Page 43 of Bishop

Langston was shot in the gut. Gunned down while I didn’t have his back. Almost killed while he wasn’t carrying because I never demanded that motherfucker be strapped.

“Lorenzo said he’ll be fine despite a doc cutting him open in the fucking basement.” Salvatore’s gaze lifts to the top of the staircase where footsteps carry down the hall.

Seconds later, Abri comes into view wearing tight denim jeans, a white T-shirt and blazer, with a different navy scarf. She descends the stairs, carrying a small suitcase, her face stony, her lips a thin line.

Her Converse Chucks-covered feet hit the foyer, then she wordlessly continues forward.

“Where are you going?” I ask as she passes.

“Away from here.” She stops before her brothers. “As far as you’re concerned, consider me estranged like Matthew. I’m done with you both.”

Remy winces. “Abri…”

Salvatore quietens him with a raised hand. “You’ll understand our actions once the shock wears off. Then we’ll be waiting here for your return.”

“Please hold your breath.” She stalks to the hall leading toward the garage.

They do nothing.

“You’re not going to chase after her?” I seethe.

Salvatore starts for the kitchen. “I’ve already been bashed and stabbed this week. So excuse me if I don’t feel like being bludgeoned by my sister.”

“She’s not in a state to drive.” Not when she’s flooded with adrenaline and emotion. Shit. Did she find the vial of coke in my jacket?

“She needs space.” Remy makes for the stairs. “She’ll calm down and realize we’re not at fault.”

“Have you met your sister? She doesn’t seem the type to backtrack.”

He shrugs. “There’s nothing anyone can do but give her time.”

They’re just going to let her go? One mentally unhinged junkie behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle?

“Fuck you both.” I stalk after her, my wet feet slapping against the tile, my drenched suit pants hanging heavy from my hips.

I reach the garage door and fling it open to an excessive rev of an engine. Tires screech as she reverses an Aston Martin onto the pebbled drive.

“Abri, wait.” I run after her, catching up to the car she stops to shift out of reverse.

I plant my hands against the hood, staring down those crazed eyes.

“Move.” She white-knuckles the steering wheel. “Or I’ll mow you down.”

“Believe me, belladonna, I hate chasing after your crazy ass as much as you despise me doing it. But if you’re not going to let those assholes look after you it means I’m still on the clock, so let me get you out of here.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” says the wild-eyed, brother-slapping, coke-sniffing daughter who’s grieving for her psychopathic father.

“Humor me.”

The engine revs again, the threat mediocre in comparison to what she’s previously launched in my direction.

“I’ve got a place you can go.” I raise my palms, patient on the outside, itching to strangle her on the inside. “Climb into the passenger seat and I’ll take you there.”

9

ABRI

I cling to the steering wheel, my sweat-slicked palms aching from my grip, but the discomfort is nothing in comparison to the agony in my chest.

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