Page 117 of Cruel Love

“I’ve got more places to hide than you do, Lutrova!”

His hand emerges again. I duck as another bullet fires in our direction.

A car rolls up behind him and stops, the back door wide open for him. A man in black waves him inside and Gio springs from his hiding place to run toward it.

I grit my teeth. I can’t let him leave.

I leap out of hiding, raising my pistol and aiming for the back of his head.

I pull the trigger and the gun clicks. I’m empty.

The man in black holds up a rifle and aims down the barrel at me.

“Luka!”

Markov shoves me to the side as the bullet rings out. I tumble to the wall, nearly falling but I remain upright as Markov drops to his knees.

The car door slams. I rush forward several steps as the tires peel out on the concrete.

One glance backward stops me cold.

Crimson blood pours from Markov’s eye.

My heart lurches in my chest, memories of my father’s final moments flooding back to me.

No.

Not again.

“Markov?”

He bows forward. I kneel to grab him before he falls.

“Markov!”

I turn him over onto his back in the alleyway, thankful to still feel a bit of resistance in his muscles. He hasn’t gone limp yet, not like my father did. He’s fighting. He’s still here. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s—

“Luka...” he murmurs with one hand pressed hard against his face.

I try to guide his hand. “Let me see—”

“Go after him.”

“I won’t leave you, Markov.”

He refuses to let me check his wound, stubbornly brushing my hand away.

A car squeals, halting on the street behind us. I grab Markov’s rifle off the ground, thinking it’s Gio come back to finish us off. I twist around and point it toward the black vehicle, my finger eagerly hugging the trigger.

“Luka!” Fox shouts from the driver’s seat, barely audible over the shrieking sirens closing in. “Come on!”

Dante hops out of the car and rushes around to help me with Markov. I lower my weapon and we each take one of Markov’s arms, pulling him off the ground and shoving him into the backseat.

I slide in behind Markov as Dante rushes to get back into the passenger side. “Let me see,” I say again, taking hold of Markov’s wrist.

Markov sits up and slowly pulls his hand away. I cringe at the deep, red gash above his left eye. It’s a graze. Not a pretty one, but... just a graze. If it had been one or two centimeters off...

I would have lost another father.

---