"Fuck you," the man spits in Venezuelan-accented Spanish.
I shoot him in the opposite shoulder. "Wrong answer, asshole."
Grigori snarls at me. "I’ve got this."
"Sorry," I say sweetly, scanning the perimeter.
Three large SUVs turn the corner, speeding toward us. Tinted windows. Reinforced bumpers.
"We’ve got company," I announce.
I step down hard on the wounded man’s testicles. He screams so loudly that birds scatter into the air.
"¡El León!" he wails. "¡El León! El?—"
Grigori shoots him between the eyes, grabs my wrist, and yanks me into a run.
"Let’s go," he orders as the SUVs screech to a halt, doors flying open.
"My car is in that garage," I point at the multi-story parking garage where I left Stephano's Bugatti, and we sprint down a side alley, boots slapping pavement, my adrenaline spiking so hard it’s almost pleasurable.
Stephano flashes into my mind, his eyes on me this morning, dark with want and worry. God, the way he looked at me.
Maybe when I get back…
Maybe I’ll wait for him naked.
Blonde wig.
Weapons strapped to my skin.
Let him devour me.
Let him worship me.
Let him?—
Heat curls low in my spine.
"Focus," Grigori growls beside me, yanking me out of my very good thoughts.
I smirk. "You have no idea what I was focusing on."
He grunts. "If it was murder, fine. If it was sex, keep it to yourself."
I laugh breathlessly as we reach a service ramp leading to an underground loading bay. "Both," I answer.
He mutters something in Russian that sounds like a prayer and a curse. "Come on," he snaps. "We need to hurry."
We crash through a door, alarms are blaring, and the moment we duck behind a pile of crates, bullets smash into the concrete overhead. Grigori looks at me, eyes bright with the thrill of violence.
"You married an Italian," he says. "Weird choice."
I grin viciously. "He’s mine."
He bares his teeth. "Good. Then make sure you stay alive long enough for me to meet him properly."
"We’ll see," I tease.
