Right as the thought enters my mind, a guard bursts through the door, blood smeared on his clothes. “It’s a trap! We’re under attack. The perimeter is comp?—”
He doesn’t finish. Raffaello’s knife swipes across his throat before he can say another word.
I’m already on my feet, gun drawn, leveling it at Delan’s head before Shuren can react. Omero is at my back; Raffaello is covering the door. There’s only one way in and one way out now.
“You should be more careful,” I say quietly, venom seething into my words. “Should have known I’d never let you get away with harming my child.”
Delan’s face goes white, then he smiles — cold and cruel. “You’ll never win, Cierro. Not when your own men are willing to betray you. A house without loyalty always falls. “
My blood goes cold. “Who?”
“Marco sends his regards,” Delan says as he leans back in his chair, not bothered in the slightest that I have a gun aimed at him. “He’s been on my payroll for months now. How do you think we got past your security in the first place? How do you think we knew exactly when to take the boy?”
Rage burns through my entire body at the accusation, but I keep the gun steady in my hand. “You’re lying.”
But in my gut, I know the words are true. I’d already suspected we had a mole. Now, I know who.
“You can’t get out of here with both Emmanuel and you alive,” he taunts.
“Oh ya? Watch me.” Cocking the hammer, it makes an eerie click as it locks into place. “Now, where is he?”
Shuren moves. He’s fast — faster than I could have anticipated. The toe of his boot connects with my wrist, knocking my aim off.The round discharges into the far wall, making a sizable hole in the drywall.
Before I can recover, he’s on me. His fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head to the side and causing me to stumble as stars explode across my vision. I try to catch myself, but he’s already inside my guard. A kick to my wrist sends the gun flying from my hand, skittering across the polished marble floor.
Omero and Raffaello move to help, but Delan has produced his own weapon from a drawer in the desk, keeping them at bay.
“Your boss wants to play the hero?” he says calmly. “Let’s see if he survives first.”
Shuren doesn’t give me an opportunity to recover. He comes at me with a wild combination that doesn’t fully register— jab, cross, knee, strike. I block the first two, just barely, but his knee catches me in the ribs. Pain explodes through my side. Broken or cracked, I can’t tell.
I back up, attempting to reassess the situation. He’s military trained, combat refined, and lethal, but I didn’t survive this long by being easy to keep down.
He advances again, throwing another combination at me. This time I’m ready. I slip under his arm, parry the cross, and drive my elbow into his temple as I slip in and out of his guard in one sweeping motion.
He staggers, and I press the advantage, stepping forward to send an uppercut to his solar plexus, then a hook to his kidney before sweeping his legs out from under him. He goes down hard but rolls and jumps back up immediately, coming right back to a fighting stance.
“Not bad for a mobster,” he says, wiping a line of blood from his lip.
“Not bad for a Triad lapdog.”
That gets under his skin. I can see the anger welling up, red across his face.Good.
He charges, and we crash together on one end of the room, toppling over a velvet sofa, trading blows as we go down, neither giving ground. His fist catches my eye— I feel the skin give way, the blood running hot down my face. I break his nose with a satisfying crunch.
Finally, we separate, both breathing hard. Once he’s on his feet, he grabs a decorative vase off a side table and hurls it at my head.
I duck, but he’s already moving. He uses the distraction to close the distance between us and gets his hands on me. We grapple, both trying to overpower the other.
He’s stronger than he looks. Getting me in a headlock and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I drive my elbow back into his ribs. Once. Twice. The third time, his grip loosens.
I throw my head back, catching him in his already broken nose. He releases me, cursing in Mandarin. We’re both bleeding now. Hurt, but still not backing down. I grab a chair and swing it at him. He blocks it with his forearm, the wooden chair shattering against him, splintering everywhere.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles through bloody teeth. “My turn.”
He grabs a large piece of the broken chair, a leg with a wicked, sharp edge, and comes at me like he’s wielding a sword.
I barely dodge the first swing. The second catches my arm when I use it to block my face, tearing through fabric and skin. Blood trickles from the cut immediately. On the third swing, I catch his wrist, twisting it. He drops the makeshift sword but uses the momentum to drive his knee into my stomach.
