Page 90 of His Passerotta

“Then neither am I.”

He shakes his head again, even more forcefully this time. “No, you don’t understand. Oakland, he…” Something resembling guilt flashes across Corey’s face, and he takes my arms, backing me toward the door. “You have to go.”

I shove him off me, standing tall. “I’m not going to let my brother die.”

“B…”

“No.” Inhaling a deep breath, I step up to him, ignoring the others watching us. I take hold of Corey’s face, and to my disbelief, he lets me. “I failed you.” My voice breaks as my eyes sting, and I blink until the burn fades. “I let you wind up in foster care. I let people hurt you. I let you join this stupid fucking gang.” I wave to the others in disgust, and if they protest, I don’t hear it. “But I will not stand back and let you die. So either you come with me or we die together.”

“Nobody’s dying.” He takes my arms again. For someone who believes he’s safe, he seems frightened. Panicked even.

Am I missing something?

“The mobs have no clue where we are.”

“Then what are the guns for?” I stab a finger at the pieces of metal, way too destructive to be legal.

Corey groans and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before jerking me toward him and throwing me over his shoulders. I shriek, kicking my feet, but it only makes him squeeze to secure me.

“I’ll explain everything another time, but right now you have to leave.”

“Put me the fuck down.” I beat on his back with my fists, and when that doesn’t work, I try digging my elbow into his shoulder blades. He groans but doesn’t put me down.

“They’re here,” someone says, peering out a window.

Corey stops in his tracks. His arm around my legs squeeze tightly enough to be frightening.

They’re here.

I’m too late.

“No.” I cry out loud, whipping my head to the window. The sun peaking over the horizon competes with a string of headlights that light up the house as they approach.

Corey puts me down and pulls at his greasy hair.

We’re dead. Just like that, we’re dead.

My stomach lurches until it feels like it’s in my mouth.

“Put her with the Russian,” the bleached-haired guy says, sounding worried. “Claim she’s a hostage too.”

“No.” Corey shakes his head. He turns to me while speaking to his friend. “She’s going to leave. Oakland will understand.”

Oakland?

Who the hell is that?

I don’t have to wonder for long. Corey jerks me out of the way when the front door bursts open and a flood of gangbangers come through, most carrying guns, a few carrying cardboard boxes filled with who knows what.

A man older than the rest—maybe in his forties—steps through with his stubbled chin held high and his hands behind his back. Long black hair frames his face, and when he whips his head toward us, dandruff falls.

His eyes find mine, and his thick mustache twitches with his curled lip. “Who the fuck is this?” He flicks his hand toward me as even more men squeeze through the door. Now I understand the confidence. It isn’t Corey and a few friends. They have an army.

“Nobody,” Corey says, sounding like a scared child.

My arms cross over my chest instinctively, and I take a step back, letting Corey block me from the man.

This isn’t good.

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