The world stops spinning. Time dilates. A bullet strikes the rusted iron tank where Catalina is hiding. The sharp, high-pitchedpingechoes in my skull.
The rage goes cold. Surgical.
I cross the distance in three strides. I do not shoot the man who fired at the boiler. Bullets are too quick. Bullets won't carry what I owe him.
I tackle him to the floor. My weight crushes the air from his lungs. His gun skitters away into the darkness. I grip the collar of his tactical vest and haul him halfway up. My right fist comes down like a hammer. Bone shatters under my knuckles. Cartilage collapses. I hit him again. And again. The wet, heavy sound of destruction is the only noise left in the speakeasy.
The final man scrambles backward. His boots slip on the slick, bloody stone. He's terrified. Breathing in ragged, panicked gasps.
"Wait. Costa. Wait?—"
I rise to my feet. My chest heaves. My hands are coated in warm, sticky Bellanti blood.
I point the Sig at the space between his eyes.
"You brought a tracker into my house." My voice is dead. Hollow. A promise of hell.
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot rings out with finality. The man collapses in a heap. The flashlight on the ground illuminates the pooling blood. Thick, dark crimson creeping across the grey stone.
The tunnel goes quiet. Just the ringing in my ears.
The scent of gunpowder is suffocating. Spent rounds and blood. It mixes with the dampness of the subterranean river. The mix sits thick at the back of my throat.
I stand in the center of the carnage. Four bodies. Four threats eliminated. The rage demands more. It demands I march across the city to the South Side and burn the entire Bellanti compound to ash tonight. It demands this war be ended right here, right now.
"Fabio."
A soft, trembling voice cuts through the bloodlust.
I turn instantly.
Catalina steps out from behind the rusted boiler. The dim, erratic light from the dropped flashlight catches the edges of her face. She is pale. Her eyes are huge, staring at the bodies scattered across the floor. She clutches her arms across her chest.
Her scent hits me. Sweet under all the cordite. That sweet scent slices straight through the metallic stench of the slaughterhouse.
I cross the room. I don't care about the blood on my gloves. I grip her shoulders. My thumbs settle against her collarbones. I inspect every inch of her face and scan her body for a single drop of blood that doesn't belong to the men on the floor.
"Are you hit?" The words are rough. Barked.
She shakes her head. Her hands come up to grip my tactical vest. She holds onto me like an anchor in a hurricane.
"No. I'm okay. I'm okay."
Relief crashes over me. It's a staggering wave. It feels like rage. The two emotions are indistinguishable inside my chest. I want to scream. I want to crush her against me until our bones fuse.
I yank her flush against my body. I bury my face in the curve of her neck. I drag her scent into my lungs. Greedy. She is alive. She is unharmed. She is mine.
Mine. Fuck.
Her arms wrap around my waist. She buries her face against my chest, right over my thundering heartbeat. She doesn't push away from the blood. She doesn't flinch from the man who made it. She holds on like she accepts the violence. Like she knows it was for her.
We stand in the dark, surrounded by the dead, holding each other in the center of the wreckage.
The silence is broken by the distant sound of sirens bleeding through the grates above. The Chicago Police. Or more Bellanti reinforcements. We can't stay here. The speakeasy is compromised. The sanctuary is burned.
I pull back. I keep one hand locked around the back of her neck. I can't make my hand let go. If I let go of her, I'll tear the tunnel apart with my bare hands.
