Page 65 of Falling for the Enemy

Three seconds is all I have to decide.

My choice is made in less than one.

Momentarily ignoring the voice in my head, the very one that demands I go after the rat responsible for dangling my sister’s well-being over my head, I rip my knife from my side and race toward an unconscious Ari, leaving Christian and Benito behind to assist her men in handling what remains of the weak-willed Italians.

A dozen of their bodies litter the ground.

Within seconds, there will be one more.

Eyes trained on the pendejo who stands three feet behind Manzana, his fat, ring-covered hand clutching his wounded shoulder, I allow my demons to rise, their attention shifting to the task ahead, my quickening steps fueled by their echoing calls for revenge.

He hurt the woman who’s mine.

And for that, he’s about to die.

A thick haze resembling a wave of blood blankets my field of vision as I reach Vincent DeMeo, his beady eyes widening at my sudden approach.

A dark smile controls my rage-stricken face as I lunge for him and methodically drive my knife deep into his throat with a hard thrust.

A single grunt.

It’s the only noise he makes as I twist hard, severing tendons and arteries alike, the feral roar that rips from my chest a fitting accompaniment to the primal urge to protect that powers me. The gurgling sounds spilling from his torn skin reverberate through the suddenly quiet warehouse, their echoes music to my ears.

Pupils flooding with unmistakable fear, the hijo de puta drops to his knees when I rip the blade free. Hands flying to clutch what remains of his maimed neck, he peers into the abyss as blood sprays from his wound, his unfocused stare likely landing on the approaching reaper sent to drag him to Hell.

Less than a minute.

That’s all it’ll take for him to bleed out.

Hands shaking with a fury so great I’ve only experienced it one other time—the day I gutted Melendez like the swine he was—I grasp a handful of his gel-slicked hair and jerk him close, just as he did Manzana.

Leaning down, I bring my face to his.

“Your death comes far too easy.” His bottom lip droops and I regret not having time to peel it from his skin. “For touching her, you deserve to die slowly and tortuously.”

The thump of my heart fills my constricted throat, my now calm voice eerie to my own ears. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure your padre feels every ounce of pain you’re due and cries every tear you’ve come to owe.” The morbid pledge is one I’ll die to keep. “See you in Hell, Vincent.”

I spit in his face and release him.

He falls to his side, red bubbles escaping his torn skin. They slide down his chest, staining his stark white shirt as images of his gun pressed to Arianna’s face, her blonde locks fisted in his hand repeatedly flash in my head.

Each gut-twisting picture heightens the mania that possesses me, demanding I slit the throat of every Italian soldier present. For what they tried to do—

“Jefe, we’ve gotta move!”

Police sirens wail in the distance, but along with Christian’s shout, they barely register. I turn, my chest so tight I can barely pull in a breath, and stoop low. My jaw clenches as I lift the enchantress who’s bewitched me into my arms, her head lolling despite the steady fall and rise of her chest.

Her blood dampens my shirt, the feel of its warmth threatening to send me headfirst into a spiral like none other. But it’s her second-in-command that pushes me even closer to the edge when he suddenly appears, hands stained with blood, and presses his fingers to her throat, checking her pulse.

It’s the final straw.

He has no right to touch her.

Not when she. Is. Mine.

“No pongas tus asquerosas manos sobre mi mujer!” I bellow, demanding he not put his disgusting hands on my woman. “Touch her again,” I add between strained heaves for breath, “and I will fucking kill you!”

His cheek twitches, but he doesn’t speak as he smartly drops his arm. A second King steps up to his side, specks of drying blood marring his face and bald head.

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