At that, Dami actually snarls, his lips pulling back from his teeth.
“On the contrary, Mr. King,” I say lightly. “This ignorant oaf is my legitimate owner. He doesn’t like the idea of having his property fondled by others, that’s all.”
King scoffs at that. “He doesn’t even understand your real worth. Do you have any idea what some people out there would pay to see a Clemenza?—”
With a right hook worthy of the world heavyweight champion, Dami knocks him out. I watch Daniel King fall over his desk and to the floor and then I look up at Dami. “What was that for?”
“Tired of his bullshit.”
“Why, what did you think he was going to say?”
“Nothing useful. What they’d pay to watch you suffer. Watch you break. You’ve heard it all before.”
“So this time you were protecting my delicate sensibilities?” Dami shrugs. I step to the side, looking down at King on the carpet. “Is this one dead, too?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” He kneels to check the pulse. “He’s alive.”
I let out a little puff of relief. “Well, that’s one fewer problem at least.”
“Might be better if Ididkill him,” Dami suggests.
It’s tempting. But I shake my head. “The Bratva will be angry enough about Grisha. Your Boss might be able to smooth that over, but not if you kill Daniel King as well.” Dami, who blinked a little at my mention of his Boss, looks worried.
“We better get moving,” he says after a moment. “That pet demon of his’ll be back any second to cause trouble.”
And speak of the devil, there’s a knock at the door just as Dami finishes, three hard taps and a three-second wait…
It flings open. “Daniel!” Jesse Foster cries. “Something terrible has—” He sees Dami and me standing over the desk, and then his eyes move to the floor, where King’s unconscious body is just visible to him behind the desk.
He clocks the situation fast. Jesse Foster is like me in some ways: he’s a survivor. He turns and bolts.
Dami charges after him at once, but I’m faster. I take off like I’ve heard the starter pistol and chase him down the corridor. With the cloak streaming behind me, I feel like a superhero, and I gain so fast on Jesse that I’m on him before he reaches the first corner. I push him off balance into the wall, and we go down onto the floor in a tangle of legs and arms. He’s like a feral cat fighting to be free, and I get an elbow to the gut that winds me, but a moment later Dami leans down and picks him up, clapping a giant hand across his mouth.
“Get up,” Dami orders me. “We need to get out right fucking now.”
Jesse is struggling and kicking in his arms, and I’m worried for a nanosecond that Dami might kill him, too.
But I don’t have time to waste worrying about a false friend.
“That way,” I wheeze, pointing down the other way. “There’s a back door into an alley.”
“In my pocket,” Dami says. “Get my phone. Text Vito to meet us there.”
My hands are shaking as I slide a hand into his pocket, and then shaking again when Dami tells me the code to open the phone. But he’s patient and calm, even as we hurry down the hallway,even with Jesse Foster wriggling around like a wildcat in his arms.
Somehow I get the text done, and somehow the hallways feel more familiar here. Within a minute we’re at the black metal door that I remember closing behind me like the gates of hell when I first came here.
It’s locked, a keypad lock. Dami shoves Jesse close to it. “Open it.”
Jesse just keeps struggling.
“Jesse,” I snarl, and he stops struggling to glare at me. “Do you want to end up like Grisha?”
He stops yanking at Dami’s iron embrace, and stabs a few buttons on the keypad. I hold my breath for a second, hoping like hell there’s no alarm code, but the door simply makes a soft clunk as the lock releases. I pull it open, gasping at the cold air outside rushing in, and we hurry out.
Vito’s right there in the car, and the door to the back seat is already open and waiting for us. Dami throws Jesse aside, who stumbles to the ground with a pitiful cry, and we pile into the car. It pulls away with a screech, narrowly avoiding Jesse, who flattens himself against the wall, screaming empty threats after us.
I look at Dami. He looks at me. And I feel a grin starting to spread, just as reluctant but inevitable as the one on his face. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of it, and sits back in his seat. “Fuck,” he says, wincing as his shoulder blade contacts the leather.
