Page 85 of His Passerotta

But that would be crazy. Screaming for him like I’m doing now is crazy. I don’t even know that he’s here.

He wasn’t at his place or mine when I raced home, and his phone is going straight to voicemail. I drove down shady streets, under the overpass, asked a couple drug dealers if they knew where he was, all to no avail. Now I’m at Josh’s grandmother’s house—really scraping the bottom of the barrel—and that was only when I managed to track down where he lived from one of the dealers. It could be his grandma opening the door for all I know.

“Corey!” I yell, banging both fists now like I’m deranged. If this was the type of neighborhood where people didn’t know better than to be nosy, I’d be pulling unwanted attention.

Tires squeal down the street, but I pay no attention to the shitty old Jeep until it flies onto the lawn, parking hastily on a patch of dead, worn glass. Two guys jump out of the Jeep, looking more frantic than I feel, as impossible as that sounds, and it makes me cross my arms over my chest with anxiety.

None of them seem to even notice me as they open the back hatch to retrieve something, but when Corey spots me, I make myself known when I yell out my relief.

“Corey!”

His eyes widen as he stands with the back door open. “B?”

I run to him, relief flooding my chest, and I throw my arms around him only to get a stiff response.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding anxious.

I pull back, my hands gripping his shoulders. “We have to go. Now. It isn’t safe in Vegas. Anthony, he—he knows everything.”

Corey’s eyes darken, and he pushes my hands away. “I know.”

He knows?

My eyes scan him, searching for answers, and I make out a wet spot on his black shirt that I realize is blood when I see the red liquid smeared on his arm.

I gasp and grab his arm, but he yanks away from me. “I’m fine.”

“Whose—”

I’m cut off by muffled yells coming from the back of the Jeep, and I whip my head to see two of the gangbangers hauling a man with a black pillowcase over his head out of the vehicle. They carry him, his bound feet dragging on the ground to the house while he thrashes and yells past what must be a gag, but it does little good. He’s large and muscles bulge through his shirt, but the blood soaking the thin fabric definitely seems to be his.

My head spins, too confused to figure out if I should be relieved or worried, and I look to Corey for answers. Instead of providing them, he pushes past me, striding into the house.

“We have to go,” I insist, tugging at his shirt when we step through the threshold. “We need to get the hell out of Vegas before?—”

“I’m not fucking going anywhere,” he sneers, whirling around and shoving my hands away. His eyes blaze with anger I’ve never seen from him. Not directed at me.

“Corey, please, listen to me?—”

“Josh is dead,” he growls, his hands balling into fists. “You can thank your boyfriend and his piece of shit friends for that. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“How did that happen?” My face falls, but I’m faking it. I don’t give a shit about Josh or any of the others. All I care about is getting my brother as far away from here as possible. I can’t fail him again.

He doesn’t answer, but if he did, I wouldn’t listen anyway. All my attention turns to the familiar face when someone rips the pillowcase off the prisoner’s head.

Maksim.

He thrashes against the chair they put him in and topples to the floor, falling hard on his side before some asshole with a mohawk shoves their boot into his ribs. His face contorts as he groans in pain, and my eyes move back to the blood soaking his shirt.

“What the fuck is going on?” I ask, waiting for Corey to give me an explanation only a second before I storm to Maksim just as he takes a boot to the face that sends blood spraying from his nose. I shove the mohawk guy when he goes to do it again, sending him stumbling sideways.

Falling to my knees, I rip Maksim’s shirt up to inspect the damage.

My glare falls when I see the blood leaking from what can only be a bullet hole. His pale face suddenly becomes more apparent.

They’re killing him.

“Bailey, get away from him,” Corey says, grabbing my shoulder. I shake him off and grab the pillowcase, my mind swimming with what I should do. There’s too much stimulation. Too many problems to solve that all need immediate attention.

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