Perfect.
I place January on an empty countertop and yank knives from the magnetic rack on the wall. There are only short ones, but they’re sharp as razors and it’s better than nothing. I rummage through the drawers and to my relief find a roll of thick electrical tape.
My phone pings. A text from Eli.
Heading through the woods to Charlemont Road. Bobby unconscious. Get a car and meet us. No outside contact.
I swear softly. If Eli isn’t getting Gretzky to pick us up, it means he’s either dead, or we can’t trust anyone. “We need to go,” I tell January. She’s holding an empty jar. Hibiscus flowers in syrup.
“They put this in the champagne,” she whispers. “It has resaviritorol in it. The Orchard additive.”
I remember watching her on stage, rambling so incoherently I wondered if someone had drugged her, but we were the ones who’d been poisoned. “You were right, Pryntsesa. You saved us. Now I have to save you. Take off your shoes.”
She obediently kicks off her high heels and I use one of the kitchen knives to hack a bunch of floaty material from the bottom of her ballgown, bringing it to her knees.
“We’ll need to run,” I tell her, tossing away the material and pulling out the tape. “Out the back door and down into the garden. I’d carry you, but we’ll be faster on our own. Follow behind me as closely as you can and move from side to side as much as possible, no matter how stupid it feels. And don’t stop for any reason, not if you hurt your feet or you get shot or you think I’ve been shot. Got that?”
January’s lip quivers but the nod she gives me is determined. I thank the same criminal god that we’ve spent months hunting together, that she understands how to follow orders, that she’s a hundred times more intelligent than I gave her credit for when watching her in the ballet studio. I wrap her small feet in thick wads of electrical tape. It’s not much but it’ll give her some protection as we run.
Once her feet are in their makeshift shoes, I haul her off the kitchen counter. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she says and there’s an artificial strength in her voice that threatens to tip me into white-hot rage. Tonight, Parker signed his own death warrant in a thousand different ways—breaking a contract, poisoning wedding guests, and opening fire on a crowd of innocents and international criminals alike. But it doesn’t matter. I know why he did this. Because he’s a small, psychotic man who’d rather burn every scrap of happiness in the world than let my Pryntsesa be free. And he’s so close to succeeding.
I shove away my anger. It won’t serve me now. Instead, I take January’s hand and lead her to the back door. The small concrete courtyard is littered with cigarette butts and beer cans. I point to the thick line of trees just beyond it. “That’s where we’re going, okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees and with a last reassuring squeeze of hands, we run.
The ground is rough, littered with old branches, loose sticks, and pinecones. I slip and slide in my dress shoes, and I can only imagine how January feels, but she keeps going and so do I. My skin crawls as we enter clearings, spots where any sniper worth their salt could blow our brains out, but eventually we make it to the trees. There’s a high brick wall that marks the edge of the hotel grounds.
“What do we do?” January pants, and it strikes me how beautiful she is with her red cheeks, and her hair coming loose from its strange updo, and my cock throbs.
I blink, trying to clear my mind. Orchard isn’t as effective on men, but it’s definitely fucking with me tonight. A distraction I don’t need.
“We follow the wall until we get to the front gate,” I tell her. “There’ll be more people there and we’ll blend with the crowd.”
The minutes spent creeping next to the wall are the longest of my life; listening to the distant wailing of guests, January’s shallow breathing, trying not to think of Bobby, and of Parker.
Finally, we reach the open gate. It’s thick with guests pressing their way into the street, running away. Sons outstripping daughters. Men dragging wives. I pick up January and carry her through the throng, looking around for a car I can steal. Without a gun or a laptop, it won’t be easy to start a keyless car. And every car around this fucking hotel will be keyless. I walk January a little further, scanning the parked luxury cars and SUVs for something cheap. Something old. Then a screech of tires, a black van swinging onto the street, Parker’s ZP logo on the side.
“Fuck,” I mutter, putting January on her feet. “Pryntsesa, you need to run.”
“But—”
Too late, the van door slides open and four guys in black windbreakers jump out. The last, the driver, is a huge redhead. I recognize him from the hospital where January’s Zia was smothered to death. He recognizes me right back, his face breaking into a huge smile. “Rossi! Good to see you again.”
I say nothing as I shove January behind me.
The redhead laughs. “Still protecting the Whitehall bitch?”
He’s a big guy, forty or so with the straight spine of an ex-marine, but the other three goons are mid-twenties at the oldest. This is a rush job. A poorly planned kidnapping.
“Your boss just torched a mafioso wedding,” I say. “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll get the fuck out of here.”
The redhead’s smile fades. “Just get in the van Rossi and if you’re lucky we won’t fuck your girl in front of you.”
I feel January tremble behind my back. “Close your eyes, Pryntsesa. I don’t want you to see this.”
“See what?” the redhead taunts. “Trust me, she’s gonna see plenty soo—”
