Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
More pain lances through my back as I scramble inside. Gavino’s in the back too, crouched down on the floor and returning fire. I turn on the engine from the floor as Nico jumps into the passenger seat.
I floor it, the car jumping forward. It smashes into the sedan in front of us and I manage to wrangle the wheel until we’re in the street and flying. Bullets spray all over, and Gavino’s shooting back, more screams, more blood, until we reach the intersection and we’re moving.
“Injuries?” Nico says as I keep the accelerator down, the Rover flying.
“Got my fucking foot when I was jumping in,” Gavino says, grunting in pain. “Went right through my fucking toe.”
“Grazed my knee,” I say and touch my back, looking for a wound, but there’s nothing. “I think I’m okay.”
“Then we got lucky.” Nico sighs, leaning back, and holds up the phone—still unlocked.
“Speak for yourself. I lost my fucking middle toe.” Gavino curses and kicks the back of my seat. “Do you have any clue how much this hurts?”
“Yeah, asshole. I got shot like a dozen times, remember? Now shut up.” I take the phone from Nico, find the contact called Charlemagne, and tap the call button.
I turn on speaker and it rings, rings, rings. I slow down as I reach a more residential area, and the phone keeps on ringing. I’m about to give up—
When a familiar voice answers.
“You didn’t have to kill so many of my men if all you wanted to do was talk,” Cillian says quietly.
I exchange a look with Nico. How the hell does he know already? But it’s obvious, those fuckers back there were all lying, they could’ve gotten in touch with Cillian at any moment. They must’ve called him right away.
“You can blame your employees for that one. They were a bit jumpier than they should’ve been.”
“Ah, they’re only loyal, that’s all.”
“And now they’re dead. Where is Mirella?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. Your little physical therapist is safe with me for the time being. But you really should take better care of your employees.”
I grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. He doesn’t know how I feel about Mirella. If he did, he’d be using it against me right now.
Which means I have to do everything in my power to make sure he thinks we’re only trying to retrieve an employee and not desperately searching for the woman I’m falling madly in love with.
“What do you want, Cillian? Are you really stooping so low that you’re kidnapping civilians?”
“Civilians? Yes, I suppose that’s what she is.” He laughs, low and throaty. “Tell you what. We can make an exchange. I’ll give her back, but I want some concessions. I’m betting you’ll want to meet and negotiate, otherwise this is going to look very bad for you and your family. You can’t even protect a woman working in your own house? Very bad, Fynn, very bad. Worse than your gimpy legs.”
I work my jaw, but refuse to rise to the bait. “Where and when?”
“I’ll be in touch. I have your actual number, so no need to hold on to this phone. By the way, that man wasn’t my actual uncle. Goodbye.”
He disconnects. Nico scowls and throws the phone out the window as I roll through a traffic light and glide toward a more populated section of the city.
“What do we do now?” Gavino asks, his voice dripping with pain.
“We need to regroup and get your toe fixed.” I glance back at my brother, who stares back resolutely. “Then we go to that meeting with Cillian and murder them all.”
Chapter 27
Mirella
The man is older, my mother’s age, with salt-and-pepper hair, thick dark eyebrows, deeply tanned skin, and dark green eyes. He’s got a round nose, square jaw, handsome features. Tall, but not too tall, and lanky. No tattoos I can see. He’s wearing a simple gray tweed jacket, much too heavy for Phoenix, with a white linen shirt tucked into corduroy slacks. He’s carrying a tray, and on the tray are two big, white, steaming bowls, plus a small loaf of dark bread and clean silverware wrapped in paper napkins.
“Hello, Mirella,” he says, smiling kindly. “Are you hungry?”
I stare at him, not sure what to say. Nothing about him seems threatening or in any way aggressive, but he’s still a large man, and he’s in this house, which makes him dangerous. But my stomach rumbles, and if I’m going to escape somehow and survive, I need food.
“Yes, please,” I say softly.
He walks to the bed and places the tray down near my feet. He sits with a sigh, one foot still on the floor, and picks up a bowl.
It’s filled with a dark, rich stew. Big piece of potato, carrot, mushrooms, beef. It smells incredible, and my mouth waters ravenously.