“Duncan?” Angelo’s voice is scratchy, a little dazed with sleep. It’s only 7:00 a.m. in Chicago, and we won’t land for almost an hour. “Where have you been? What’s going on?”
“Duncan Wilder was killed by Diego Ruiz,” West says, “on orders from Lincoln DeLuca. Mr. Rossi, the DeLucas have your son. We’re going to get him back.”
Nash
The cold, concrete floor leaches all the warmth from my body. I shivered half the night, tossing and turning in the dimly lit basement, replaying the moment I knew I was going to die.
If I’d ignored the man at the door—or hidden in Raelynn’s crawlspace—I’d still be in Seattle. I could have warned her. Maybe even saved her. Instead, I’m watching the sky outside the windows get brighter and brighter, wondering how much longer I have before Lincoln or one of his goons puts a bullet in my brain. An hour? Less?
A single, weak ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds, and I stand on my tiptoes, desperate to see something—anything—outside.
The heavy lock thunks and I press my back against the wall.
Please, make it quick.
Rocco enters first, with Benny on his heels. The second enforcer aims a gun at my chest.
“Get it over with,” I manage.
From the doorway, a man who can only be the patriarch of the DeLuca family chuckles. “You are the spitting image of your father, Nathan.”
“Didn’t these idiots tell you? My name is Nash.”
Rocco rushes me, grabs my shoulders, and slams me against the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth in my head. I’m too dazed to block the punch to my gut that follows. Retching, I sink to my knees. If there were anything in my stomach, it’d be all over his polished wingtips.
Enzo DeLuca stands over me, his son at his side. “You can be buried under whatever name you’d like, Nathan. That does not change who you are. Or why you’re here.”
“I never did a damn thing to you or your family, DeLuca. Neither did my father. You’re the one who kept up this ridiculous vendetta.” I stagger to my feet, still wheezing, and point to the thick scar at my temple. “So go ahead. Shoot me. Finish the job you started twenty years ago.”
“Oh, I will. But I didn’t bring you all the way to Chicago to simply put two bullets in your brain.” He nods to Lincoln, who pulls a cell phone from his pocket. “And you are wrong about one thing. Twenty years ago, your father might have been an innocent bystander. Collateral damage, if you will. But today…he’s anything but.”
I’m still dazed. I have to be. “My father died with my mother and sister.”
Enzo smiles, showing off blinding white teeth. “Angelo Rossi has been the head of his family for the past thirteen years. And now that I have you, he’ll give up everything he’s built before he watches you die.”
Lincoln taps his phone, and holds it up so I can see the photo on screen.
My father stands on an outdoor patio, leaning heavily on a cane, but very much alive. His light brown hair has turned snow white, but his blue eyes are as intense as ever.
“Oh my God. Dad.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Raelynn
“Put this on,” West says, tossing me a black knit cap. “That bandage is bright enough to be seen from the Space Station.”
I flip open the vanity mirror and carefully ease the hat over my head. The only compression wraps Doc Reynolds had in his bag were neon pink and electric green. Though there ain’t a color on this earth that would blend in. Not wound around my skull like a 1980s headband.
“You really think it’s the bandage he’s gonna notice? You’ve seen my face, right?”
Two black eyes—one of them swollen half shut—a busted lip, and an inch-long gash on my cheek. At least my sweater hides the bruising around my neck.
“I have. And you’d be in the van with Inara, Graham, and Tank if Angelo weren’t suspicious as fuck.”
I check the side mirror. The black Econoline is six cars back. They’ll wait half a mile from the Rossi family compound, ready to breach should West, Ryker or I drop off comms or press our panic buttons.
Fingering the tiny GPS transmitter hidden in the cuff of my black sweater, I close my eyes and picture Nash as I last saw him. Covered in dust, his white t-shirt straining over his biceps, chasing Kiki away from the pile of paint shavings. God, I hope we’re not too late. That there’s a chance we’ll get him back. That he’ll still be…the man I’m falling in love with.
