her laugh. Never see her smile at me without fear in her eyes.
And that regret is worse than the fear of whatever the Dervishis are about to do to me.
Something hard smashes into the back of my skull a second time, and the world goes dark.
Pain dragsme back to consciousness. Not just one pain, but a symphony of them. My ribs scream where the mountain landed hits. My face throbs, swollen and tender. Even the air hurts when I breathe in.
My wrists are zip-tied to a metal chair that’s bolted to the concrete floor. The room is bare except for a drain in the corner and a table covered with tools. Pliers. Knives. Metal instruments I don’t want to identify. They glint under the harsh light, steel edges catching the glow from the single bare bulb swinging overhead. My body casts shadows that writhe across the walls as though I’m already being tortured.
But I’m alive.
