Page 92 of His Passerotta

“It isn’t like that.” Corey backs up when Oakland plants a foot his way. “She would never tell him anything. She helped us learn about La Divina’s security, remember? She’s on our side.”

“On our side?” Oakland scoffs and reaches around himself, pulling a gun from his waistband.

“No, don’t!” Corey holds out his hands while jumping to get in front of me. I’m too frozen with fear to move.

But the worst-case scenario happens. Oakland doesn’t point the gun at me. He points it at Corey.

“No!” I scream when the blast sounds and Corey stands still, putting his hand to his bloodied chest. His knees buckle, sending him toppling to the floor, and I catch his head before it hits the tile.

“Corey,” I cry out, tears filling my eyes. He doesn’t speak. He looks like he’s in too much shock to make out a word as he stares down at his chest, his hand shaking as he touches the blood. The bullet struck the upper left side, so not an immediate kill shot. If he dies, he’ll die slowly and painfully. “I’m so sorry,” I whimper, pushing his hand aside to put pressure on the wound. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Put the bitch with the Russian,” Oakland orders. “Looks like we have another bargaining chip.”

“No,” I cry when hands tuck beneath my arms.

“Go,” Corey says, his voice weak.

I shake my head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Come on, go easy,” Bleached-hair whispers in my ear. “Don’t make it worse for him.”

I scoff, but then realize he isn’t talking about Oakland. He’s talking about Corey. And he’s right.

I kiss Corey on the forehead before forcing myself to allow Bleached-hair to haul me to my feet. My eyes stay trained on Corey as I’m guided from the kitchen down a set of steps leading to a cellar.

“Help him,” I beg when Bleached-hair lets me go.

He nods. “I will. I promise.”

He sounds genuine. Sad, even. He doesn’t sound like a killer. He sounds like a kid who got caught up in this shit the same way my little brother did.

Someone tosses a roll of duct tape down the stairs, and Bleached-hair retrieves it, but stops in front of me, pity sinking his face. He sets the tape on the bottom step before leaving me standing, unbound, at the foot of the stairs.

I let out a loud cry and cover my mouth until the basement door shuts.

Corey can’t die.

I can’t let him die.

When my legs wobble, I sit, pressing my forehead to my knees as my shoulders rack with a sob.

I should’ve left.

He told me to leave, and I didn’t listen. I should’ve known this was bigger than him, so much bigger. I should’ve known.

Why do I always fuck up? Why can I never save him?

“Shut up,” a voice groans. I’m so stunned, my sobs quiet, and I lift my head up.

Maksim sits slumped against a concrete wall, his head lulling like he’s weak.

“Maksim?” I say, as if it could be anyone else. I get up and walk to him before sitting carefully, just out of reach. He’s tied up and weak, and I still feel like he’s a threat.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” He laughs, but it’s without humor. More like derision.

“They shot my brother.” I suck in a deep breath to keep my voice from cracking.

“I heard.” He lifts his head, tipping his chin toward the ceiling, and closes his eyes. “He’s lucky. When my family shows up, the others will die a hell of a lot more painful death.”

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