It comes out broken. Desperate. Like a prayer or a plea or something in between.
"Marina."
He says it again. Still unconscious. Still trapped in whatever darkness is pulling at him.
But he's saying my name.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER FIVE
Dante
Darkness.
Then pain.
The pain comes first. A dull, throbbing ache that radiates from my left side. Spreads through my ribs. My back. My chest.
I know this feeling.
Been shot before. Stabbed twice. Broken more bones than I can count.
But this—this is different.
This feels like someone reached inside me and rearranged my organs with a hot poker.
I try to breathe.
Bad idea.
The pain sharpens. Becomes a blade instead of a bruise. I grit my teeth. Force myself to take shallow breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Slow.
Controlled.
The way I learned to do it years ago. When pain was just another thing to manage. Another obstacle between me and whatever needed to be done.
My eyes are closed.
I don't remember closing them.
I don't remember much of anything.
Fragments. Pieces. Like a film reel that's been cut and spliced back together wrong.
Webb's office. The hired muscle. The gun.
The bullet.
Christ. The bullet.
I remember the impact.
I remember the ride. The Ducati. Denver streets blurring past. Blood soaking through my shirt. Through my jacket. Dripping onto the tank.
I remember?—
