Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Quinley jerked as white-hot fire blazed across her temple, shaving off skin. Her hand automatically whipped up to touch the spot as she hissed in pain. Becoming aware that something had thudded into the wall behind her, she fast realized what had just happened.
She’d been shot at.
She ducked, yelling, “Get in!” But it was unnecessary, because the devil was already all but diving into the house. They both slammed the door shut as more bullets flew, all peppering the door but not penetrating it.
“What the hell?” Havana burst out.
Straightening, Quinley probed the wound on her temple—it was wet and warm, and she could smell blood. “Are you okay?”
“That was going to be my question.” The Alpha pulled out her cell just as Isaiah came striding into the hallway, his brow furrowed.
“Why did you slam the—” He stilled, his nostrils flaring. “You’re bleeding.”
“Tate,” Havana said into her phone, “we’ve got a sniper somewhere.”
“Sniper?” Isaiah echoed.
“Someone just shot at me, but the bullet only grazed my temple.” Quinley watched as his face turned hard, red, and menacing.
“Motherfucker.” He glared at the bullet that was lodged in the wall behind her. He gently but firmly dragged her into the living room. “Wait here, Quin. Do not move from this house.”
“Like I planned to go for a stroll, you weirdo. Be careful.”
He planted a hard kiss on her mouth and then vanished, disappearing out of the patio doors.
She blew out a breath and peeked at the living room bulletproof window. There were no marks to indicate that it took any hits. She wondered if maybe her shooter had known that every house and apartment complex owned by the pride was built to withstand such an attack, because why else would they have waited for her to open the front door?
“Right,” began Havana, walking into the living room, “I texted Helena; she’s on her way. I’ll wait with you while our mates and a bunch of others deal with who shot you.”
“The bastard’s probably in the wind.”
“Oh, I’m sure that he intended to be. But we knew one of the Vercetti brothers was a sniper, so we were prepared for such a move. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t being detained as we speak.”
Standing on the rooftop of the pride’s bookshop, Isaiah glared down at the wolf shifter pinned to the concrete floor like a butterfly by several enforcers. His stubbly face was red and splotchy, and there was a manic glint in his hazel eyes that said he knew he was fucked.
The enforcers had been stationed on nearby rooftops, unhidden. They hadn’t noticed the stranger in time to prevent him from taking shots at Isaiah’s house, but they’d spotted him swiftly enough to subdue him when he tried fleeing.
Rage flamed in Isaiah’s blood and took over his cat. This motherfucker had made his mate bleed. Had attacked her from afar when she was in her own damn home, the one place she should feel safe. He’d taken that from her.
More—and far worse—he’d tried to kill her. He’d tried to take her from Isaiah.
And the wolf would goddamn pay for it.
“So you’re Tommaso Vercetti,” said Isaiah. “You look a lot like your baby brother.” Same colored eyes, same brown hair, same chin dimple. “Samuele was his name, wasn’t it?” It was a taunt; a reminder that Isaiah himself had killed the youngest Vercetti.
Tommaso peeled back his lips, revealing gleaming white, slightly crooked teeth. “Do not speak of him.”
“Why not?” asked Isaiah with a slight shrug. “It isn’t like he’ll know, being dead and all.”
A deep growl rattled the wolf’s lips.
Tate looked at Isaiah. “You were right in thinking he’d come. I didn’t believe he would.”
“Neither did I,” said Luke, stood slightly behind his brother with Deke and Camden.
“It’s said that Tommaso here is a bloodthirsty hothead.” Isaiah met manic amber eyes once more. “You’re the reason a lot of the ransom victims either went home injured or not at all. You like to hurt people. And once you start, you don’t like—maybe don’t even know how—to stop. So yeah, I figured you’d make this move.”
It was likely that Isaiah had been Tommaso’s primary target. Likely that, tired of waiting for him to show, the wolf had tried executing Quinley instead. After all, the death of a shifter also meant a death of sorts for their mate—if it didn’t kill them literally, it would at least destroy a part of their soul. That would definitely have counted as vengeance for Tommaso.
But that Quinley might have been a secondary target made no difference. The fact was she’d been grazed by a fucking bullet while standing in her own damn house.
“My pack will be on you any second,” Tommaso warned.
“No,” Tate contradicted. “Apart from your getaway driver—who’s already dead, by the way—you’re alone.”
It had been disappointing to learn that the aforementioned driver hadn’t been Davide, another of the brothers. He typically drove during “jobs.”