“Well, well. What do we have here?”
I look over my shoulder just as two men approach. Mid-twenties, rough-looking, wearing jackets despite the warmth of the day. One has a scar running down his left cheek, and the other has a spider web tattoo creeping up his neck.
Every instinct I have screams trouble, danger. I stand slowly, pulling Emmanuel behind me. “Can I help you?”
“It’s a nice park, isn’t it?” Scarface says, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Expensive neighborhood, too. Rich lady like you can afford to spare some cash, can’t you? Maybe even some jewelry?”
Emmanuel’s hands ball into fists in the back of my shirt, and I can feel him trembling.
“I don’t have much on me,” I lie. I have a hundred dollars in cash and the emergency credit card that Jay had given me. “But you can have what I’ve got. Just let us go on our way.”
“How about we take what we want and decide if you get to go?” Spider web pulls a knife from beneath his jacket — not large but large enough for me to realize they aren’t going to back down. “Give me all of it. Your cash. Your jewelry. And your phone.”
I don’t hesitate, don’t think. Protecting Emmanuel is the only thing on my mind. I don’t take my eyes off the men, placing my hands behind my back. I sign to Emmanuel to run. He hesitates for a moment before taking off like a rocket toward the mansion.
I launch myself at Scar Face as his eyes track Emmanuel. Jay’s training kicks in automatically. I use my momentum to knock him off balance, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He goes down, gasping.
But Spider Web is already moving, knife in hand. I dodge his first slash, just barely. The second catches my shirt sleeve, tearing fabric and flesh. The cut burns, but I don’t stop moving. I have to keep their attention and let Emmanuel get away.
I feint left, then jump right, going for Spider Web’s knife hand. I manage to grab his wrist, twist, and try to disarm him. Then pain explodes in my left shoulder blade, and I realize too late that Scar Face is back up, and has a knife of his own — one that’s now lodged in my shoulder.
Stupid. Stupid mistake.
I wrench away, hearing fabric tear as the blade pulls out of my skin. Blood instantly soaks my shirt, hot and sticky.
“Fucking bitch!” Spider Web lunges again. I sidestep and let his momentum take him straight into Scar Face. They both go down in a ball of curses and limbs.
And then I’m running.
The pain makes me slower, dizzy as each movement sends fire through my shoulder. I can feel blood running down my arm, dripping from my fingers, but I see Emmanuel at the edge of the park, frozen at the curb, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.
“Run!” I scream. “Run home, and don’t look back!”
This time he listens, turning and sprinting across the street toward the iron gate that leads to the mansion. My vision begins to blur at the edges. Each step pumps more blood through my system, blood that’s quickly escaping from my wound.
Behind me, I hear cursing and then footsteps, but when I risk a glance over my shoulder, they aren’t following. They’re going in the other direction, spooked.
Good. Let them run.
Emmanuel reaches the estate gates first, and he’s screaming, actually screaming. The words pour out in panic as he tugs on the guard’s sleeve and points back at me.
The last thing I see before falling to the grass and losing consciousness is Raffaello’s massive form appearing, scooping Emmanuel up, his face going white when he looks at me.
Chapter Fourteen
Basili
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place Delan Tao would choose: expensive, exclusive, and on neutral ground. Which is exactly how I prefer it. Midtown is busy this time of year, busier than usual with the holidays approaching, and most of the tables in the restaurant are full as we walk through it, following the Matre d’ to a secluded corner against the far wall.
“Mr. Cierro, thank you for agreeing to this meeting.” Delan Tao stands and extends his hand across the table, his smile perfectly practiced and cold as ice.
I shake his hand with a smile just as cold. “Mr. Tao.”
He’s exactly what I expected: mid-fifties, impeccably dressed from head to toe in a tailored suit, his hair graying, his eyes calculating. The Dragon’s head of the Triad carries himself with the confidence of a man who has built an empire on blood.
Exactly like me, which is exactly why I don’t trust him.
“Please, sit. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering wine already.” He gestures to the chair across from him.
