He opens his mouth to speak but chokes on his own blood.
“We need to get you out of here.”
“No!” He croaks out the word and then coughs up a clot of blood, spitting it onto the floor beside him. “It’s too late for me.”
An intense wave of guilt almost knocks me off my feet. Guilt and despair. I know he speaks the truth. His carotid artery has been severed, and he likely has only a few minutes left. There’s no way to stop the bleeding. No way to save him. I push down the overwhelming tornado of feelings because they don’t help us here. Logic and quick thinking are our only recourse now.
“Where are Carmen and Imogen?” I ask, praying they’re not in this house. If they’ve met the same fate as him, then I might as well just sit on the floor beside him and stick a knife in my own throat.
“They’re... Vermont safe house. She’s not... I need you to...” He coughs up another mass of blood as he grasps for my hand, struggling to find a grip.
I slide my palm against his and squeeze reassuringly. “I’ll protect them, Luca.”
He screws his eyes closed. “P-please, Kill. Take care of...”
Tears leak from my eyes and I’m powerless to stop them. I rest my forehead against his. This is all because of me, because of what I learned and told him. He’s dead because I chose to leave the Brotherhood, and he wouldn’t let me leave without him.
“I’m sorry, Luca. If I hadn’t—”
“No!” He sucks in a breath. “Couldn’t lether...” Every word from his mouth sounds pained. “Protect my baby.”
I give his hand another squeeze. “I promise I’ll protect her, Luca. Always. No matter what the cost.”
He doesn’t reply. He’s already gone.
My brother and best friend.
Chapter 63
Imogen
“Where are my best salt and pepper pots?” Pierre throws his hands in the air and then turns to face Lincoln and me with a scowl.
I shrug. I have no idea.
Lincoln winces. “Shit! I took them on our picnic. Were they not in the basket?”
“If they were in the basket, then I would not be asking where they are, would I?”
“Can’t you just use a different set of pots?” Lincoln asks, shooting me a conspiratorial eye roll.
Pierre places his hands on his hips. “Non!I cannot just use a different set. They are my lucky salt and pepper.”
Lincoln shakes his head but Pierre is seething. He’s always been a little temperamental but cooking brings out the passion in him. It’s one of the things I adore about him, and one of the things I will miss.
“Maybe we left them in the trunk or something?” I suggest.
Lincoln shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I checked the trunk.”
Pierre huffs. “Oh, really? Because you both seemed a little distracted to me.”
The memory of that day has heat searing between my thighs. It was a perfect day. The last one before I found out Lincoln was a lying, murdering piece of shit.
“So, go. Go check!”
Lincoln winks at me, and I remind my treacherous lady parts that we hate him. “You want to come help me, angel?”
“Sure.” I slide off my stool and let him take my hand, following him to the garage. He lets us inside, using the retina scan.
