PART 1
1
LEV
“Lev! Up, eight o’clock!”
Who’sshouting those words matters less than the warning itself. It’s clearly something to react to, and a quick mental calculation determines the exact trajectory from us to the threat, so I shuffle to the left and tuck Serafina Mancini to my side, out of the way of the incoming bullet.
While the others fight for their lives, my duty is to get her to safety, so that’s what I’ll do, no matter the cost.
Ten more feet to the door.
Given how tight her hand is around mine, she’s keen enough to not let go. Her panicked, shallow breaths sound louder than the shouts and fighting behind us, which pinpoints my focus. Her body is stiff against mine, and even without actually knowing this woman—the eighteen-year-old half-sister to both my Pakhan and her boyfriend-slash-ex-enemy—I suspect she’s normally a lot warmer than this.
Which means I definitely need to get her out and to safety so she can return to normal.
Five more feet to the door.
Less than a second after Vanessa’s warning, my shoulder stings with a blinding pain recognizable as a bullet ripping through flesh. The only noise I release is a grunt, the pain bitten in a grinding jaw, but Serafina yells—a sound I don’t like at all. It’s screechy and as irritating as the buzzing that is my brain’s constant companion.
If not for the timing of Vanessa’s warning that got me to switch sides with her, the bullet would have gone through her head, killing her instantly. It’s an image that cools my blood more than the wound in my shoulder.
Serafina dying isn’t an option, especially since she was only dragged into this fight by her unfortunate relations.
When Vanessa claimed leadership of the Bratva after her father’s, Ursin Volkov, death, his brother—her uncle—Ivan did not approve and has opposed her for years. In his idiotic drive to seize control, he used the strange relationship between her and Zeno Mancini, a Cosa Nostra Capo, and his sister, Serafina—who’s also Vanessa’s half-sister, by Ursin’s nefarious actions—to force her hand: them or the Bratva.
Serafina is completely innocent in this fight.
But it doesn’t stop her from cursing.
“Shit!” Hand tightening, she propels me towards the broken metal door and out of the warehouse where Ivan locked her and Zeno to lure Vanessa here.
Getting shot always stings, and while this isn’t anything new, it doesn’t stop the burning that begs me to rest—which can’t happen, not yet. My steps are growing sluggish, but I attempt to drag her closer, keeping my body curled around hers in case anyone’s following us. A bullet to the spine would be better than disobeying Vanessa’s orders.
My vision burring and flashing colours isn’t helping as I attempt to scan the land for anyone outside. Given the lack of shooting, I’d like to believe we’re free.
Twenty feet from the warehouse doors is the SUV Anastasia, my twin sister, and I drove. I nudge Serafina in that direction, mentally counting our steps to stay focused and keep my own heart rate down.
Numbers make everything better.
“Door.”
Thankfully, she understands the one-word instruction and opens the back door to let me climb in first. Injured or otherwise, her being out in the open isn’t an option. We’ve come this far, and I’ll be damned if I see her killed now. My waning energy is channelled towards pushing her into the backseat, my silent demand nothing but a puff of breath.
Uncertainty tightens her eyes—or is that concern?—but she accepts arguing won’t get either of us anywhere and climbs inside. I scan the area again while clutching the door to keep myself upright. Hopefully, the others ensured no one followed us, because fighting while injured is a bitch of a job.
And something tells me Serafina won’t be useful in a fight.
Serafina reaches to assist me inside. The door takes most of my weight before I practically fall onto the bench. My head lands on her lap, weakness dragging me further and quicker from consciousness than preferable. My head resting by a stranger’s intimate area feels less important than my distaste of being this near another person.
Count. Stay awake. Stay focused.
One…
Her fingers drive through my hair and—why does this feel so fucking good?Anyone who touches me deserves death—or at the very least, a stern reminder of why another person’s skin against mine causes my blood to race and my breaths to come out short.
Touch is—no. Just no. I hate it more than anything. It makes my skin crawl.
