Maybe she’d never forgive me, but at least I’d save her.
I dropped my head between my shoulders. “Make the call.”
My phone started ringing. Tierney’s name flashed on the screen.
Oh, thank fuck.
“Where have you been?” I growled.
“Easy there, tiger. It hasn’t been a full hour.” Her easy laughter filled my ears. “I’m driving. Must’ve gone into a tunnel when you called. What’s up?”
“Sangue Blu is on his way to our apartment.” I motioned for Luca to cut the call with Antonio and Carmine. They weren’t necessary anymore. “We’re making a U-turn now. I want you to drive to your brother’s place and stay there until I come get you.”
She bristled. “When’s he gonna get there?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah. I’m just wondering if I have time to pee. I’m almost there.”
“Don’t go up.” I managed to keep the desperation from my voice. Barely. The need to rip my skin apart for not being there to protect her clawed its way to my throat. “He should be there any minute.”
“You prefer me in Irish territory?”
I’d prefer her in Bratva territory, too. Anything was better than Coppola.
“Tierney,” I warned. “Don’t fuck with me. I gave you an order. I don’t do it often.”
“Okay, okay,” she sighed. “I’ll go straight to Tiernan and Lila’s.”
I closed my eyes and forced my heartbeat to slow. “Thank you.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Tierney
I wasn’t going straightto Tiernan and Lila’s.
I was going to finish the bastard myself.
Served him right, for thinking he could buy me like cattle.
The fact he wanted the love of my life dead did not help his cause in the least. Stefano Coppola was my enemy through and through.
I’d spent my life pretending to be something I was not—the party girl, the socialite, the airhead. But the truth was, I was a soldier raised in a camp. A cannon fodder. A well-trained pawn.
Cold. Calculating.Bloodthirsty.
But sometime during the past few weeks, this pawn managed to reach the other side of the board. Against all odds, I’d promoted myself to a queen’s position, and now, I was going to act like one.
It was time to quench my thirst.
I parked Achilles’s Porsche in the underground parking and took the elevator upstairs. The apartment was locked, with no movement detected on the security app in or outside it for the last three hours.
Coppola hadn’t arrived yet.
It gave me time to pee, then check out the secret stash in Achilles’s office cupboard and choose myself a nice Nighthawk GRP with a suppressor. It packed a punch and was discreet.
Not that I was worried about waking up any neighbors—the apartment was completely soundproof—but realistically, Coppola was coming with reinforcements, and I needed to take them out one bastard at a time.
