Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I wouldn’t pretend to understand.
Not in the short amount of time we were standing there.
Maybe I would have tried to, would have asked the right questions, and gotten the answers I was seeking, but a gunshot rang out, and I realized the guys had gone ahead without me.
And with the woman yelling for me to go, and knowing my men—my family, my cousins, my soldiers—were unaware of the ambush, I really had no choice but to do what she wanted.
For me to save ourselves.
And leave her to her captivity.
My heart was frozen in my chest as I reached for my gun, making my way in the direction my cousins—Dante and Santo—and my soldiers had taken off in, hearing more gunshots.
There were more of them than we’d planned on.
We’d only ever seen four or so men before, but this was double that, with their semiautomatics and a kill order from their boss.
The only thing we had going for us was the home base advantage.
That and, of course, the stacked metal containers that offered some protection when we ducked behind them.
“I’m out,” one of my soldiers told me as we both ducked behind the same container, breathing hard, eyes wide.
“I’m low,” I admitted, wondering how the others were doing. How much more prepared they might have been than I was.
My soldier suddenly stiffened and pointed toward the opening between the containers.
And there he was.
One of Warren’s men. Alone. With a semiautomatic. Likely still full of bullets. With backups, given that they knew what they were planning this night to look like.
Taking a deep breath, I nodded at my man, who made a small noise, drawing the man’s attention.
Distracting him just long enough for me to sink my final two bullets into him.
We watched as he faltered and fell flat on his face before we rushed at him, grabbing his gun from his dead fingers, his extra ammunition, and the second gun in his ankle holster.
“Let’s end this,” I said, nodding at him as he slung the semiautomatic over his chest, both of us knowing he would be better with it.
Then we moved out, and I watched as he picked off several of Warren’s men.
It was right then that I saw the man himself.
Gaze lowered to focus as he tried to reload his own gun.
I raised my arm, aimed, and sent a bullet sailing right into his body, landing a little higher than my intention, but I got a sick sense of satisfaction watching the pain rip across his features as his right-hand man grabbed him, and they started to run.
I wanted to follow, but there was too much shooting still going on to even think of leaving my men behind.
Another minute or two, though, and it was done.
His men were all down.
Someone had thought to go to the office to put the floodlights on, so we could check around.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” a voice hissed, making me turn back and run toward it, knowing who it belonged to.
Santo.
My cousin.
The ‘middle’ of my Aunt Giulia’s children. After Nino, Massimo, and Dante, but before Valentina and Augustine.
Like the stereotypical middle child, he was the one with the jokes, the sarcastic sense of humor, the lighter personality.
And he sounded like he was in pain.
“God fucking damn,” he growled, trying to peel himself off of the ground as I found him, running toward him.
“Don’t move,” I snapped, pushing him back down. “Where are you hit?” I asked.
“Where am I not hit?” he shot back. “Arm and leg,” he said, and I saw how he was pressing his hand against his upper arm, but blood was still slipping through his fingers.
My left hand shot out toward his leg, wincing right before I pressed against that wound, hearing him let out a litany of curses as my right hand reached for my phone, unlocking, and scrolling until I found her name.
Lettie.
Our cousin.
The one who’d dropped out of med school right before she finished, who eventually opened up her own sort of hospital, ambulance and all, to take care of us, and those like us. Those of us who didn’t want to go to the hospital because then the cops would get involved, asking shit we couldn’t answer, and putting suspicion on us that we didn’t need.
“What’s going on?” Lettie picked up, tone no-nonsense, knowing we only called when there was an emergency.
“Santo is shot twice,” I told her, and I swear I could hear her springing into action. Something squeaked, then there was a zipping sound, keys, and, finally, a door slamming before an engine started up.
“Where?”
“Upper arm and thigh.”
“How is he? Conscious? How’s the blood loss? Pulse? Breathing?”
“He’s alright,” I said, having seen enough gunshot wounds over the years to know he was almost certainly going to make it through this. “Bleeding, but not like an artery is hit. We’re putting pressure on. Breathing is fine. Heart is going, but we were just ambushed,” I told her.