Page 87 of His Passerotta

I’ll kill him.

“Untie me and I’ll do it myself,” he says, pulling my eyes to his face. When I make no move to cut his binds, he nods. “That’s what I thought… Do it.”

With a big swallow, I turn back to the wound. Am I really going to do this?

Yes. If he dies, he dies. At least I tried to save him, which is much more than he can say for me.

Here goes nothing.

I close my eyes and feel his wound with my fingers, trying to pretend it’s the inside of a pumpkin or something instead of a human being I’m digging my fingers inside. Maksim groans and flinches but stays way more still than any normal being ever could.

My stomach lurches, and I gag as I move around, searching for the bullet. When I find it, I realize that was the easy part. I try to pull it out, but it’s hard to get a grip.

That’s what the knife was for. Taking several deep breaths through my nose, I pull it out as much as I can and then pull my hand away, going for the knife next. Maksim’s stoic demeanor shatters when I dig the knife into the hole, and he starts yelling and cursing loud enough to alert the neighbors. Somebody shoves the pillowcase—covered in his own blood—back in his mouth.

I cringe but force my eyes to stay open as I work the bullet with the blade, until finally, I’m able to pinch it with my fingers and yank it out. I fling it from my hand like it’s on fire than pull out the pillowcase and press it to the wound.

He looks like he’s about to pass out. His eyes are droopy, and his face looks even paler than before.

“Cauterize it,” he says through labored breaths.

“What?”

“Have to stop the bleeding.” His voice is so weak, I barely hear him, but I understand his meaning.

I jump up again with the knife and bring it to the stove, sloshing more liquor on it before putting it over the flame. Once it’s glowing orange, I bring it back to Maksim and clench my teeth, like I’m the one who needs to do the bracing, and put it to the bullet hole.

A howl bellows from his mouth as the smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils. Someone covers Maksim’s mouth to muffle the pained scream, but the agony and smell is contagious enough that Mohawk vomits on the already-stained carpet while my ears protest.

But it worked. Pulling the knife away, I don’t see any more blood seeping. Maksim’s head falls back as the guy removes his hand, and I feel like I might pass out along with him.

“We have to get to the safe house,” Mohawk says, his face red with embarrassment as he wipes puke from his mouth. “They’ll find us here.”

They. As in the mobs.

They’ll find them anywhere.

I turn to Corey and part my lips to beg him not to go. To stay with me, or better yet, leave with me. We’ll go someplace, anyplace else and leave this shit in the past.

But my mouth closes when I don’t see him. He’s already gone.

The gang members gather Maksim and leave me like they forgot I’m here, but I follow after them, getting in my car and peeling out seconds after they do.

If Corey’s going to the safe house, so am I.

22

ANTHONY

“Hurry the fuck up, Glitch,” Nikita growls as he paces a ten-foot stretch of the abandoned warehouse. His cane crashes against the concrete with every step.

Glitch, an absolute genius on our payroll, balances his laptop on a chair while sitting cross-legged on the ground. He doesn’t respond to Nikita, doesn’t even seem to hear him as his fingers fly over the keyboard, in search of the Lost Boys location.

“None of their phones are on,” he concludes after a long ten minutes of what must’ve been trying to track each of the known suspects’ phones.

Nikita’s wobbly steps cease as a dark cloud covers the space. The murderous rage comes off him in waves, hitting everyone nearby, and I look at Settimo to see his reaction. It’s only a matter of time before Nikita pushes it with Glitch.

“Find them,” Nikita says, putting forth zero energy to hide his contempt.

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